Antiquarian

His voice sounds alien even to himself, echoing throughout the darkness-wreathed surroundings. Blackstone, he dully noticed, was what was so firm beneath his hands. The stone was warm but cold at the same time. How? He wasn’t sure.

“You’re not meant to be here yet.” The voice repeated. His head finally snapped up, pupils shrinking as his gaze flitted over the elegant architecture, still mostly hidden. He forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t remember when he stopped.

The feeling in the air was familiar. Dangerously so. The same type of familiar that reminded him of a world he resided in prior— the same feeling that came over him before he hurt Lullah. Before he… ran…

Oh. Oh no.

“Ender King?” He can hear his voice crack. He hates it. Philza has never been a helpless man. He’s always given everything a middle finger and rebelled however he could. But here he feels so, so small.

“I guess we feel familiar, huh? Nah, mate, not quite.” He can feel a presence in front of him. He can’t see it. It’s all shadows. A clawed hand lightly touches his shoulder and he has to suppress the urge to jolt away.

That voice sounds like his own. Maybe a little fancier, words better enunciated, maybe a little lighter. Is the being amused? It sounds sympathetic. Concerned, almost, but morbidly entertained.

“Who are you?” He finds himself rasping, suddenly feeling as if he hasn’t drunk for several days.

“... You can call me Crow.” The voice responds after a thoughtful pause. He can feel the shadows gradually clearing and the first thing he sees are crystal blue eyes flecked with crying obsidian purple. He doesn’t stop himself from jolting back this time.

His breath catches in his throat as more is revealed. Thick, black wings lined with an iridescent, purple-blue shimmer and white diamonds adorning the largest of feathers. The similar dusty coal black plumage gracing his mirror image’s face and ears. He looks softer and sharper at the same time. Like a blade slid into a beautifully embroidered sheath.

Why does Crow share his face? His wings?

“I— What—”

“You’re not meant to be here yet.” Crow repeats for the third time, sitting down on the blackstone. He looks almost amused. It makes Philza’s skin crawl. He can feel the phantom wings on his back ruffling, as if they, too, really existed. Did any of this exist? What kind of god was playing with him now?

“What does that mean?” He feels a hint of his resolve returning but he’d be a fool to deny how his voice shook.

“Eh,” Crow shrugs, as if they were having a conversation about the weather, and not like Philza was struggling to breathe through the feeling of his chest being compressed, the shackles squeezing around his limbs, “you’re just not ready, mate. You weren’t… hm. You don’t usually… turn up like this. You can’t handle it.”

“What the fuck can’t I handle?” He finds himself snapping, eyes narrowing into a bladed glare. He’s glad to have that anger. He needs it to keep himself together. Crow only shoots him a lopsided grin.

“Well, that’s the secret, isn’t it?” He returns with a small drawl, as if he, too, is contemplating the question. He snaps out of it relatively quickly, “well, it seems like our time is up anyhow. Goodbye, Philza. Please, don’t try to return soon.”

Philza nearly shouts at the way his brain seems to split into jars, fog encompassing him once more, before a haze lifts from his eyes.

It takes him a second to get his bearings, breathing ragged as terror forces him to his knees. Something that was previously in his hand falls to the ground with a thud. He feels bark meet his forehead as his hands clench into his hair. The strands are smooth, but all he can focus on is the small tinge of pain. He doesn’t spare a glance at the way his bucket hat topples to the ground behind him.

It takes him a few minutes, thoughts horribly blank as his consciousness returns to him and he calms, before he really registers what’s going on around him. His heart still beats rapidly in his chest but at the very least, he doesn’t feel like his mind is getting torn to shreds. His limbs feel fizzy. The phantom wings have vanished.

He was carrying Woodsbane. It’s on the dirt now. He’s in the tree farm. Dark Oak sits in his inventory, along with golden apples staring at him. More than there should be. More than there were. He’s not in bed, either. He remembers falling asleep there.

He slowly untangles his hands from his hair, staring silently at the silky strands he’d torn out. They were damp. His hair was damp. It hadn’t been raining. It didn’t smell of petrichor. The mycelium wasn’t wet. He hadn’t touched water since yesterday afternoon. His hair had dried before he’d fallen asleep.

“What the fuck.” He feels himself whisper. There’s something in him that feels so Wrong. He can’t describe it, not really, but it’s like a horrible sense of reverse Déjà vu.

“Hello?” His voice echoes, reverberating from the darkness around him. Philza is used to fear, to the icy claws of terror snapping around his heart and freezing it in place. He isn’t sure why he’s not shaking at the moment.

There’s no response. So he continues forward, each step over the not-quite solid inky darkness below him only unnerving him further. He tries not to focus on the way ghostly tendrils curl around his legs as if he were walking deeper into a spider’s den. He especially tries to ignore the phantom lingering of wings he has long since lost.

Philza swallows, shoulders hiking up. He continues forward, not because he wants to, but because he has to. Because there’s nothing else to do and he would surely go insane from allowing himself to feel the full effect of the foggy shadows around him. He can’t let that happen.

There’s a feeling of nakedness about the abyss. This isn’t like the void he had made contact with a few times. This isn’t like death, either. Her embrace is much sweeter.

… it’s empty. Terrifyingly empty. But so, so full.

He trudges forward.

The material beneath his white-knuckled grip feels like a suggestion, more than a reality. He can feel the old familiar feeling of nausea building in his gut. He must have been walking for hours. Is there any end to this? Is it all futile? He isn’t sure. But he continues.

He has to.

It’s only when he comes across rock beneath his feet that he lets himself stop, collapsing onto it with a breathless sob. It's hard beneath his knees. He isn’t crying but he has never been gladder to feel the ground beneath him.

He’s dizzy. His mind is a gentle tapestry settling on a plush cloud. His entire existence feels fuzzy.

“You’re not meant to be here yet.”

First off. N o.

Guys. You don't understand. Patience, maybe with the exception of bravery, was the ONE SOUL TRAIT THAT I WAS SURE THAT I WOULDN'T HAVE.

I do n o t have patience, okay. I promise you, I am the type of person who will rock back and forth, barely keeping it together, making audible sounds of frustration, if my toast takes too long in the toaster. I am the person who seriously contemplates and worries that my life is just forever waiting for my laptop to update, solely because it's been on the same loading screen for 5 minutes. I need to physically have something else for me to do if I know I need to update a game. Otherwise, I w i l l feel my soul leave my body unless I can luck out and fast travel by dissociating with vivid daydreams.

Y e s. I have an over 300k word epic that I have been working on for what will be four years now. However, I am 95% sure that it is less that I'm "patient" and more "I have a crippling need to write in chronological order and have a borderline obsessive hyperfixation with my own story that won't leave my head."

So, no. No offense to the test maker, but I don't accept my test results. Cast in your votes now! Pastel's hidden soul trait is still up for debate! :D

Okay, um. @honeybubbletea33 I think your soul trait is. U m. This is harder than I thought. JUSTICE. Why??? Idk, to me, you seem to be very angy if injustice occurs-

@develation I think you're determination. I have no idea why. You are just a "keep going at it no matter the cost" type of mad lad to me

@paintedkinzy-88 I think... integrity??? You got your own set of morals that you follow and rarely deviate from :D

@inkclover Kindness. No question. If there was a "nicest smol cinnamonroll" contest, you'd have won already. Now, if you get something other than kindness, then WE KNOW SOMETHING IS UP WITH THIS TEST, OKAY-