Lancaster didn’t know how he could be dead again.
Logistically, of course, he knew how it had happened. Not inclined toward organised violence, the Sirens had easily picked at his weaknesses. The others, maybe they’d been more organised, or better prepared. They were able to step back and assess their own damage and forge on with their best feet first. Lancaster? He went in blind. Violence was not something that he condoned, but it was something he was good at. He didn’t like spilling blood but when he did? He didn’t hold back. He’d thrown himself into the foray and hadn’t really thought about the how or the why or the when. Basically, he lost his cool.
And he had lost his life because of it.
Dread was the first wave. Dread, and then terror. Cytherea’s was the first voice that he heard; from her, he had learned that he was the only one to die. The fear that the others might be condemned to the same fate had kept him lucid. It was as soon as she had mentioned Doc patching her up that he started to lose focus. He asked her to keep talking but she had dwindled into incoherence and Lancaster was lost.
Images of the brawl continued to thrash at his mind; the blood, the shouting, the sound of gunfire. They thought they were prepared but they couldn’t account for what they found, or the unpredictability of the foe that they encountered. Lancaster was not a proud man, so he didn’t lament the fact that he was the first or the only one to go. There was no self pity for his state, but he was lost.
The Shadow Realm with its silence and its lack of colour was a nightmare for the Allurist. An extrovert by nature, Lancaster suffered most when he was alone. It wasn’t something that could be helped, but where was Pi? Why had he not heard from Pi? How long had passed? Had something happened to her, something that Cytherea didn’t know about?
The longer that Lancaster sat still, the louder the voices became. Disembodied voices. Voices that he tried to talk to, but there was no conversation to be had. The spirits drifted; they didn’t stay. Sometimes they disappeared as if they were never there; like static. They were ghosts. Lancaster was surrounded by the dead. He was forced to remember those that he himself had killed; innocent lives that had been lost, in the beginning, because he hadn’t known his own feet. Were they here? Were they haunting him, now?
In the end, he found a dilapidated building. The walls were black. He hesitated before he stepped inside, the shadows were so dark, so uninviting. But he was dead. What could hurt him, here? He sat in the corner in the darkened space. He sat for so long until he curled up on his side, his ghost-like arms clutching at his own disembodied body. It didn’t matter whether his eyes were open or closed, the darkness was still the same.
He heard Pi’s voice, once; it told him that he wasn’t alone, but when he looked, she wasn’t there. He had imagined it. But he focused on it, anyway. He tried to take that hope and cling to it; he tried to imagine the bar, or the den - their rooms there. Their love nest. He tried to think of melodies to sing. He tried to write the songs in his head. Upbeat songs. He tried, but failed, so many things - until he lay in a stupor; unseeing, unhearing. Time passed so slowly - eternity stretched out in front of him. An eternity of darkness - and he remained frozen, struck deaf and dumb by the complete horror of it.
Logistically, of course, he knew how it had happened. Not inclined toward organised violence, the Sirens had easily picked at his weaknesses. The others, maybe they’d been more organised, or better prepared. They were able to step back and assess their own damage and forge on with their best feet first. Lancaster? He went in blind. Violence was not something that he condoned, but it was something he was good at. He didn’t like spilling blood but when he did? He didn’t hold back. He’d thrown himself into the foray and hadn’t really thought about the how or the why or the when. Basically, he lost his cool.
And he had lost his life because of it.
Dread was the first wave. Dread, and then terror. Cytherea’s was the first voice that he heard; from her, he had learned that he was the only one to die. The fear that the others might be condemned to the same fate had kept him lucid. It was as soon as she had mentioned Doc patching her up that he started to lose focus. He asked her to keep talking but she had dwindled into incoherence and Lancaster was lost.
Images of the brawl continued to thrash at his mind; the blood, the shouting, the sound of gunfire. They thought they were prepared but they couldn’t account for what they found, or the unpredictability of the foe that they encountered. Lancaster was not a proud man, so he didn’t lament the fact that he was the first or the only one to go. There was no self pity for his state, but he was lost.
The Shadow Realm with its silence and its lack of colour was a nightmare for the Allurist. An extrovert by nature, Lancaster suffered most when he was alone. It wasn’t something that could be helped, but where was Pi? Why had he not heard from Pi? How long had passed? Had something happened to her, something that Cytherea didn’t know about?
The longer that Lancaster sat still, the louder the voices became. Disembodied voices. Voices that he tried to talk to, but there was no conversation to be had. The spirits drifted; they didn’t stay. Sometimes they disappeared as if they were never there; like static. They were ghosts. Lancaster was surrounded by the dead. He was forced to remember those that he himself had killed; innocent lives that had been lost, in the beginning, because he hadn’t known his own feet. Were they here? Were they haunting him, now?
In the end, he found a dilapidated building. The walls were black. He hesitated before he stepped inside, the shadows were so dark, so uninviting. But he was dead. What could hurt him, here? He sat in the corner in the darkened space. He sat for so long until he curled up on his side, his ghost-like arms clutching at his own disembodied body. It didn’t matter whether his eyes were open or closed, the darkness was still the same.
He heard Pi’s voice, once; it told him that he wasn’t alone, but when he looked, she wasn’t there. He had imagined it. But he focused on it, anyway. He tried to take that hope and cling to it; he tried to imagine the bar, or the den - their rooms there. Their love nest. He tried to think of melodies to sing. He tried to write the songs in his head. Upbeat songs. He tried, but failed, so many things - until he lay in a stupor; unseeing, unhearing. Time passed so slowly - eternity stretched out in front of him. An eternity of darkness - and he remained frozen, struck deaf and dumb by the complete horror of it.
