#archjustice

You paced in the downtrodden wagon anxiously, brushing away spider webs in irritation. Drive imps sensed your hostility and avoided you in haste. The stowaway girl and Ti'zo followed your movement with their eyes, the latter screeched to transmit its worry towards you. Jodariel and Rukey occasionally glanced your way but continued their respective works. Hedwyn continuously looked at your direction, obviously aware of your anxiety. Tariq the minstrel strummed his lute slowly and gently, as if he was treading on a thin rope. But those glances and looks went past your attention, as your mind was elsewhere.

It has been days, if that bastard comes again tonight…

The journey through Flagging Hands had been weary, your companion’s fatigue were apparent on their face. The mood was initially heavy yet the minstrel’s song kept the murk at bay.  Light's waning and soon the wagon would stop, and you would have to sleep in preparation for the Rite occurring on the following night. You grunted in annoyance. "Jodi.." you addressed Jodariel soon after, a tone of desperation escaped between your breath.

"No" Jodariel answered shortly, as she expertly trimming her horn. She knew your malady, which sourced from nightmare haunting you each night. She made attempt in asking what ailed you, what sort of haunting vision you dreamt of. Yet you made your stance in keeping your secret from your fellow exiles. Instead, you asked for prolonged shift during night watch. It finally took a toll on you and everyone took notice.

"I haven’t said anything" you argued.

"You're not on the watch tonight, nightmare or no. Tomorrow we're arriving in Pit of Milithe and we NEED you physically sound" she snapped at you. Nevertheless, there were no hatred in her tone, but rather a tone which was similar to a worried caring mother.

"Surely mental health counts as ---" You didn't manage to finish your word as you see Jodariel's intense stare, keen in her decision of taking you off night watch duty. Against such a woman, you could only relent. "--fine."

Then you feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you didn't need to turn to know whose it was. Hedwyn voiced his concern, "Perhaps you can share us what ails you, my friend. Might help lift your spirits a little"

“In fact, I’ve got my hands on some good spirits! That stuff will knock you off” Rukey chimed in as he rummaged his rucksack. He proudly presented a dark bottle from within. “Ahh yes, from good old Commonwealth. This would cost you good sols if you weren’t me!”

"SCREE-NNNNN-NYEHH" Ti'zo transmitted his desire to chase off your nightmare furiously, with a variety of imp profanity followed suit.

"The Eight Scribes will watch over you, I know it. I just know it" the gray haired girl handed you her shoddily assembled star shaped amulet, originally placed under the rafters. Apparently she thought you needed the Eight Scribe’s blessing the most at that moment.

"Well?" Hedwyn asked, eager to listen to your problems as he handed you a small bowl the exiles have been using for drinking.

Despite your fellow exiles goodwill, there would be no force in Downsides you would divulge the content of your nightmares. If not because of its horrid content, but also because it was downright embarrassing. You could feel blood rushes towards the back of your neck and the tips of your ears. You swore Tariq played a comedic tune on impromptu, but he maintained neutral expression when you glanced at his direction. A drink or two never hurt, you thought at that moment.

You laid on your bunk bed that night, feeling a little warm after sharing some alcohol Hedwyn and Jodariel procured at the Slugmarket before the wagon departed Cairn of Ha'ub a few nights ago. Rukey even cracked his reserve for special occasion open.  Scribe amulet above your head, who was undoubtedly attached by the stowaway girl. Ti'zo snuggled against your chest, screeching gently and patted your forehead with its wing. You sensed its assurance. Soft lute tunes lulled you to sleep.

Unfortunately after all their good intention and attempt at making you feel better, the darkness that embraced you to slumber didn’t bring you to a peaceful solace. Instead, it brought you to a familiar hateful presence that haunted your dream each night. It started a couple of days after Nightwings prevailed against the Accuser under the Ridge of Gol. You felt an overbearing presence disturbing your slumber, but that was all to it at that time. Nights after the rite against the Fate, the presence closed the distance between the two of you.

At first it was a mere tingle, as if the stowaway girl was poking your cheek gently. That was what you thought, merely juvenile curious act. Yet when you opened your eyes it wasn't the red eyed girl but rather the hateful figure that continuously launching verbal assault during rites. The Voice himself was there. Clad in extravagant cloth and face hidden beneath hideous mask. Similar to the figure you saw when you first opened the Book of Rites. Looming above the ritual ground where Nigthwings first encounter their ethereal adversary.

But there he was, neither as a looming figure or disembodied voice. He stood before you, saying nothing. No chiding words nor mockery were launched from his mouth. There was only deafening  silence. Then, he stroked your cheek with the back of his calloused fingers. Gently, slowly. As if he endeavored not to wake you up from your slumber. As if mere touch would return you to harsh Downside.

At one night, he merely stroke your cheek. At another, he brushed your hair. On nights after rites he’d cup your face in his hands and simply looked at you. You couldn’t determine his purposes as his visage was hidden beneath the bone white mask. Whatever it was, you couldn’t sense any animosity towards you. In truth, the way he gently touches you, it was as if he was admiring you.

Yet that in that particular night, he reached to the clasps of his mask and unfasten it. For once you could see the face beneath expressionless mask. You couldn’t make clear observations as he lifted your chin and gently planted his lips on yours. You tried to push him away, but his other arm circled round your waist, pulling you. You weren’t sure what manner of magic allowing heat transfer in ethereal realm or  sensation similar to physical contact. There were no other voice but occasional breathlessness. The kiss shared deepened as time passed.

Nevertheless, there was a need to escape. To stay away. Anywhere but there. But you couldn’t move. Your ethereal body was locked in place. You had to--

“GAH!”

You woke up abruptly and hit your head against wooden ceiling of your bunk bed. Loud thunk echoed in the blackwagon. Wooden amulet fell flat on your face and surprised screech deafen your ear.  You found the stowaway girl sleeping next to you and Ti’zo scurrying into her hair. Hedwyn rushed into the room, obviously overheard the noise you caused. He looked around the perimeter looking for intruders and stared in amazement as he saw you rubbing your aching forehead. Nevertheless, he quickly took notice of your condition.

“So, it doesn’t work” Hedwyn sighed as he handed you a wet cloth, motioning for you to compress your reddening forehead.

“....no…” you murmured as you did as he bid.

“I’m listening” Hedwyn sat by your side, smiling as Ti’zo sleepily jumped on his shoulders, perching on Hedwyn’s cloak as if it was its natural habitat.

“...thanks, but no…”

“Are you sure?-”

“I’m fine. I’ll be ready for the Rite--”

At that moment you remembered what transpired in your dreams. Vivid image and touch, shared heat and wet kiss. Blood rushed to your cheek. You burrowed your face into your palm in sheer embarrassment. You desperately thought it was a mere dream and wild imagination. Alas, your hope was dashed when the stars aligned and the Rite against the Withdrawn began. You could hear sheer cheekiness and a hint of perkiness between verbal assaults.