You descend seemingly endless stairs—down, down, down, into the endless dark. You don’t know the way, but you do, actually, even though you can feel presences falling into step behind you to guide you, if you need it. Perhaps to stop you, should you turn and run, but you won’t.
Outlines of something in the darkness come into focus as you descend—immeasurably large, edifices jutting out of the dark. High archways, heavy doors, engravings in no language you’ve ever known. They’re larger than the descent you’ve made, but still in the dark it seems they go on forever, up into the now-distant sky of the living world that you’ve left behind.
It feels like a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but you’re not afraid, for the first time in your life. Just purposeful, in putting one foot in front of the other, down, down, down, for what could be forever.
But you know it won’t be. After all, as the sutra goes: “There’s always an ending.”
So when your feet meet ground, at the end of the stairway, it doesn’t surprise you; nor does the rising susurration of voices that comes to your ears. A welcome, of sorts, but you’ve been hearing them distantly all this time—the call to meet them. They’ve been with you, all this time.
Your path takes you to stand in front of a door—no. A face? A—no, n̝͕̲̦͟o̘̟̯͎͖̙̗͝,͎͉̖̣͞, n̖͓̦̞͝o̵͚͕̦͖,̵͚̠̖͝, ǹ̯̥͓̣̖̞̤̱̤̫̝͞ͅo̸̙͉̗̜̰̭̣̫̼̭͈̣͕̜̠̪̖̞, you can’t think about that, you can’t, y̭̱̞͢ǫ̳̘̰̼͎u̷̮͓̦̗ ̩̥̞̱̥c̮̬a̢̬͚̗̞̜̩n̰'ͅt͔̠̭͔, y̜̰̥o̘̺͘͞ͅu̷̳̜ c̸̸̵̨͈̮̪͎̮̞͚̥̝͇̫͙̯̣͙̗͟a̵̯̥̹̳͎̳̤̺̱̠̳͢͠͡͠ͅͅn̴͢͏̘̰̟̪͉̖̬̗͚̪̝̹̲͍̣̲̜ͅͅ'̶̨͕̮̟̪̘̫̝̘̗̕͟t̻̙̦͔̬̲͍̦̟̥̖̠̦͙̘́͘ͅ.
But.
You force yourself to concentrate on the voices, to wrench yourself away—you can hear it, the single louder voice that drowns out all the others in the very specific spot that you stand.
One last thing remains. You must let go of it.
It comes to you, what you must do. You turn around, face what’s behind you, and walk toward it.
In the middle of the massive ring of... no, that’s a mistake. Focus. In the middle of the ring, the low water on the ground hits a steep drop, vanishing into a pit of—
...nothing.
It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. In fact, you don’t know how long you stand, staring into it, listening to the rush of the vanishing water. But eventually, you remember that you have a purpose. And the first of it is to cast off the last burden keeping you from it.
Or, you don’t. The sound is garbled, swallowed, vanishes, leaving only the ghost of its memory on your tongue. You don’t miss it.
After some time—you’re not sure how much—there’s the muffled sound of footsteps through the water behind you.
“Welcome,” says the voice that spoke to you, in your last moments. “Come with me. We have much work to do.”
Notable
White-haired Shrike... sort of. As she descends the stairs, the mahogany color drips from her hair like blood, vanishing into the dark and leaving the familiar bone-white color.
Looking at the enormous, strange, non-Euclidean tombs she finds herself facing at the end—even to other viewers—is unsettling, alarming, and prone to showing up in your nightmares. The sight brings with it the sense of something vast and terrible, and a feeling of looming doom.
That's probably fine, though.
The voice at the end is a man's voice; a tenor. It hasn't appeared in any memories before.
The name that she speaks for herself cannot be discerned, and fuzzes into uncomfortable static sounds.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 021
Outlines of something in the darkness come into focus as you descend—immeasurably large, edifices jutting out of the dark. High archways, heavy doors, engravings in no language you’ve ever known. They’re larger than the descent you’ve made, but still in the dark it seems they go on forever, up into the now-distant sky of the living world that you’ve left behind.
It feels like a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but you’re not afraid, for the first time in your life. Just purposeful, in putting one foot in front of the other, down, down, down, for what could be forever.
But you know it won’t be. After all, as the sutra goes: “There’s always an ending.”
So when your feet meet ground, at the end of the stairway, it doesn’t surprise you; nor does the rising susurration of voices that comes to your ears. A welcome, of sorts, but you’ve been hearing them distantly all this time—the call to meet them. They’ve been with you, all this time.
Your path takes you to stand in front of a door—no. A face? A—no, n̝͕̲̦͟o̘̟̯͎͖̙̗͝,͎͉̖̣͞, n̖͓̦̞͝o̵͚͕̦͖,̵͚̠̖͝, ǹ̯̥͓̣̖̞̤̱̤̫̝͞ͅo̸̙͉̗̜̰̭̣̫̼̭͈̣͕̜̠̪̖̞, you can’t think about that, you can’t, y̭̱̞͢ǫ̳̘̰̼͎u̷̮͓̦̗ ̩̥̞̱̥c̮̬a̢̬͚̗̞̜̩n̰'ͅt͔̠̭͔, y̜̰̥o̘̺͘͞ͅu̷̳̜ c̸̸̵̨͈̮̪͎̮̞͚̥̝͇̫͙̯̣͙̗͟a̵̯̥̹̳͎̳̤̺̱̠̳͢͠͡͠ͅͅn̴͢͏̘̰̟̪͉̖̬̗͚̪̝̹̲͍̣̲̜ͅͅ'̶̨͕̮̟̪̘̫̝̘̗̕͟t̻̙̦͔̬̲͍̦̟̥̖̠̦͙̘́͘ͅ.
But.
You force yourself to concentrate on the voices, to wrench yourself away—you can hear it, the single louder voice that drowns out all the others in the very specific spot that you stand.
One last thing remains. You must let go of it.
It comes to you, what you must do. You turn around, face what’s behind you, and walk toward it.
In the middle of the massive ring of... no, that’s a mistake. Focus. In the middle of the ring, the low water on the ground hits a steep drop, vanishing into a pit of—
...nothing.
It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. In fact, you don’t know how long you stand, staring into it, listening to the rush of the vanishing water. But eventually, you remember that you have a purpose. And the first of it is to cast off the last burden keeping you from it.
You speak your name—
K̡̲̙̜͇ͫ̓͐ͮ̂̐͒̂̀ͪ̇͊eͬ͂ͭ̓͐ͯ̾̀̏̇̍̆̽ͨ̇͏̱̞̪͔̖̯̼͎̫̼͙̜͇͚̹̯͟s̿̆̄͋̎ͣ̿͑͆̄ͥ̂ͤ̓̀͗ͮ̀́͏͕̤̞̯́͟ţ͉̮͎͕̺̦̙̰̲̝̳̗̉ͮ͋̅ͨ̓ͧ̉͛̕͢͠ř̡̨̨̥͓͉͓̗͉̳̭͈̜̫͛ͯ̅̅ͬͧ̌̎̊͆͆̑ͤͫ̂̚̚̕͠e̵̡̬̩̤̩̯̫̦̳̳̹͎̮̘̟͗̿̍̀̓͑̃͋̑̊ͫͥ̇̓̓̈́̃́͠ļ̸̃̇̍̈̈́ͤ͆͏͈͈̦͙̟̮̠͕̦͙͚̰̼͖̬ͅ ̴͎̜̝̖̙̦̖͎̾̏ͮ̃̎̾̔ͬͣ̃ͭ̃̇́͡ͅͅS̶͉̙͖͊̔̊ͪ̽̿́t̹̱̬̜̟̯ͤͮͬ̊ͮ̐̈́͑̍ͭ̑̒̂ͬͮ̏͟r̸̗͇̹͙̥̪͔͉̲̿ͥ͋̽̇͂́̀̚i̗̙̬͈̯͉͓͍̠̠̩̦̇ͪ͆̌̿́̈́̚͘͞k̵̘͎̗͕͖̣̻͓̦͇̮ͩ̑̈ͨ̐̀͟e̴̛̝̤̣̦͇͓͇͇̩̩̩̞̱̣͓̪̽ͬͭ̓̏̈̿ͮͨ́̚͢ͅs̢̹̺̦͇̣̯͔͈̹̊ͣ͛ͩ̇͟͞ ̄͂̉ͬ̊ͪ̔̓ͤͮ̈̀́͏̙̹̩͕̱ͅa̢̿̽̐͠҉̮̼͎̹͔͘t̴̗̰͓̰̩͚̺̙̼̙̂͗̓͂̑͆͒ͨ͗̐ͫͪͤ́͊̄̐ͮ͘͢ͅ ̴̷̗͍̠̟ͫͯͤ̂̿̅ͨͦ͗͑̃̿̓̋̾́̚͢͠Ť̛̽ͦͣͦ̓́͛͌ͧ̄̍͒̚͞҉̼̥̗͓͇͈w̨͙̱̳̹͕̰̲͙͉̞̅̏̋̐̾ͥͫ̓̐ͦ͛ͧ́ĭ̛̙̘̤̩̘̲̫̙̳̤̝̤̫̹͕͇̲̂͒͆̓̈ͮ̀̉͂ͫ̽̇̒̚ͅl̬̱͎͕̾̐̃̍ͭ̇́ͭ̽ͥ͒̿̅̐͌ͯ͊́̚͡i̾̄͂̒͑̀͐̓̑̓ͬ́ͤ͐̂̈́̚͜͏̥̠̗̭͎̼͚̬̳͇̙̖͔̺͟ͅͅg̣̳̲͚̳͕̱̱̻̞͍̜̦̟͚̭͔̜ͯ̉ͭ̃̓ͥ͜͡͝h͗̆̌̈́̇̒͏̵̨҉̩͈̻̥̤͇t̷̴͕̞̥͓͚͍͙͍͖̝̃̐ͬ̔̍͌̽̓ͥ̐̆̓̆͋ͤ̉͜͟
Or, you don’t. The sound is garbled, swallowed, vanishes, leaving only the ghost of its memory on your tongue. You don’t miss it.
After some time—you’re not sure how much—there’s the muffled sound of footsteps through the water behind you.
“Welcome,” says the voice that spoke to you, in your last moments. “Come with me. We have much work to do.”
Notable
That's probably fine, though.