#mephilverweek26

The presence eventually comes to him. Thick liquid, viscous and oil-slick, somehow manages to move up his legs. It's unpleasant; Silver attempts to step away, but either his legs still refuse to obey or the liquid is following him as he moves.

When the liquid reaches his waist, Silver attempts to use his telekinesis. No use; the goo slips from his psychic hold the same way it slides through his fur. Even attempting to manipulate the wind has no effect; all Silver manages to achieve is ruffling his fur and quills. The liquid creeps higher all the while, unfettered by his attempts to remove it.

Once it reaches his chest, Silver panics. He tries everything he can; running, telekinesis, physically removing it with his hands. Nothing works. It just creeps higher and higher, oozing up his body and towards his chin until—

Silver snaps his mouth shut just in time to prevent the goo from entering. It slides up and over his lips, strangely solid—and it doesn't stop. Silver realizes what's happening too late; he makes a panicked noise and brings his hands up to attempt to keep the liquid from reaching his nose, to wipe it off—but it's no use. His nostrils are already covered.

While the ooze isn't entering his nostrils, breathing through it is impossible. Silver's previous panicked movements have left him short of breath already; it feels like only a few seconds have passed before his lungs start to burn. His head goes fuzzy, his body begging for oxygen and it hurts, it's unbearable—

Against his will, Silver's mouth opens with a desperate gasp for air. Instead of precious oxygen, he inhales a mouthful of that strange liquid. It moves deeper into his mouth with surprising speed, sliding across his teeth and tongue almost tenderly on its way to his throat—

Silver finally manages to move when the ooze touches his uvula. He doubles over, retching—and the liquid actually retreats. It leaves his mouth first, then slides further down his body as Silver desperately attempts not to bring up the meager contents of his stomach. When it's gone, Silver is fully dry; he can't feel any traces of the liquid anywhere on his fur.

Once Silver finally manages to get the urge to vomit under control, he wipes his mouth and straightens up—and comes face to face with a figure in the darkness.

It's still difficult to see. Their surroundings haven't actually become illuminated; Silver still can't see his own body, but somehow the figure is visible. A hedgehog, dark and lacking color like a faded picture. Most of his face is shrouded in shadow, but his eyes stand out. The pupils are a sickly pale green, almost luminous in the otherwise near-complete darkness.

"There's no more need to fight," the figure says. He stays perfectly still as he speaks, almost unnaturally so. With most of his body hidden by the darkness, Silver can't be sure—but it certainly seems as if he's not even breathing. "If you join me, you won't have to struggle any longer. With your aid, I can purge this world of Iblis' presence once and for all."

The words send another shiver down Silver's spine. He has dreamed, during his most difficult nights, of a hand in the darkness. Of somebody reaching out to tell him he's been brave, he's been enough, he can stop fighting now. Iblis is gone, or somebody else has arrived to take over. Somebody who can save everybody.

This is—exactly that. Silver should be happy. He should be weeping with gratitude, with relief—but all he feels is unease. If something is too good to be true, it probably is.

"Who are you?" Silver asks. The sound of his own voice surprises him. He was expecting it to sound dreamy, far away, but it's almost shockingly clear. "How can I trust you?"

"A friend," the figure says. "An ally. Isn't that enough?"

Much as Silver wants it to be, it's not. "No," he says. "I can't stop fighting without some kind of guarantee that..."

He trails off, distracted by the appearance of light in the corner of his vision. Softly golden and flickering—Iblis' flames. Silver turns his head to look at it, but no matter where he looks, the light remains at the edge of his vision—and the figure stays in the center.

"I see," the figure says. "Perhaps this will not be as easy as I had assumed. But make no mistake—"

Between one blinks and the next, the figure is suddenly right in front of him, close enough to touch. Silver didn't even see him move. He can't seem to move himself, staying rooted in place as the figure strokes a hand down his cheek. The touch is gentle, but there's something sharp to it, the tiniest hint of claws.

"You'll be mine soon enough."

The figure vanishes. Silver is left alone in the darkness, with only the distant firelight to keep him company. It brightens quickly, overtaking his vision until—