[redeyedtreefr0g]

10 Mistress - Disturbed

Faith wasn’t sad.

She’d known it for some time now, ever since she started losing time to the headaches. The comas had started out only taking hours. But gradually, she lost days, weeks, and then months. All the while her bones got so brittle that Daddy couldn’t even hug her anymore. She was glad for the times she was Out. She hated being in bed all the time when something broke, and to her, it was like an instant heal. Hurt herself, headache, Out, wake up better or almost better months later.

Sometimes she remembered dreams where she was a normal girl. She’d go to school like Patrick, and get bad grades, and then get yelled at. And sometimes she got good grades and Daddy would take her for ice cream. If she fell she ended up with a skinned knee, not a broken one. Whenever she had those dreams it sometimes seemed that they were more real than her waking life, and that this one was just a horrible nightmare that she couldn’t wake from.

Like now. Daddy was just out the door, talking with the last doctor. He’d somehow managed to wake her from the latest random coma, and they were talking, thinking she couldn’t hear. The skinny little man had just told her father that she might make it another four years, if even that much. Whatever illness she had was obviously worsening (her brother would have used that sarcastic phrase he liked so much. “No, really?”), and she would die from it. She wondered if it would be a never-ending coma that got her or maybe some shard of broken bone hitting something vital and making her bleed out. Maybe she would just spontaneously shatter, like a mirror, never to be fixed that time.

But Daddy was taking it hard. He hadn’t been standing at the edge of life as long as she had, willing not to fall, but knowing she would and wondering how long she could balance up there. Gods, she hated being such a burden. She hated the way she hurt him. Sometimes he couldn’t hide how sad he was, and that would stab at her more painfully it seemed than any bone shard or headache throb.

She didn’t want to do this for another four years.

Sometimes she thought it would be easier if she didn’t. But those were bad thoughts. She had to be strong for her father, and maybe, just maybe, he was right, and he would be able to cure her someday. But if he didn’t, it was ok. She knew he was trying, and so she did the best she could. She never complained if she could help it, she tried to smile often, especially when daddy was home. She would talk with Patrick and ask about his days, and if he wanted to go play outside she’d send him with a grin, and not be sad that she couldn’t join him. Often, he would show her some new trick the boys at school had taught him to make her laugh. One day he’d brought home a loop of string and showed her how they could trade it back and forth weaved on their fingers. She’d play with that for hours on hours, fascinated by how the forms would change from hand to hand, endlessly.

She knew she was a burden, a drain on the family.

Daddy was saying goodbye to the doctor now. He came in with a brave face, but she knew he was pretending. She tried to make him smile.

Faith gave him her best happy smile. It usually made him grin back at her. “It will be ok Daddy.”

Instead of smiling back, her father collapsed at the side of her bed and buried his head in his arms, crying. She was sure if it wouldn’t have broken her, he’d have been hugging her. Faith sighed and ran her fingers through her father’s hair. She knew from the sounds she’d heard late at night of him grieving so often that he’d be ok soon, and then he’d be happy and have a new plan, someone new to track down and see for a cure. He was just too sad right now it couldn’t be kept inside, and she knew that well too.

Faith wasn’t sad.

I stand on the brink of your mind
Living inside a nightmare from which
I just cannot awaken
Stand on the edge of your life
Just give me another moment
From which I will never awaken

[chorus]
Stand on the brink of my own demise
Fallen again for another
Mistress of burden
To idolize
Hoping that one of them will decide
To let me in

To stand on the edge of the knife
Cutting through the nightmare from which
I just cannot awaken
Stand on the edge of the night
Living inside a moment
From which I will never awaken

[chorus]

Look at what you've done to me
You've become my enemy
Poisoning the world for me
Take away my everything
Weakened as I am

[chorus]

[redeyedtreefr0g]

11 Revolution Man - Union Underground

Kerchak was desperate.

That’s what he told himself. There was no other way. He’d tried everything. Everything he could think of. Faith was going to die if he couldn’t find a way. He couldn’t bear to lose her, not her too. She was such a brave girl.

He was running out of options. Nadine’s family, never that fond of him anyway, hated him for ruining the fortune of inheritance they'd grudgingly granted. They didn’t understand. They were never around when his daughter got bad. They never visited at all. She might as well have died already, for all the care they showed. Even Patrick was ignored for the most part, though he did still receive the obligatory holiday cards and letters and small gifts.

Still, he wasn’t quite as stupid as they all thought. There was a little bit set aside. They lived poorly now by Kerchak’s choice. He wouldn’t be there forever, in fact he didn’t really think he would live to see his father’s age. The stress of things since Nadine’s death were wearing at him, and the doctors he brought to see Faith often offered him something as they left, to help him sleep, to relax his nerves. He usually declined. But when he was gone there had to be something left for his children.

Kerchak once again doubted the wisdom of this latest venture. He was nearing the farm where Jarod’s wife had said he could meet the people who might be able to help with Faith. Jarod was still out with the army, so Kerchak wasn’t able to easily speak with him about it. It was all hush-hush, apparently this group also wasn’t too keen on the new tax that had gone into effect. Kerchak didn’t much care for it himself. Stuck up royals and polotics. Still, Kerchak generally believed that the leadership mostly tried to do the right thing by the people. He had more than once been helped by a kind lord or lady who had once done business with his family.

Kerchak looked back through the small window in the tiny carriage behind him. Faith slept undisturbed as usual. Patrick sat looking out the window, his expression bored. He was well accustomed to these long trips to help his sister. Such a good boy. He’d end up helping out a lot this trip, for they’d left Miss Teresa back in Lordaeron to visit with her relatives for a short while.

Up ahead, the farmstead appeared over the hill. He’d learned while he was in the city that it belonged to a fine hardworking family, the deed was to George Dalson, and he maintained a plentiful fruit orchard and wheat field. He felt better about the quiet circumstances which had brought him out here, remembering the paperwork he had been able to look through.

They did indeed come up on a nice traditional farmhouse, with a large sturdy barn nearby and some storage silos to the side of the large field which dominated the property. Off behind the field he could see the trees. He smiled.

He guided Dapple up the path to the house and left Patrick standing with the mare while he trotted up to knock politely on the front door. Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor inside, and then a kind-looking rather plain woman opened the door slightly to peek out.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked.

Kerchak smiled at the woman, noticing how it softened her wary expression. “Yes ma’am. A good friend of mine Becky, told me I might be able to speak with someone here tonight, during a meeting?”

The woman stepped back to swing the door open immediately. “Yes, of course. Harold will be back from town soon with the group. You can put your horse in the barn there, anywhere you like. You and your son hungry? I’ve got supper cooking. What did you say your name was?”  While she spoke she went ahead and walked out on the porch to shake his hand and wave at Patrick with a hand that held a wooden spoon.

“Kerchak ma’am. Kerchak Reinsson. That’s my oldest, Patrick. And you are?”

“A fine boy you’ve got there. Lucy Dalson.” Kerchak tipped his hat at her, making her blush. “Well go on and get settled then, and come inside when you’re ready.”

Kerchak thought for a brief moment about whether he should mention Faith, and then decided against it, smiled at Mrs. Dalson, and turned to trot back down the porch steps toward Patrick. It would be best not to try to move his daughter, the journey was trouble enough, and Mrs. Dalson would just fuss with worry as women were wont to do.

“Come on Pat, let’s take Dapple to the barn. You hungry? Mrs. Dalson is making supper.”

Patrick cheered in delight. He had been expecting to eat another cold meal from their provisions. While Kerchak always made sure to have a variety of things- not just meat and hard biscuits, but also dried fruits and cheeses, sometimes even teas, it was far better to have a hot meal.

Kerchak opened the large center barn door in the rear and Patrick led dapple in still pulling the tiny carriage. Sure enough, there was a wide clear space for storing wagons and such. It was large enough for two vehicles, but only one side showed signs of use, even though it was currently empty. Perhaps Mr. Dalson had taken it to town. Kerchak let Patrick back Dapple and the carriage on his own for the practice. The boy only had to pull forward once, and maybe he hadn’t had to. Kerchak gave him a nod and Patrick beamed, proud to have managed the task.

“Ok, you unhitch Dapple, get her all cleaned up. Don’t forget to clean her hooves. And Mrs. Dalson said she can have any stall you like. Get the grain from the feed bags and make sure her bucket has water.”

Patrick nodded and set to work, very much used to this chore. Kerchak set the carriage wheel brake and watched Patrick move around for a moment unbuckling things, then he opened the door and stepped inside.

Faith had shifted just a little during the parking. Her head was to one side nearly off the pillow and one arm dangled down. Taking extraordinary care, Kerchak gently lifted her arm and held up the edge of her blanket while he tucked it back close to her. He let the blanket down and gently nudged it under her slightly to help keep her contained. The bindings on the other broken arm beneath the blanket was exactly as he had left it, and it wasn’t time to change it yet. He gently lifted her head and readjusted the pillow before letting her back down.

He sat in the tiny chair then and sighed with the overwhelming sense of helplessness. It was a feeling that was haunting him more and more lately. He watched his daughter slowly pull air past the small tube poking through her lips. How he wished those blue eyes were open, sparkling at him with her ever-present smile. Such a brave girl. He smoothed her silver hair back from her face gently and pushed aside his doubts.

Hanging from its hooks in the corner beside her were the small pouches that held her prepared meal and water. He often made up the thin cereal ahead of time and stored the rest to keep from making it at every mealtime. Kerchak stood and squeezed the bag to be sure there were no lumps that had formed since lunch time. Satisfied, he unrolled a short tube that protruded from the bottom of the triangular-shaped container. He uncapped it and hung the cap on a hook, then made sure the tube was clean. It was, of course.

Keeping the tube pinched, Kerchak brought it down to Faith and gently fit it over the smaller tube in her mouth. Satisfied that it was securely attached, He released the line and let the meal slip down the tube to Faith’s stomach. She just lay there, breathing slowly as if she weren’t having supper. He let the appropriate amount slide past, watching carefully, squeezing the bag slightly as the mixture started to slow, then pinched off the line again. He detached it, wiped the end with a cloth that was hanging there also for that purpose, and rewound the tube on the hooks. He next gave her water, counting slowly to measure, and then replaced it just as it had been.

“There you go, sweety,” he whispered. He looked her over one last time, then stepped out of the carriage and shut the door. He had no fears that she would wake while they were absent. Her comas had been happening for and more, and for longer durations. This one, happening with her injury, was likely to last another week at least. By then her shoulder blade and arm should have completely healed, which was one blessing. He hated seeing her in pain and hurt, even though she hid it well.

Patrick was brushing Dapple, looking to be just about finished too. The grain and water were out, and Dapple had already had some, by the looks of the buckets. Her tack was hung neatly in its place over the carriage yoke.

“Your sister’s had her supper. What say you and I go in and have our own, hmm?” He laughed as Patrick whooped and threw the brush back into the grooming basket and hauled it quickly back to its place under the bench.

Dinner was a hearty stew with a slice of warm fresh bread and apple juice. the house was warm and inviting, cleanly kept, and sooner than he knew, Mr. Dalson had returned from town and was eating with them. He was an honest-looking fellow with the outdoors marked on him. There were 5 other men who came in with him, and Kerchak didn’t care for their manners. Mrs. Dalson took it all in stride and soon the meal was over and they had all retired to a clear section barn loft to sip spirits, smoke and chat. Patrick was set down with a new board game to try out, and he didn’t mind at all when the adults disappeared to the barn.

Mr.Dalson had everyone swear not to tell his wife as he drew on a pipe. Soon though, the chatter died down and a more serious tone took over. Talk turned to politics, and inevitably the tax. Why the leadership were doing things wrong, and what the men would change if they had their way.

Kerchak wasn’t much interested in the topics, or in the men, except for one. He was a dark chap, dark hair, dark eyes, dressed in somber colors. He seemed to be the one in charge, as he would bring up the topics to discuss and let the others have their say until it seemed he was satisfied, and then he would mention something else. Kerchak recognized a good salesman when he saw one. This man knew how to handle people easier than he could handle a horse.

Sure enough, the mood generally turned to one of discontent, as talk dwindled and each man was left thinking with the faults in his life, and how little anyone was doing to right them, how they should be getting help to get by. The dark man, Antanaso, suddenly turned to Kerchak.

“And you have an ailing daughter don’t you? Things must be hard.”

Kerchak nodded, wary. Antanaso continued, “We all have hardships, and regrets. I’ve heard of a group that is trying to gain a following. They say that they are sending people to the capitol, someone to talk with the king and try to get us heard.”

The group, including Kerchak, looked at Antanaso with interest. He nodded. “The people are tired of being treated like they don’t matter. We work hard, we grow crops,” he looked at Dalson.

“We raise cattle,” the gaze swept to the burly man in the corner under a wide-brimmed hat.

“We breed fine stallions and train them for the army.” And now Kerchak was fixed with that black stare. He felt a righteous indignation at the words. he did work hard for what he had. Why did a lord get to lounge about with the fruits of others’ labor while Kerchak was stuck working just to find help for his child?

Antanaso echoed his thoughts. “Why do they deserve to sit in Lordearon and decide our fates, when we are perfectly capable of getting along on our own? When have they ever lent you aid, Derek?”  The subject of the question squirmed uncomfortably, but Antanaso didn’t really want an answer.

“I’m tired of serving a king, and leaders that don’t treat us like people. The group I mentioned meets every other week in Andorhal. They are working things out there, getting organized. I’ve been told anyone is welcome to attend, and maybe you like what you hear.” He shrugged noncommittally. “We’re bringing together men and women of every trade to just help each other out too. Need a doctor, find one. Want a farmhand? Hire there. Blacksmith? Cobbler? Tailor? Need food? We’ll share. We’re not about to turn anyone away. We can help our own selves, and we aim to. Everyone helps each other, everyone is the same. No lords and pompous politicians sucking up the rewards of hard labor.”

No wonder Becky had hesitated to tell him about these men. She knew he wasn’t a strict loyalist, but he had never done anything against the crown either, and this group was talking about organized anarchy. Sure, they spoke of sending people to the capitol, but what if that failed? Another part of him asked himself what it would mean if they failed. This group wasn’t being unreasonable. Everything that had been said was true, fel, Nadine’s family WAS those stuck-up lord-overs that had been mentioned. He knew that class of people all too well. What if this group really could help Faith…?

Kerchak decided that even if he didn’t quite agree with everything Antanaso had said, it was worth it to help this group, if it meant he could cure Faith. He would go to Andorhal.

The men spoke more, but Kerchak wasn’t listening. He’d have to get a house here, and he’d get Teresa back to look after the children. He could support them here, where farmers and tradesmen would need sturdy horses for fieldwork and traveling. Stratholme wasn’t too far away if he needed a large city for the more finely trained horses and warmounts. The plans rolled around in his head, optimistic, and mostly realistically founded. Maybe this was the solution he’d been looking for so long.

Kerchak was willing to do anything for his daughter.

One more time and you'll be Dead
At least I think that's what They said, Oh
Forty days won't break a man
It was a bullet in his head

There's something in the
Something in the way you were
The pain so wrong my friend
Revolution, revolution man
Imagine all the people

One more time and you'll be dead
At least I think that's what They said, oh
Forty days won't break a man
It was a bullet in his head

[chorus]
Listen while I load my gun
He said to me
Something 'bout a chosen one
It's comin' back to me
Watch him while I taste the Sun
He said to me
Something bout a chosen one
You'll never beat me

One last time your medicine
Swallow hard and take it in, yeah
Lucy's in the sky again
Trippin' on her diamonds

[chorus]
x2

[redeyedtreefr0g]

12 Devour - Disturbed

Kerchak stood before the group of men, showing a bravado he did not really feel. He had just been told the truth, or what he believed was the truth, about the society he had been a part of for the better part of six months now.

Honestly he was not surprised to learn that the true motives were sinister and dark. But his mind worked over the details he had been informed of, comparing with what he had been led to believe. They had not ever truly lied to him. Equality? Surely everyone was equal in death. Immortality? Not by memory of fame, but actually a much more tangible version- not death, but undeath. Resources? What could be denied to this army that would be formed, if any resistance was met with force, killed, and added to the ranks?

“Well? I am a busy man, Mr. Reinsson.” Antanaso prompted. The man had remained his link to this secretive group since that day they’d met in Harold Dalson’s barn. The Dalsons had since distanced themselves from the group, but Kerchak had pursued them. Truly, he saw no other opportunity than this. He’d been searching for ten years. Kerchak drew in the breath to speak his answer.

“I’m with you. Anything you need, I’m yours. My daughter will see the doctor as soon as possible, and if she can be cured, I will bring her in as well as my son. Truly gentlemen, you have given me what you always told me you would. I am grateful. I cannot lose in this situation.”

Antanaso smirked, and handed Kerchak a cup of liquid. Within, he was told, was a very mild form of the plague they had concocted. It would not kill him, nor alter him in any visible way, but it would allow the leader access to him telepathically, as it would be with all the dead. Drinking would bind him irrevocably to the Cult and its purpose.

Kerchak considered one last time. He knew his daughter worked to remain in the world of the living only for him, to try to let him find a cure, to make him happy. She most likely wished for death long before now, and it hurt him to ask her to fight, to bear the immeasurable suffering. This way perhaps he would be redeemed for those choices which he had been unable to make any other way. Perhaps at last his daughter would live, or at least be free of this cursed illness which plagued her, with a plague of design. Even should the good doctor turn out to be not so good, and neglect to attempt a cure, the plague seemed the answer. Kerchak couldn’t deny her the chance at a true existence, could he?

He lifted the cup and drank the vile liquid in one large gulp, swallowing without hesitation.

Still enough
Although I know you're not begging
Still as the thoughts running through your mind
Still enough
Although I know you're not begging
Give me a reason to make you mine

[chorus]
I will devour you
Take all the pain away
I cannot stay my hand
From reaching out so that I can
Empower you
For all eternity
It seems to ease my mind
To know that you've brought
Meaning to my life

Had enough
Although I see you're not running
Still are the thoughts running through your mind
Dead to love
The path that you are now taking
Show me the reason to make you mine

[chorus]

Run, to where the smallest ray of light will never find you
Run, to where you will not need to shield your eyes
Run, away from all the soulless, heartless fiends who hound you
Run, away and let your memories go blind, as

[chorus]

[redeyedtreefr0g]

13 Annihilation - A Perfect Circle

The Cult of the Damned formed quickly and silently.

It gathered in the lonely, the abused, the uncertain, the needy. Very few, in the beginning, knew the Cult’s purpose. They were promised social equality, and some a form of immortality, at first through the good works that would spread their names, and as a member became deeper entrenched in the cult, through the promise of undying. Some members were not as willing participants, but blackmailed into serving, or paid. Some, like Kerchak, were kept blissfully ignorant until it was too late, bribed with whatever it was that would motivate them.

Nevertheless, the Cult grew in size, and the time came to act, to spread the plague which had been being mass-produced. They did so without hesitation, for whatever reasons. The granaries of Andorhal were easy to infect, and the shipments went out without a hitch. Anyone who hesitated in their resolve was quickly punished, usually by death without undeath resurrection. Such a penalty was the worst possible, to these who were dedicated to death.
The Cult was all too effective.

The Scourge was born.

[chorus]
From dehumanization to arms production
For the benefit of the nation or its destruction
Power, power, the law of the land
Those living for death will die by their own hand

Life's no ordeal, if you come to terms
Reject the system dictating the norms

[chorus]

Life's no ordeal, if you come to terms
Reject the system dictating the norms

[chorus]

Life's no ordeal, if you come to terms
Reject the system dictating the norms

From dehumanization to arms production
To hasten this nation towards its destruction

It's your choice, your choice, your choice, your choice
Peace or annihilation...

[redeyedtreefr0g]

14 Pig - Seether

Patrick read and reread the letter that had he had found in the mailbox, disbelieving. The words echoed in his own voice as he had read it silently to himself. Poisoned grain, unknown at this time, extreme caution, possibly fatal…

The rumors they had heard of sickness before leaving Lordaeron were suddenly all too serious and real. Father had left two days ago on his trip to find out if the people he had been dealing with would finally let him take Faith to see their doctors. Theresa was supposed to have arrived the day after he left, but no one had appeared. Patrick was worried.

He had originally been worried mostly for his horse, Stormstrike. The animal had shown signs of illness last night, a fever, and he was laying down on his side. Patrick couldn’t make him stand up, and he breathed too fast. The letter this morning made him fear the worst. And there was nothing he could do.

Patrick had stayed with Stormstrike the entire morning, bringing water from the well and trying to cool him. He couldn’t get Stormstrike to eat anything and he wouldn’t drink. He grieved for his beloved horse even before the last breath went out and the next one was never drawn in.

And now Patrick sat over the cold corpse staring at the letter. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t help thinking that if Father hadn’t been in such a rush trying to meet these new people, they would have gotten the notice sooner instead of getting chased by the mail. Maybe Stormstrike would have lived. Now that he was gone, it seemed like there was a hole in him, something missing.

He was angry at Faith. He’d tried to be good. He’d helped as much as he could, trying to show his father that he was responsible, and that he was just as important as Faith. Always he felt like she came first. Patrick lost friends because they moved to chase down doctors, they never stayed in one place long enough to actually finish a year of schooling, and even though Theresa taught him, it wasn’t the same. Faith wasn’t even awake half the time anymore, but when she was, it was as if Patrick didn’t exist. He had swallowed his resentment and tried harder to earn his father’s eye. It did no good.

Patrick shivered, suddenly cold, and his thoughts went to the supplies they had, a creeping dread moving up his spine. He got up and left Stormstrike, running clumsily to the small wooden house, such a wreck of a shack, to the kitchen pantry. The sacks of flour were there, and all the other dry cereals for Faiths food. He hadn’t fed her yesterday night or this morning, he realized. Did the flour smell funny? Was it a little off-color? Patrick shivered again, and then realized that chills were a symptom of fever. He was sick!

The held back emotion regarding his sister flooded the empty space in Patrick. Wasn’t it enough that she had the entirety of his family devoted to her? Wasn’t it enough that she had deprived him of a mother, and friends, and anything resembling a normal life? Wasn’t it enough that he had to feed her, and dress her, and make sure she didn’t fall out of the stupid carriage bed? What would Father think when he came back and they were both dead? What if Father was already sick, out there in the woods, alone?

Is that why Teresa hadn’t come?

Patrick slammed the door to the kitchen, stepping the few steps across the common room to the second bedroom which Faith was in. Patrick was going to have to share his room with Thersa. Why did she get her own room, even now?

He opened the door ungently, smashing it angrily when it rebounded off the weak wall and swung back toward him, then he stepped all the way inside and let it swing. Faith of course was unconscious, in the middle of one of her comas. She was still tucked in perfectly from when Father had left, and that irritated him. Her stupid face, emotionless in sleep, irritated him. The fact that she looked so much like their mother, what he remembered of her, irritated him. Maybe that was why Father liked her more. She was female, and looked like Mother. Nevermind that it was Faith that had killed her. Arghh!

Patrick didn’t know when he stepped forward in rage what he was going to do. He was just so angry! Before he knew it the letter was thrown on the floor and he was taking out his anger on Faith, as if somehow making her pay would fix everything. He hit her, weakly at first, then more focused. He squeezed slightly on her neck, grimly satisfied at the gurgling noise that she made. She had made his life miserable, he decided. Now he would take hers away. He squeezed harder.

Have you ever wanted to die, when you were without your friends?
Haven't you said goodbye, to the one on who your life depends?
Could it be, that I don't want to save you anymore?
Could it be, that we don't have what it takes?
(Yeah)

Have you ever wished for fire, to burn away your mind restraints?
Haven't you been for hire, or suffered those cheap complaints?
Could it be, that I don't want to save you anymore?
Could it, be that we don't have what it takes?

Take it away ‘cause I don't like this anymore
Take it away and throw it away

Have you ever wanted to die, when you were without your friends?
Haven't you said goodbye, to the one on who your life depends?
Could it be, that I don't want to hurt you anymore?
Could it be, that we don't have what it takes?

Take it away ‘cause I don't like this anymore
Take it away and throw it away
Take it away ‘cause I don't like this anymore
Take it away and throw it away

[redeyedtreefr0g]

15 Nightmare - Avenged Sevenfold

Faith gasped, suddenly aware of a huge pressure on her neck, and pain. It was hard for her to concentrate, to recall from one minute to the next that she hurt, and that it was different than normal. Her mind flitted back to darkness, and then a fresh wave of instinctive panic would scream through her, “AIR,” and bring her bobbing just to the edge of awareness. Her throat hurt so much…

Faith tried to inhale, still foggy, to tell her father about this new symptom. She’d have to see that heartbreak in his eyes, the look that never left anymore, edged with something she started recognizing as panic. The time was nearing that all the healers said was inevitable- they all agreed. Faith’s eyes finally opened when she realized that whatever hurt her throat keeping her from being able to breathe- a fact her primitive brain had known for quite a few seconds now, and had managed to do the impossible- drag her mind from it’s coma for self-preservation.

Panic flooded her- unreasoning, unthinking terror. It was happening too fast, she didn’t know what was going on. She lashed out at the thing she saw blurrily in front of her, blocking her vision. She had to breathe! She felt a grinding noise in her neck as the delicate bones protested the pressure such as her lungs were.

Faith was weak, same as always, but fear gave her a strength she’d never had. She recognized her brother Patrick as her unexpected blow to his head sent him sprawling across the wood floor of her room. There was a snapping sound. Faith clutched her broken wrist, knowing that the reason she couldn’t feel it yet was shock, and the distraction of more important pain. Her surroundings became clearer as she was finally able to pull a ragged breath through the screaming-hot bundle of agony that was her throat. Her lungs were on fire from lack of oxygen. Relief rushed through them, cold and icy, with the one breath, and more followed. The world brightened, she could see better.

Something was wrong with Patrick.

Her room came into focus- the warped wooden walls and floor, so old and uncared for. This room had no windows, and it was bare of all except Faith’s bed. She remembered her father telling them how they had moved here, of how there was a healer he had to bring her, so expensive that for a month or so, this was going to be their home. She remembered Patrick and Daddy carrying her in here. She missed a window, it had been a long time since she could look outside, or see anything except for the bright streamers of light that made their way through the small gaps in the warped boards of the walls of the tiny house. The light rays lit on Patrick now, and she was filled with a dread- this was not her loving brother.

Patrick twisted around from where he’d landed on his stomach and glared at her with such hatred that she shivered involuntarily. Even that small act sapped her strength. She tried to yell for her father, but nothing came from her hurt throat except a breathy rasp. Patrick grinned in a frightening way. Her wrist started to make its condition known, adding its own hurt to her list of unknown others. She knew it would be getting an ugly black bruise.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he taunted. She was sure he would have been leaping back at her if not for his wish to taunt her. She was slowly realizing that her brother had been trying to choke her, and the thought sent her into an emotional whirlwind. Why?
“Father went out to go find that healer they said was out here. The one Daddy is making us so poor to find. He took all the money and left while you were Out.”

Out. That hated word. It was happening so often now, when she could remember nothing. The headaches were coming so often now, and then they told her she’d been Out, for so long… She was losing weeks and months of her life to comas, and she could tell that Daddy was taking it hard. Patrick had become quiet around her. He didn’t play with her anymore. There was no need to. His little sister was too sick now to listen to stories, or play cards. She slept all the time now, and when she was awake she tried so hard not to move, it made her weak muscles ache. She was so afraid to hurt herself, or worse, set off another headache. Inevitably it did no good- she’d get one anyway, and there would be that eternity of inescapable pain. Eventually though, it would end. She’d open her eyes from it, and see the worried look of her father, and Patrick right there with him, and it would be so much later.  She understood now that after each headache she would lay incoherent, in a coma. Out. She wished she would just hurry up and die, that her father would give up already. She was so tired of being afraid all the time, of pain, and tired of hurting. She knew that, years ago, she’d wanted to go on, to be healthy and live and be normal, and she’d had hope. It had been 7 years since she lost hope, and 4 since she’d first wished it would end.

By her expression, Patrick knew she couldn’t remember, and anger flashed over his face that he had guessed correctly. Why was he so mad? She had never seen her brother like this. Her voice, never strong to begin with, still stalled in her throat. Her question remained unasked. Her neck and wrist hurt.

“I hate you,” he spat. Shock interrupted any thoughts about her current injuries. Faith loved her brother. She thought he loved her, and they both loved Daddy. Why would he say that? She was scared.
“I’ve hated you forever. Father never has time for me, I’m not sick. We’re poor because of you. I don’t have any friends because of you, because we have to move so much. You do nothing but make Father upset.”
This was all things that Faith already knew, that she hated herself for. She knew what he would say next, because she had run through this circle of realization before.
“You killed Mother.”

Faith tried to swallow and couldn’t. The tears blurred her vision and ran down her face without her being able to stop them. Patrick didn’t care in the least.

“I’ve tried to be good,” he said, whining. Then, angrily, “I helped take care of you. I washed you. I fed you. You’re nothing but a leech. I went out in storms and I stayed in on holidays, and I went to work helping Father because he was always thinking about you to go out and sell the horses. Did you know he bred a special horse for you?”

Faith shook her head and blinked away the blurry tears. Why would she have a horse? She couldn’t go outside.

Patrick nodded to her, still on the floor, but not seeming to notice how odd it looked. “Yeah. He got rid of all of them, except ours. He’s off chasing healers with the last of Mother’s money.” He spat at her, “I never got a special horse!”

Faith was confused about what all this was leading up to. Before now her brother had been the best a sister could ask for. He did do all the things he said, but he never complained, and he was always telling her everything would be alright, even when she didn’t believe him. He never showed anything but belief that it really would turn out for the best. What had happened? Patricks horse was not specially bred, true, but it was one of the best horses in the entire kingdom, bought for Patrick from a friend of Daddy’s. Patrick loved that horse, too. She tried to speak again, but this time the rasp caught and made her cough.

“I took care of you, and you’ve killed us all!” Faith just blinked at Patrick, and this made him furious, that she didn’t know what was going on. He jumped up and angrily snatched a letter from where it lay just out of sight next to her bed on the floor. He shoved it at her face, as if it explained everything.
“Everybody is getting sick. Because of you, we missed the letters telling us that the food was poisoned, its not a contact disease. Staying away from the sick people won’t help, and we already ate the bread made from the crops. We’re all contaminated!”

He whispered now, a startling change that she didn’t like one bit. This person was not her brother. She had no idea what he was going to do. “Did you know Stormstrike died last night?”
Faith didn’t try to answer him. It had dawned on her that her brother was crazy. It didn’t matter what she did, he would probably kill her in his madness, and then die himself to the sickness they’d heard rumors about. Faith had never paid much attention to them, after all, she was too occupied with her own sickness to worry about some anonymous one. That the horses would be the first to fall victim to the strange plague was sad to her, and probably the last straw that had tipped her Patrick to madness. Her brother had always loved his horse.

Her silence angered Patrick, and he punched her side. He missed her ribs only barely, and she coughed and folded sideways around his fist with a wordless cry, the first sound she had been able to make since waking. He hit her again on the other side, but she was beyond feeling. Her illness had reacted with the sudden movement, and her head was exploding endlessly in agonies that she was sure no human being had ever had to live through. She was oblivious this time to the hands around her neck choking the life from her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing but pain. Thought had no place here except one- make it stop.

Eventually, it did.

She came to her senses in the blinding brightness of daylight. She shielded her eyes and looked down, surprised to find herself awake, much less outside. To her horror, she was sitting on the mangled corpse of Patrick. His eyes had been ripped out and were missing, his neck clawed open, there was blood everywhere. She was covered in blood, her hands, both of them, were painted with it, and her broken wrist dangled uselessly. She tasted something vile and unfamiliar.
She leaned over to one side and was violently ill, then stared uncomprehending at the contents of her stomach, now splashed over the ground and the gore. Two eyes were still rolling away from her.



Aziris jolted upright in her hammock, and then had to grab to keep the sudden movement from causing the thing to dump her on the floor. The details of the nightmare were already fading, leaving only the terror, a sourceless horror. Even that was dissipating like campfire smoke as she clutched at it. As always, it slipped away, and Aziris was left wide awake and confused.

Nightmare!(now your nightmare comes to life)

Dragged ya down below, Down to the devil's show
To be his guest forever, Peace of mind is less than never
Hate to twist your mind, But God ain't on your side
An old acquaintance severed, Burn the world your last endeavor

Flesh is burning You can smell it in the air
'Cause men like you have Such easy soul to steal (steal)
So stand in line while They ink numbers in your head
You're now a slave Until the end of time here
Nothing stops the madness,
Turning, haunting, yearning
Pull the trigger

[chorus]
You should have known
The price of evil
And it hurts to know
That you belong here, yeah
Ooh, it's your fuckin' nightmare

(While your nightmare comes to life)

Can't wake up in a sweat, 'Cause it ain't over yet
Still dancing with your demons, Victim of your own creation
Beyond the will to fight, Where all that's wrong is right
Where hate don't need a reason, Loathing self-assassination

You've been lied to Just to rape you of your site
And now they have the nerve To tell you how to feel (feel)

So sedated as they Medicate your brain
And while you slowly Go insane they tell ya
"Given with the best intentions Help you with your complications"

[chorus]

Fight
Not to fail
Not to fall
Or you'll end up like the others

Die
Die again
Drenched in sin
With no respect for another

Down
Feel the fire (fire)
Feel the hate
Your pain is what we desire

Lost
Hit the wall (wall)
Watch you crawl (crawl)
Such a replaceable liar

And I know you hear their voices (calling from above)
And I know they may seem real (these signals of love)
But our life's made up of choices (some without appeal)
They took for granted your soul
And it's ours now to steal

(As your nightmare comes to life)

[chorus]

[redeyedtreefr0g]

16 Enigma - Trapt

Faith hid beneath the tiny house, shivering uncontrollably. It was dark now, and Patrick lay in the yard still, a short distance away. Not far enough. Not far.

It was coming.

 She heard laughing, the cackle that sounded faintly in her head, amused at her panic. Go away. She knew it wouldn’t. It thought it would be funny to send its minions after her, this useless piece of debris it had found infected with its glorious plague. It had no use for her.

She found it ironic that Patrick had acted the way he had, in fear of this disease he thought he had. In killing her he had given her to this thing, which had acted with her body to surprise and overpower him. Kill him… But it didn’t care to keep her. It had taken its anger out on her brother, with her an unwilling viewer to the things her own arms did. Unable to keep her teeth from his throat… her fingers from his eyes….
Faith’s stomach tried to be sick again at the images that would not erase themselves from her mind. She wasn’t successful, having already repeated this several times, and she was left weak and shaking harder for the attempt.

I’m coming.

The voice found it hilarious that she was so distraught, but it didn’t care to force her to do anything else. It was coming to play with her. It couldn’t use her, and it was coming to break her, for fun.

Patrick suddenly sat up and laughed at her with the things voice.

Faith shrieked and backed up under the house so quickly she hit a foundation block and was still trying to back up through it without realizing.

And then Patrick was the way he had died, when she had crawled off of him that afternoon.

She heard the laughing again, even over the sounds of her own sobbing. It had been showing her things that weren’t real for hours. Somehow she couldn’t tell them from reality until after they were done. She’d already experienced the terror it planned to give her when its army showed up several times, and she was sure if it kept on she would go mad. Would welcome the madness. Oh please make it stop.

It occurred to Faith that this was the first time she could remember being alone.

You are not alone. Soon I will be with you, and you will wish you were.

The thing kept her from rising up and ramming her head against a cross beam. She had tried several times to do so, always thwarted. It laughed at her again. She couldn’t be rid of it, and she couldn’t kill herself, if she could even die anymore. She wasn’t sure. The images kept showing her living through everything they did, every bone that snapped. She shivered, waiting in terror.

Just wait, I’m coming.

Do we know how to get the message across
We turn the lights off to find a way out
It's hard to get through to grasp what was lost
Don't turn the light off and leave me in the dark
Hey, I'm pleading, my soul is bleeding
I don't want to be left alone, not when I'm right next to you
What are you thinking, it's so misleading
Is it not for me to know, I think it's just hard for you to show

We never spoke in the words that we want
We turn the lights off to find a way out
We've never chosen to keep what we've got
Don't turn the light off and leave me in the dark

I thought it would be nice to lie down and close my eyes
It never occurred to me that I am already asleep

Don't be the one to be let go
Don't be the one to be alone

[redeyedtreefr0g]

17 Indestructible - Disturbed

The army was untouchable.

Kerchak watched from behind his own eyes as they surveyed the encampment around him without his will directing them. A thousand scourge rested here, and behind them laid a trail of death and despair the likes of which Kerchak had never before been able to imagine. The things he had done…

Kerchak’s talent with horses was useless here, as was his charismatic personality. However, his size and agility aided him. He was a fast and powerful fighter now, in the control of the Lich King. This meant that not only was he a more useful soldier among the masses, but he also had lasted longer through the many fights that had taken place recently. Even now, necromancers combed the last site reanimating those who had fallen against the great and indestructible force that was the Scourge. Kerchak’s usefulness had the added curse of making him the target of reconstructive energies of the undead who kept some of the more important mortal bodies intact.

Kerchak had long ago stopped screaming mentally and trying to fight this thing that he had let in. His thoughts wandered, to his children, often to his wife. To a beautiful silver mare of his mind’s creation running across a wide bright sandy wasteland. This last picture he tried to see often, as it was what he tried to recapture to escape the senses he felt from his body as it was forced to kill, to ravage, to torture.

The images of countless faces were ingrained in his memory, even despite his efforts to distance himself. He had brutally massacred a countless number, alongside the other bodies reanimated around him, some the results of the fanatical Cult, some unwilling fodder added to the ranks from defeated settlements. They were of all sizes, shaped, colors. They had missing body parts, some so bizarre that it distracted Kerchak’s thought to wonder how the maiming had occurred. One woman walked by with her entire face crushed in, seeing only by one eyeball that dangled down from the mess. she went slowly, holding her head very still to try to prevent the orb from rotating around as she moved. One man was missing both arms up to his elbows. They had been thoughtfully replaced by long wicked blades, one straight and one curved almost to a hook.

Very rarely, control would be released back to the original occupants of the bodies that had been taken by the Lich King. It was always quite obvious when this occurred, for many people had been denied control of their own muscles for so long that it took several minutes for movement at all to be accomplished. Many people simply lay motionless and sobbed. Some screamed wordlessly, endlessly. Some didn’t move at all- the ones who were so mentally damaged that they were no longer even aware of anything. Some, like Kerchak, accepted the brief reprieve and waited. Escape was impossible, although everyone had tried. Punishments did not exist, in a sense. What sort of punishment was worse than living inside the prison of your own self, killing people, eating people, wrecking every shred of decency in the world?

No, Kerchak waited. He bided his time, searching always for an opening, a weakness in the powerful being behind the control. He couldn’t stop himself from trying desperately to resist some of the worst things he had done, however futile the effort. But for the most part, he simply waited. Patience was something he had learned in life. Although he had made a colossal mistake, he held some hope that perhaps he could do something to stop the dark destruction that had grown so much beyond what anyone had dreamed. Where were those cultists now? Were they satisfied with what they had wrought, or were they too, simply slaves to the terror that showed on every face they met and obliterated?

The Scourge as it stood now was unstoppable, so Kerchak believed. He prayed for a miracle to end his existence, to put to rest the masses of people in the Lich King’s control. Most of all, he just prayed in general.

Another mission The powers have called me away
Another time To carry the colors again
My motivation An oath I've sworn to defend
To win the honor Of coming back home again
No explanation Will matter after we begin
Unlock the dark destroyer that's buried in me
My true vocation And now my unfortunate friend
You will discover
A war you're unable to win

I'll have you know
That I've become

[chorus]
Indestructible
Determination that is incorruptible
From the other side A terror to behold
Annihilation will be unavoidable
Every broken enemy will know
That their opponent had to be invincible
Take a last look around while you're alive
I'm an indestructible master of war!

Another reason Another cause for me to fight
Another fuse uncovered Now, for me to light
My dedication To all that I've sworn to protect
I carry out my orders With not a regret
A declaration Embedded deep under my skin
A permanent reminder Of how we began
No hesitation When I am commanding the strike
You need to know
That you're in for the fight of your life

You will be shown
How I've become

[chorus]

I'm...

[chorus]
x2

[redeyedtreefr0g]

18 Numb - Disturbed

The Undertaker sifted through the mess of the local graveyard in disgust. This area had been picked clean already by the Scourge, and he didn’t have much of an expectation of finding anything but spare parts here. He shoveled another load of dirt, tossing it over his shoulder, but he turned around when he didn’t get the expected showering sound of dirt falling to the ground.

A small girl crouched behind him, covered in damp soil. Her eyes were haunted and slightly vacant, but not mindless, he quickly noted. Forsaken then. Any living girl out here would have starved to death by now. She sat there, the dirt slowly falling from her. Her unusually long hair coiled in the dirt around her, matted and snarled, a dingy gray color. She stared at him shivering, largely unblinking with those bright golden eyes tinted bluish green, and unmoving other than the trembling. She leaned on one arm, the other was cradled to her middle, it looked like the wrist was broken, judging from the way it sort of flopped on its own. She was dirty, looking like she’d crawled from a grave, but she showed no signs at all under the filth of the normal decay that buried Forsaken usually suffered.

The undertaker shrugged and stepped toward her, thinking to stand her up and brush her off. At his first movement, she fled to just out of reach, so quickly and smoothly that he was reminded of a feral cat.

“Humph. Fine then, off you go alone. No skin off my nose.” the undertaker grunted.
He picked up his wheelbarrow and headed off through the piles back to his cart. The undead horse hitched to it blew air through its hollow nose, as if to snort. The man began loading the parts unceremoniously, noticing that the child had trailed him equidistant along his trail to the cart. She stayed low to the ground, as if afraid to stand and be exposed. Occasionally she would have to use that injured arm to stabilize her scrabbling, and she did so with no indication of feeling it.

The undertaker stared at her a moment, seeing if she would do anything more. When she simply crouched there looking at him, he shrugged at her, swung his battered body up into the driver’s bench, and clucked to the horse. It started to pull away, but he kept it slower than its usual gait. His suspicion proved true, and the child followed, scrambling now to keep pace. He let the horse go slightly faster, and she abandoned her attempt to stay near the ground and ran outright, yelling without words in a horrified manner. The undertaker stopped the cart immediately.

“Well come along then. I ain’t got time for games. Hop on, or I leave you here.”

If she understood, she gave no indication, but she approached the cart nonetheless. She went to climb on, saw something that made her flinch hugely, almost ran away, then came back on the other side and climbed up, again with that catlike grace. She perched on top of the miscellaneous parts, as far to the front and left as she could get without falling off. The undertaker craned his neck behind to see what might have spooked her, but all he saw were parts of every description, one torso even, which tended to be rare. The eyeless head stuck out staring sightlessly at the gloomy sky. He shrugged.

“Hold on then,” he said, and gave the horse its head.

They arrived in what was now being referred to as Undercity the next day. The child had settled in the night to sleep, which surprised him, as he didn’t need that anymore. She apparently dreamed too, judging from the amount of twitching and again the wordless noises. Bad dreams, he guessed. She woke several times, and then near dawn she stayed awake.

She crouched down again as they passed through the entrance halls, looking a lot like the cargo she was with. Her large eyes darted all about fearfully, but she didn’t flee. He took the cart all the way down the cramped elevators, through the winding curves and maze of the quarters, and to the apothecaries, in their odd laboratory. The parts were for them, to reconstruct some of more decayed Forsaken, and to create their abominations.

The undertaker unloaded his cargo in a pile in his designated corner, then turned to a junior apothecary.

“I got a new one, but she don’t look much useful. A kid.” The child had followed him from cart to pile and back again, closer due to space constraints, but still usually out of reach. He found out it was the headed torso which spooked her, for she ducked beneath the cart when he grabbed that one and did not follow him until he had covered it up in the pile with other parts. Then she resumed her trailing.

The apothecary cackled at the obvious statement. “A pet, yes. I see. Do you want her?” He grinned lecherously at the girl, who promptly ducked to the side, putting the undertaker in the direct line of sight between her and the apothecary. “Ah, she’s shy.”

The undertaker frowned at the man. “I ain’t got a use for a youngun, and neither do you, hear me?” The apothecary scowled at him. “But I don’t know what to do with her.”

“Does she speak?” inquired the man.

“She makes noises. Haven’t heard a word yet. Sleeps and dreams, though.”

The apothecary make a curious noise, like the undertaker’s doctor always used to make- that meaningless “hmm” that meant nothing and implied everything.

“Well I can set her wrist and send her to Deathknell to adapt with the other recruits. We’ll see if she’s good for anything if she makes it through that to Brill.” He turned to his table to gather a few things. “Here, see if you can get her over here and still. Seems she likes you.”

The undertaker did manage to beckon her over to a chair, after several minutes, during which the apothecary had to back away for some material or other. He couldn’t get her to sit properly, but she crouched in it fairly docilely. She tensed up again when the apothecary returned, with a man in more distinguished robes. They closed the door to the room behind them.

“Hmm. Don’t think she’ll cooperate.” the junior apothecary remarked, seeing the child so obviously on edge. His superior didn’t comment, so the man started toward the child, trying not to look threatening.

She would have none of him, and half turned to abandon the chair. The junior apothecary stopped and she did also, motionless, waiting. Watching. So far she paid the older Forsaken no heed. She was far more interested in the one who had leered at her, seeing him as the threat. The older man drifted off to the right, attentive to she if she would notice. When she didn’t, he continued around behind her.

The undertaker recognized a cornering tactic when he saw one. She had nowhere to go, with the wall to her right, but he was sure this was going to frighten the fel out of her.

“Come on now, we gonna help you. You be a good girl and let us fix your arm?” he tried. She spared him a glance at his words, and they used the opportunity to lunge at her.

She was smart. Smarter than they thought. She leaped toward the undertaker, rather than backward towards the senior apothecary, and he again wasn’t expecting her to move so fast. She scooted between his legs and behind him, evading his grasp. She ran to the door, and fumbled with the knob. Her broken wrist failed her, as it was hard to turn, with only one good hand. She tried again, using her forearm to try to help twist, but realized it wouldn’t work. She spun around, only to see the three of them much closer now, and her almost in a corner. Her eyes were huge, so full of horror that it made him hesitate. What had happened to her?

The junior apothecary must have gotten too close, finally, for she suddenly pushed off the wall, aiming again for the undertaker in the middle, but the senior apothecary expected it this time. He snagged her by the injured forearm, and then his jaw dropped as a loud crack echoed in the room. He had immediately dropped the arm, but then snatched at her hair, and pulled her close, using his other hand to cover her mouth as soon as it was reachable. She twisted and avoided the cloth in his hand, but gradually she slowed, and as he held it more firmly over her face, she drooped in his arms altogether, transforming from the frightened and wily agile cat into a tiny and wretched little girl. He scooped her up after another minute and gingerly set her on the small table in the center of the room.

He said nothing as he bent to examine the injured wrist, and then further up the arm where his hand had been. He probed with a care that surprised the undertaker, and frowned. He examined her wrist again, still as gently as if she were a priceless artifact. She looked pitifully tiny, even on the small table.

“Can you fix the wrist?” the undertaker finally asked.

“The man looked up as if he had just been reminded there were others in the room. “Oh, yes yes. And her arm too. Its seems I’ve fractured it.”

The junior apothecary gaped. “Just now?”

“Indeed. She’s quite fragile, it appears. She’s not as young as she appears. Her size is stunted, probably from a sickness, and judging how easily a simple grasp hurt her, I’d guess it was a bad one. She hasn’t seen the sun for quite a while.” He gently wiped off some of the grime on her face, revealing a very pale skin. He shrugged, and then set to work, cleaning her arm, then quickly and efficiently setting her wrist and applying a splint. He wrapped it much higher than it needed to go, with a padding to cushion the ends of the splint from perhaps causing a new break.

“There. Better than she’d get elsewhere, I’ll wager.” He continued rubbing away the grime where she wasn’t covered by the thin nightgown. She was quite a pretty little girl, though indeed very frail.

“Hmm” he said, finishing to his satisfaction. “Take her up to Bauhaus, let him make his records. Then off to Deathknell with her. I doubt she’s of any use to us, in that condition, but perhaps she’ll snap out of it. She seems smart enough that maybe she’ll be useful as an apothecary later on.” He shrugged, feigning disinterest, and turned away to the door.

As he stepped through, “if she makes it through, I want to know about it.” he inclined his head to other two men in the room and, gesturing to the junior to follow, disappeared. The junior apothecary shrugged, bid him good luck with her, and left also, to let her wake with only him present.

He sighed, watching the mysterious little girl sleep.

Bleeding I'm Crying I'm Falling I'm
Bleeding now
Bleeding I'm Crying I'm Falling I'm
Bleeding now

Bleeding now I'm Crying out I'm Falling down and I'm
Feeling nothing like
Laughing now I'm Stopping now I'm Reaching out and I'm
Feeling nothing

[chorus]
Yeah, you have created a rift within me
Now there have been several complications
That have left me feeling nothing
I might say, you were wrong to take it from me
Left me feeling nothing

Crawling now I'm Beaten down I'm Tortured now and I'm
Feeling nothing like
Hunting now I'm Stalking now I'm Reaching out and I'm
Killing nothing

[chorus]

I can feel you ripping and tearing
Feeding and growing inside of me
Ripping and tearing
Feeding and growing inside of me

I want this, more than you know
I need this, give it back to me

Yeah, you have created a rift within me
You are the cause of these horrid complications
That are ripping and tearing
Feeding and growing inside of me, yeah
You've created a rift within me
Now there have been several complications
That are ripping, tearing
ripping and tearing and
Feeding and growing inside of me

I want this, more than you know
I need this, give it back to me

[redeyedtreefr0g]

19 Echo - Trapt

Aziris knew it was a dream, which was unusual.

She was back in Deathknell, avoiding the Scourge and Forsaken alike. She’d regained herself a little while after being sent her, she supposed, but she didn’t remember anything after she’d died in bed. It had been a long time from then to here, but the gap didn’t really bother her, as used to them as she was.

In the dream, time passed more quickly in some parts than others. She would go quickly to those times when she met other Forsaken, specifically to when they sometimes asked why she never got close, but kept her distance. Why she ran away rather than learn how to fight the Scourge. She saw again her clumsy early attempt at avoiding being touched, and the uncomfortable silences as she didn’t know how to answer questions. They knew she had come from Undercity in what was described as a shocked and traumatized state. She had no idea what that meant, not recalling it, but it allowed her to keep silent without pressure to talk, and she kept her illness a secret.

Every once in a while, her dream would flash some sort of image, too fast for her to see. she didn’t want to see it. She felt an overwhelming sense of fear each time it happened, and she thought maybe it was that gap that wasn’t the result of any headache, the missing part from death to now. Whatever it was, she wanted to avoid it.

For once, her dream actually wasn’t a bad one, just a replaying of Deathknell. How odd. She wouldn’t remember it when she awoke, and she wondered what the point was. Hmm. For once, she wasn’t afraid, and running for her life, or huddled in a corner, or being trapped by a nameless horror from that black abyss of her past. Maybe the bad dreams would stop now.

Aziris awoke in the quiet mists of the Rainspeaker canopy. She had a vague feeling of contentment, and even though she ached from her injuries, especially her leg from the traveling, she was satisfied that here she would get better without worries. She lay back down, not afraid to fall asleep again.

She liked it here.

[chorus]
Close my eyes
Let the whole thing pass me by
There is no time
To waste, asking why
I'll run away with you by my side
I'll run away with you by my side

I need to let go, let go, let go, let go of this pride
Yeah (asking why)

I think about your face
And how I fall into your eyes
The outline that I trace
Around the one that I call mine
Time that called for space
Unclear where you drew the line
I don't need to solve this case
And I don't need to look behind

[chorus]
I need to let go, let go, let go, let go of this pride
Yeah, asking why

Do I expect to change
The past I hold inside
With all the words I say
Repeating over in my mind
Some things you can't erase
No matter how hard you try
An exit to escape
Is all there is left to find

[chorus]
I need to let go, let go, let go, let go of this pride
Until this echo, echo, echo, echo, in my mind
Until this echo, echo, echo, echo, can subside
x2