#garnok

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Enormous tentacles lashed at the sea, throwing walls of water upwards, sharp crests of foam cutting through the black sky. The wind carried dense roars across the cliffside, echoing back against the rockface, where spears of dark slate kept plummeting into the cold water below. The air was damp with saltwater and soiled with an old, fishy mildew. It was putrid and doused all their senses, burning away at their nostrils and blinding them with colourless rancidity.

And against the sharp intensity of the cracking lightning in the moonless night, the dark shapes screaming to no avail, was a backdrop, a storm, an enemy, and an end. With scorched skin, all bruised that same greyish-purple, He took the elements and shaped them to His aid. Every atom vibrated in a call to their new desecrator, responding to His proclamations, thickening the atmosphere as they expanded with His power. The air was heavy with His energy. And this was an energy that had been charging deep below the water for a millennia. A tomb, watery and forgotten, had been broken open at last, and He came out gagging on hot, aching rage.

Again and again, huge limbs sliced the arching waves in every attempt to get closer to them. Linda could no longer hear the lashes on the water’s surface below because of the shrieking gales that were circling her, which had only increased with every lingering second. It was difficult to work out how long they had all been trying to control the situation. It could have been minutes, but, thinking about it, it felt more like years. She felt a sort of timelessness consume her suddenly.

How long had she been doing this?

Something hit her leg, and looking down, she caught a glimpse of a battered tree branch unhooking itself from her before it flew off into nothingness. Her legs were dirty and bloodstained in places, and there was a dark, inky gash down her left thigh. It looked as if she had tried to bandage it at some point: there were tattered pieces of fabric stuck in the swelling blood. But it didn’t look in great shape. It was only then that she realised how much it ached.

“Linda!” Suddenly, she was shoved, and she felt her ankles roll beneath her skidding feet. Then she was on the floor, having awkwardly landed on her arm. She was tangled in dense fabric and trying to move out of it, and a face was revealed beneath a fold. Avalon looked almost unrecognisable beneath the layers of dark blood that had dried in broad pools over one side of his face. His eyes were weirdly distant, but he stood staring right into her soul for several seconds before Linda made any significant move again. She tried to get up but was again caught in the lengths of Avalon’s cloak. Eventually, when she was on her feet, she tried to help him up but was shocked to see only bloodied stumps where his legs were supposed to be. He then let go of her hands, and his body started to convulse on the wet grass.

The next thing she knew, Linda was somewhere else, somewhere where she was able to take in the full landscape of the scene. There were Druids, all in their wild cloaks, all torn and gruesome. Some of them were clearly dead, in small heaps of anonymous fabric and disembodied limbs. There were several animated bodies in what looked like spirits, undead souls perhaps. Their translucent figures shone dimly on the dark cliffside in pale whites and burst into a briefly blinding flame when they were struck by an incoming attack from Him. She could see His mouth now, gaping and round and deep, void-like, and his heaving throat pierced by rows and rows of teeth. His body swelled up and down with every agitated breath, His flesh wet and rolling over each feral muscle that He struck.

And then there were her friends. Anne and Concorde were drawing pillars of runes from the ground, but they shone faint and broken. Concorde’s leg looked badly misshapen, and a large patch of the skin on her side looked as if it had been burned away completely, the flesh beneath steaming red and moist. Parts of Anne’s hair were slick with blood, chaotic as it flew about in the wind in clumps. Lisa didn’t look much better and was trying to do a similar thing through her streaming cries. But this was not a scene for magic anymore. Starshine was lying beside her, unmoving and somewhat colourless. It seemed that Lisa had been trying to heal as best she could, but was very quickly overwhelmed. Linda could see Alex trying to calm Tin-Can as he whinnied shrilly over the wind — he was missing a hind leg entirely — whilst she fired weak attempts of lightning behind her. She couldn't see Meteor. He was probably long gone.

This was not a scene for magic anymore.

It was a scene of carnage, and of death.

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“There we go, Linda, you’re okay, you’re alright.” She was buried in someone's chest now, slowly rocking back and forth. Warm hands were around her, and she felt her insides start to thaw. Slowly, she became more aware. “You're alright, Linda, I promise. You’re with me, okay?”

She took a breath. Her throat was dry, and she felt the cool air hit the dry walls of her windpipe. She opened her eyes, which seemed to be considerably wet, and brought her own arms around the figure and felt it tightly. 

This was real. Oh, thank God. This was real.

And then suddenly she was crying, warm tears sliding down my stinging cheeks, hugging tighter. The figure squeezed back. “You’re alright, Linda, good job. You’re with us, okay? I promise.” The voice was low, hardly above a whisper. But it was warm, and it thawed the bitter rock of cold that had been sitting unmoved in her chest. Through the melting haze, she recognised the voice belonging to Anne.