Tryal's Curse 15.1

Chapter Fifteen:
Shot down

Lira realised that she was unconscious when everything around her plunged into a thick, inky darkness. She knew that she ought not to be realising this at all, because it defeated the entire point of being unconscious in the first place. But, as it was, Lira felt like her eyelids had been cemented shut—her gaze was fixed to a strange assortment of pictures inside her own skull. It was kind of like staring at fireworks on the inside of your eyelids, when you pressed down on them hard enough with your hand. But with eye-fireworks, Lira told herself, you have a choice. You can make them stop.

She figured fainting didn’t really give you that sort of choice. She wondered, idly, if she had drowned, but her own fate seemed unimportant just then. She bobbed along as the blackness slithered in all around her, and flitted between dreams. It was all rather peaceful, unconsciousness, she decided.

Then suddenly, it wasn’t all that peaceful anymore.

Lira felt like her mind had been split into two, like another person was trickling into her brain and taking up all the remaining crevices in-between memory and emotion. So far, she had been aware of herself, of her own thoughts, even if it was an idle sort of drifting in her own head. But something more had crawled into her brain—the memories, the thoughts that flooded in were not hers, but neither were they invasive.

Hello, Lira thought. Tentatively, she pushed against the Other Person's mind that had infiltrated her own. Fear and shock coursed through her body—someone else's fear, someone else's shock ... not her own.

The Other Person's thoughts suddenly backed away. Lira felt her mind relax and unravel, as though someone had ceased to press an iron block against her skull and was instead building a wall, slowly and steadily, between them.

Wait, she thought, trying to break through the flimsy wall. I know you. It wasn’t a lie. Lira could not explain it, but the Other Person’s presence in her head felt … familiar. So she reached out to the wall that they had built towards them. Stay.

The barrier—the wall—wavered for a moment, and Lira managed to catch a glimpse of the Other Person's mind again. They were looking up into a long, dark tunnel. A tiny dot of light was visible at the end, and the Other Person's hands—pale and ghostly, like moonbeams moulded into rolls of clay—clung to a rocky protrusion jutting out of the tunnel wall. Fear wracked at Lira again; she pushed comforting thoughts into the Other Person's mind.

Are you OK? she asked.

The Other Person's vision wobbled as their hands scrabbled at the rock, trying to get a firmer grip on the wall. No, the Person said. I'm about to die.

Lira was startled by this pronouncement. She assumed the Other Person felt it, too, because the mixed emotions of fear and anger crawled into her, and the Person said: It's fine. I've had seven hours of falling to try and get used to it.

Where are you? Lira said. And how did you get into my head?

The Other Person paused. Shouldn't I be asking you that question? You're in my head.

Lira wanted to shake her head, but remembered that she was currently dislocated from her own body, drifting in the recesses of her own mind. I've never had a conversation with someone in my brain. Then—before the Other Person could reply, she said, Are you even real? Or are you some image I conjured up when I fainted? Panic suddenly flooded Lira's skull, hot and throbbing—she wondered how she could feel; she wondered if she was dead.

You're not dead, the Person snapped at her irritably. You're real and I've seen you in my dreams before and it's all your fault I'm here in the first place.

Lira imagined herself arching an eyebrow. I already told you, she thought furiously. I've never seen you before.

The Other Person was now attempting to tug themselves up over the protrusion. There was a tense moment where they almost slipped, a single, pale hand flailing in the darkness, a scream bubbling from their—her?—throat and spearing through the air. The tunnel was draughty. Lira could feel it, the cold prickling at her senses; she inhaled dust and the stench of sweat. The connection she had with the Other Person was so very real, so very startling, that she wanted to jerk back into consciousness again. Consciousness was tired and hungry and dirty, but at least her mind was her own there.

Eventually, the Other Person stopped trying to climb up the wall. /My arms hurt,/ they complained.

I'm sorry, Lira said.

The Other Person snorted. It's ... fine. A pause, then: You really haven't seen me in your dreams before?

Was I supposed to?

I don't know, the Other Person said. They sounded hesitant, their voice echoing gently in Lira's head. I dream about you all the time. I know a lot about you—I thought, for a long time, that you weren't real.

Lira wanted to shiver, but remembered that she couldn't. You've seen into my thoughts?

And memories, the Person added. But we have never shared our thoughts. I got so scared when I started hearing your voice in my head, not just during the night, whenever I was eating dinner or talking to my uncle—I thought I was going crazy. That's why I came here.

Down a dark, endless tunnel? Even in Lira's head she came off as sardonic.

You're less sarcastic when I'm not conversing with you, the Other Person commented. No—I came here to see Ixister Quixa. He's a dream interpreter.

Oh. Lira paused. And here is?

The Meare--no, the mountains by the Meare. The Other Person's pulse skyrocketed as they managed to swing their arms over the jagged rock they hung from; Lira felt something constrict inside her as the Person gasped for breath. Their head became foggy, black spots dancing in front of their vision. When it cleared, Lira said:

I've never heard of the Meare. In fact, I've never heard of anywhere in this country.

The Other Person did not reply. Lira could feel a wave of tiredness swamp her, but she pressed on: Who are you?

There was silence. The Other Person dug their nails into the rock and scrabbled onto the rocky ledge. In the darkness, Lira could not make out much, but she could at least tell that the tunnel was long and seemed to spiral down into forever. The bottom was a blob of inky black—darker, if possible, than even their surroundings. The Other Person’s vision shifted slightly, so that instead of looking down, they were looking over their shoulder. Lira caught sight of dark-red hair, and a dirty, grey frock. Her attention quickly shifted, however, to the hole that the Other Person was looking at; they raised their arm and touched the sides tentatively, before pulling their knees up and crawling towards it to peer inside.

It’s a hole, they said, surprised. When Lira snorted, they continued, It’s not funny. You try hanging here instead of me and you’ll see—I think I see something in here, I don’t know what it is but it looks like a … a candlestick? They skimmed their fingers on the sides of the hole; it was slightly raised, like someone had carved it into the wall intentionally. Lira could hardly imagine who would be compelled to build this sort of tunnel, or why, but she supposed this Ixister was just a very odd person.

Images started flitting into her mind as the Other Person’s guard weakened; they were excited, and a jumble of memories and thoughts sped in Lira’s direction. She wished she could avoid them somehow, and she tried to move in the opposite direction every time she left a heavy presence—like a rock—pressing into her head. But she could not get out of the way fast enough, and found herself being swallowed by a memory.