Scoundrels Answer Ch 16

Plunging into the darkness of the chamber which topped the tower was not the brightest move Alan had ever made, but it was realistically his best option. Though he was familiar with what magic could do, and could unleash the basic magic within items he found, he was no mage himself. Against what assailed his wife and his friend, he could offer little help, and at high risk to himself. No, the best way to free them from the grip of those violating shadows was not to plunge head long through flames and into danger, but find the caster who controlled them, and end whatever passed for her life.

What he did not expect, as he pursued the fleeing magic user, was to find himself alone in a void black as pitch. He could see nothing, no matter how he strained his eyes, and could hear nothing, not even the pad of his soft soled boots across a floor that, while it seemed to have some substance, offered nothing but slightly spongy resistance under each footstep. It was like being cut off from the rest of reality. His senses offered nothing, and his mind began to imagine things to fill the vacancy.

It was a place between worlds, a place well suited for dark imaginings and waking dreams. The harder that Alan sought any form of sensory stimulation, the more difficult it was to tell the difference between his imagination and anything that might pierce the void about him. His breath quickened as genuine fear began to set in. He wasn't certain he could find his way back where he had been, and he certainly couldn't hear nor see Miena anymore.

In the darkness, he thought he heard a distant laugh. Instantly, his attentions focused in the direction he believed it came from. For a long while there was nothing, but just as he was about to give up, he heard it again. Hastily, he stumbled sightlessly toward the source of that laughter, moving through that unnatural darkness without a clue what may lay before him. It was just fortunate that the void, empty of most sight and sound, also seemed to be lacking any obstacles to trip him up.

Blindly, Alan rushed through the darkness, until he was moving at a near run. More noises were evident: the clinking of plates and glasses, more laughter, music. It sounded much like any night at the Reavers' Rest or any similar tavern. Without warning, Alan burst from the darkness into the merry glow of firelight and scattered lamps. Chairs and sturdy wooden tables lay scattered about a common room that was familiar to his eyes. It was the Reavers' Rest, or at least as it had been years and years ago, before it had taken on that name.

Faces from long ago mingled and chatted within that place. There were old contacts he hadn't seen in decades, and some who were long dead. The minstrel playing in the corner he knew had been put to death during the usurpation crisis, and there amidst the tables was a young Mother Marseline, waiting tables as a common barmaid, long before she took the temple vows.

His eyes lingered on one table in particular, for another version of himself sat at it. Fresh faced and young, maybe just out of his teens, he was chatting with a much more heavily built, long haired warrior that could only be Vick Varonne. Both young men were in good spirits, and occasionally oogled those barmaids that passed.

"Do you remember this, Alan?" Miena's voice resonated through the commons, and he whirled about, trying to place her. As he did, a passing fellow seemed to just pass right through him, as if he weren't even there.

Of course. It was a vision. Something plucked from his memories, or from the past itself, and fed into his very mind. After that moment's disorientation and reflection, Alan finally caught sight of Miena. Except it wasn't the Miena he was looking for.

Instead, framed within the doorway of the inn, silhouetted by the steady stream of sunlight from outside, stood Miena as she had been. A few years older than Alan at that point, she still managed to look younger and more awkward. Her mad shock of red hair fell in an unkempt mass of curls, while a particularly thick lensed set of spectacles perched upon a nose that, at best, might be described as cute. She was past lean and into downright skinny territory, with a loose, worn set of robes that had the look of hand me downs, with patches and repairing stitches all over. A few pouches hung from a rope belt that failed to define her hips much, and she held in her arms a massive tome, clutched against her modest bust protectively.

Alan remembered this, if only from the contrast of the gawky mage girl and the rest of the tavern goers. "You were so out of place, back then."

"I was, but then you smiled at me."

That part Alan didn't remember, but it slowly came back to him as he watched his younger self and Vick. The warrior pointed Miena out, and had said something to him, likely something crude and disparaging. Whatever it was, the younger Alan had found it greatly amusing, and was in the process of laughing outright when Miena noticed the two.

She offered a shy smile, then began to weave her way through the room. The two young men immediately grew more serious, straightening up in their seats as she approached. Alan's younger self offered a sidelong glance to Vick, before he half stood and gestured to the seat across from them. Grateful, Miena settled herself down.

"That was the first time we met." Miena's voice drifted from the room around them.

Alan did recall it. It was before the Reavers had properly formed. It was just him and Vick, and after getting their asses kicked thoroughly by a barely capable goblin shaman, they had decided they needed some sort of caster of their own. They were not well known back then, not by a long shot, and Miena had been the only one to respond.

"Yeah," he admitted, "You stuck out like a sore thumb. You looked like you'd be more at home at a desk in a library rather than in a tavern, much less out in the field of battle."

"But you let me join up anyway."

It sounded like she was trying to be endearing, and as Alan watched the conversation between the younger version of him and Miena, it didn't sit quite right. He didn't remember her blushing quite that much, nor watching him so intently, nor leaning so close. The mousy redhead was subtly flirting, and he was fairly sure that, even if she wasn't the most well endowed woman in the room, he would have noticed it in his youth.

"I think you thought I was cute," Miena's voice took on an almost dreamy aspect.

"I don't think that's exactly how things happened, Miena." Alan frowned as he watched the young wizard woman trace the sole of one sandal along his younger self's own booted feet. He definitely would have remembered that. "In fact, if I remember right, you spent most of your time stammering and stuttering, and it was fortunate that you were the only one who wanted to try her luck with a few rookie treasure hunters like us."

"That's not true!" Anger edged into her disembodied voice, and the visions around Alan clouded, beginning to bleed off into nothing. "You smiled at me! You enjoyed my company."

"I did, but not in the way you seem to remember. You were our friend, Miena, you were my friend. But these aren't real memories."

"They could be! They could be new memories, made between us. Alan, what about that time in Baron Kaden's castle?"

The void crashed in around Alan, but the blackness only engulfed him for a moment. At first it was only broken by a small square of night sky, lit only by the radiance of the stars. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he took in the rest of the scene. The moist, dark stones of the Baron's dungeon, the figure bound against the wall in that small cell, it was a scene that, while not completely matched by his memories, was at least recognizable.

Castle Levostrin, on the northern borderlands, it was a dour and foreboding structure which had kept grim sentinel over the barbarous tribes beyond for untold centuries. It was also the first time the Reavers had genuinely crossed one of those loyal to the usurper Jaron Daar. Things had not gone well for their little band, and Miena had spent a solid month under the care of Kaden of Levostrin.

The starlight provided only the barest illumination, scattered across a floor of uneven bricks. A thin layer of sand and filthy hay was spread here and there, and a lone rat snuffled along the ground, searching in vain for remaining scraps and crumbs of meals that were a scarce luxury for the prisoners.

In the night sky above, the moon finally peeked over the edge of the narrow window, and its weakly reflected beams shone along smooth, pale legs that were far more shapely than Alan recalled. Indeed, he distinctly remembered she had been wearing more than the mere scraps of burlap that the vision seemed intent on portraying. A simple top and skirt were little more than rough, scratchy rags, leaving her flat midriff exposed, as well as much of her arms. Shackles held her wrists above her head, while that unkempt mass of red hair hung in dirty tangles to obscure her features. The only sign she was alive was the gentle rise and fall of breasts that, while modest, were still more pronounced than Alan's memories allowed.

"You have no idea what they did to me there, Alan. During that month they held me. Do you know what Jaron's men did to wizards who didn't join his cause?"

Alan winced slightly as she seemed to speak from all around the cell. "No, Miena. I don't." It was true, he had paid little attention at the time to the exact details of Jaron's procedures. Instead, he had focused on what was necessary to overthrow the man himself. "Did they ... use you?" There was a bit of concern in the question. Despite all that Miena had done to him and his friends and loved ones, the memories he had of those times weren't pleasant, and at the time she had been one of the Reavers.

"No, but they wanted to. I could see it in the guards' eyes when they looked at me. No, what they did was worse, Alan. They cut me off from my magic. You can't even imagine what that's like. It would be akin to shutting down three of your five senses, then keeping you in a dark, padded box to mute the others. I almost went insane in there."

Now that was a sensation he could commiserate with, as of a few minutes past. And he was fairly certain that her insanity stemmed from a different cause. "But you didn't, Miena. You kept it together. You faced the horrors and came out fighting."

"Yes, because you saved me, Alan. You swept in from the shadows like my own personal noble knight."

Indeed, he thought he could see another figure approaching that cell through the bars. Well concealed in shadows, the old thief could only imagine that it was him in his youth. Damn but he had been good at his job. That vague outline lingered near the cell door for a moment, and then there was the click and scrape of a metal lock giving way, and the slow, careful slide of the cell door as it opened. Only the squeak and flight of the rat from the approaching figure broke the silence.

Like some deathly shade, the figure stepped into view. Lean and proud, clad in muted black leathers, Alan appeared a bit more robust, a bit stronger than he had in the previous vision. It was, after all, a few years later. He swept back his hood, and strode quietly but confidently toward the largely bared form of the wizard woman. One gloved hand rose to touch her cheek, and he spoke a soft, "My love, what have they done to you?"

"That is not what I said," Alan pointed out. He was certain of it, whatever had unhinged her had completely skewed her memories of the past.

"It should have been!" That omnipresent voice seemed on the verge of shrieking.

For a moment, that all consuming void began to close in again, but it quickly fled, leaving the vision much as it was before. The younger Alan made short work of the shackles binding Miena to the wall, and her lithe, pale form slumped down and into his arms. She wrapped her slender arms about his neck.

"Please, don't drop me Alan," her voice was a mere whisper, she seemed on the verge of tears.

"I won't, Miena. I promise." His younger form reassured her in a way that the old rogue wasn't sure he ever had. Except the one time, at the bridge.

When he had recovered the Nightmare Orb.

The mere thought of it brought memory of that foul artifact to the forefront. Its shining silver handle, its polished obsidian sphere. Black as an inky void, it had drawn the eye and attention inward. He remembered having such a hard time sensing the world around him in that short time that he had held it, gazing into its depths. And Miena had held it ever since, as they had never delivered it to...

Try as he might, Alan couldn't remember who had sent them out after the damnable thing. Had there even been anyone? The group had nearly been done in collecting it from that cursed jungle shrine. It had been a hellish ride over rapids and along that hidden river to a village where they could obtain passage back to Aethwin. When they were home they celebrated their victorious return in usual fashion.

No one ever delivered the Orb. No one ever came to pick it up from them. And none of them ever questioned why. For years, it had been a constant presence in Miena's hand or on her belt, never straying far.

His troubled thoughts had him in a near panic. He glanced back to where the younger, dashing Alan Tinsley was holding Miena. His lips were upon hers, an act which never happened. The two seemed to ignore the world around them, wholly enraptured with each other. It was all a lie, whether it be a false memory or wishful thinking.

"Miena! This isn't what happened. Tell me, please, Do you have the Nightmare Orb with you, right now?"

"Of course I do, Alan. I've always kept it and treasured it, ever since you gave it to me."

Had he given it to her? He had been the one to retrieve it from the box. On that bridge, it had slipped from where he had stowed it, and fallen into her grasp. He had cursed himself at the time for being so careless, but he was never careless with valuables.

"Miena. Listen to me, you have to throw it away." It was unlikely he could sway her. She had owned it for decades, after all.

"Why are you so interested in the Orb, Alan? Do you want to take it back? Do you want to take away the only thing I have to remember you by?"

Blackness came crashing down about him once more. It stole away his sight, the sounds of the vision faded away as surely as the visuals did. With his latest realization, the void around him went from simply unsettling to downright sinister.

"Miena, you have to throw it away. It's evil. It has twisted your mind." He knew that he sounded lame, but he was grasping at straws.

"No, Alan Tinsley. What twisted my mind was watching you walk down the aisle with a strumpet half your age!" Her words grew shrill with barely contained rage.

"You were d-" He cut himself off before finishing the word. He wasn't sure now that she had perished in the tower's blast. "We thought you were gone. The Startower had blown up years before. We couldn't find you through any of the normal means."

"And that makes it alright to forsake the woman you love?!" Miena's voice was clearly unhinged, but even hearing it resonate as if from within his very head was better than the utter silence of the void.

"I never once loved you, Miena." It was harsh, but he knew she had once been a creature of logic. Perhaps the faster he brought down her delusions, the faster he could break the trap of false memories. "You were a dear friend, but nothing more."

"Oh but that's where you're wrong, Alan. You did love me, and you even said so once."

He was astounded at that claim, and fell silent for a moment. As he tried to dredge through his memories for what she might be referring to, the inky void once more began to recede. The vision that greeted him was that of a lavish inn room, with red curtains and drapes, a grand bed, lush carpets. It wasn't the Reavers' Rest. It was some place in the capital. Though why did he know that?

"Oh gods no, the love potion. Miena!" It all came back to him, or at least as much of it as his then addled mind had been able to record. "That wasn't me! I wasn't myself."

Alan's protests died on his lips as the door to the room slammed open. The sounds of laughter and music drifted through its open frame for a moment, past the two figures stumbling in. The younger Alan and Miena, now in their middle to late twenties, staggered in and let the door swing shut behind them. Alan himself looked almost drunk, while Miena supported him, keeping his arm about her shoulders.

The lean, dark haired rogue was clad in a loose white shirt, and his typical snug, dark trousers. He had a casually unkempt look about him. Miena had her usually unruly mass of red curls bound back in a single mass, and wore a neatly tailored black robe. It flattered her modest figure, and showed a certain degree of care in its arrangements. Low about her hips a belt with innumerable small pouches and loops for her tools of the trade hung, and amongst the items it supported was that baleful black orb, hanging from its silver handle. The robes parted at each step, revealing dark stockings and soft suede ankle boots with each step. There was nothing idealized about her image in that vision, Alan felt she was actually much prettier that way.

"Mmm, Miena, have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" His younger self was only slightly slurring, and gazed to the woman helping him with adoring eyes.

Miena blushed scarlet, but concentrated on helping him across the room toward the bed. "No, you never have," her voice was soft, embarrassed.

Alan remembered this. Or at least, he remembered what he had been told afterward, combined with scant flashes of the night itself. It was shortly after they had defeated Jaron Daar, and the true prince was awaiting confirmation of his lineage and his coronation. The prince had put the party up in luxury in the capital for a few months, and they had taken full advantage of his hospitality. The people treated them as the heroes they had inadvertently turned out to be, and many a night was spent drinking and partying into the wee hours.

It was during one of these nights that an enchantress had taken an interest in Vick. While normally one to readily fall for even the slightest smile from one of the fairer sex, on this particular evening Vick had already been occupied by a pair of buxom twins who fawned over his every word. In a fit, she had enchanted one of the drinks on the table into some manner of love potion, but during the chaos of the evening, Alan had taken it while speaking with Miena. The enchantress had fessed up after the rest of the party noticed him acting like a lovesick puppy, but Miena had insisted on working to break the enchantment herself, rather than trust someone who was obviously so lacking in judgment.

The two stumbled toward the bed, before Alan paused. He slipped his arms about the slender redhead, then drew her close against his body. Her delicate hands slipped up in surprise, and rested at his shoulders, while her eyes went wide. The rogue stared into those eyes for a moment, then leaned forward. His chest pressed to her bust as his lips captured hers. For a moment, Miena stiffened in his arms, then gradually gave in with a soft moan. She returned his kiss, then raised her hands from his shoulders, stroking them through his hair.

"Miena, I'm sorry, I was not myself." Alan could do nothing to stop the scene as it played out before him, so he adopted a conciliatory tone. He paced around the room, and found that he couldn't even touch the furnishings. He felt helpless, ghostlike. There had to be some way to break the chain of visions he was being shown.

"No, you weren't. But I was. It was the first time I could show you how I felt, without worrying about you rejecting me." Her voice was near frigid.