He bore the marks of every single scream on his skin, so he knew he was almost done.
She braced her hands against the barrier, ready for it to disappear, ready to go to him.
There was only a small gap between them now. All it would take was one more step. He reached out his hand, but just before his fingers grazed hers, his mind was overcome with darkness and such pure, unending terror that he screamed.
The ringing of his screams echoed through the cavern—the jagged rocks that hung overhead rattled with the billowing sound.
Fear, pure, unadulterated fear seized his body, locking his muscles so he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Blackness surrounded him as he succumbed to the terror, his eyes remaining open as he saw and felt what wasn’t there.
His own back faced him at the mouth of that gods damned cave.
Booth walking towards him.
Brenna placing her hands over his mouth and nose to suffocate him into sleep.
Noren’s venom, his indifference.
Even Viggo’s kindness tortured him.
He saw it all through her eyes.
Saw the faceless black figures who only existed to haunt her every moment, waking or sleeping. The terror of her magic awakening—the alarm and fear that possessed her whenever Fear took his seat at the mouth of the cave, whenever he helped Booth with her chains. The smell of rain on his shirt.
In those moments, Westley forgot he was looking at himself. He could find no recognizable quality, just a demon of darkness—her demon of darkness.
He didn’t know how long he lay there in the frigid water just out of her reach, the cold liquid moving over his body like it was dying to usher him in, take him to her depths.
And he would’ve gladly let the lake claim his soul were it not for warm hands that graced his face. For the strong arms that dragged him out of the water. The solid, familiar body that held him while he wept, while he stared blankly into the abyss of her fear.
“I have you.”
She got him out.
Afterbeingdraggedacrossthe realm, across the crudely built, rickety bridge over the chasm, Gerrie walked with firm steps towards the looming Vanaheim castle.
She used to stare at its tall turrets in awe, wondering what was in those thick columns. She’d later found out that they housed the dungeons. Turrets were easier to guard and harder to escape from than underground or ground-level dungeons.
Each of the attached spindles was completely cut off from the rest of the castle, their staircases blocked by guards.
Their guards marched them into the castle courtyard, where Gerrie had expected to be greeted by the king and queen. She did see them, but instead of being alive like she’d hoped, they swung from nooses in the middle of the square, a symbol painted in blood on their chests.
The Othala rune. A symbol for home, for ancestry.
It was a mockery of a rune the Vanir held so dear.
She wished that was the most disturbing sight, but upon further inspection, she was quite disappointed.
Fresh wooden posts lined the stone walls, their platforms built of logs and kindling. Gerrie stared at the burned ashes of more platforms beneath with the new ones.
Even more horrifying were the Vanir strung up on the posts, awaiting their execution.
Since she could not speak around her gag, she tried to catch Noren’s and Viggo’s attention, but they were staring at the posts as well, disgust on their faces. Perhaps Noren had been right—this was not a great plan, but she could not have foreseen this.
Her magic was not of Sight, and besides, she had refused Solveig’s offer to loosen her power. She’d used the last of her Summoning Stone.
Gerrie could do nothing for the poor souls who awaited their gruesome fate.
