I taste a blend of mint and metal, earth and unripe summer berries. His skin carries the weight of centuries, a tapestry woven with longing and waiting. Mikhael, the Mist, the battle cries—all of it recedes. Nothing exists but the man before me. The pressure of his grip intensifies on my nape, and his tongue finds mine once more. A part of me recognizes him, as though his taste and scent were fragments from my past. Still, I do not know him at all.
I find myself straddling two realms. One foot is grounded in the chill of reality—Mikhael's hands on my shoulders, his voice barely penetrating my consciousness. The other foot is mired in this realm of darkness intermingled with yearning. I strive to move, to escape his hold, but he tightens his grasp, one hand on my nape, the other coiled around my waist, anchoring me in place. I summon all my strength and push against him, gaining just enough space to maneuver out of his clutches.
"I don't know you," I assert, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"But you do," he counters. His voice rings clear, akin to a bubbling brook meandering through snow-kissed landscapes. Yet, it carries an undercurrent of death and fire.
Shaking my head, I take a cautious step backward.
"Why am I here?"
"I've waited for this reunion, for us to be together once more. Haven't you longed for me? I promised you that I would wait," he murmurs, closing the distance between us. I retreat, my head still shaking, a silent plea to return to my body. Mikhael's calls grow louder in the background.
The man makes a face, as if he, too, perceives Mikhael's escalating cries. His features remain exquisite, yet a trace of distaste mars his beauty. "What a loud and annoying man," he quips, his gaze fixed on me.
"I must return. I don't care about how I got here or why. I don't know you, and I certainly haven't waited for you. Send me back!" My voice emerges stronger than I anticipated. The stranger scrutinizes me. "Hello? Can you not understand what I'm saying?" He gnaws on one of his claw-like nails as if mulling over a response. But in an instant, I'm yanked back into my body, a violent force that propels bile up my throat. I narrowly miss Mikhael's lap as I vomit onto the ground.
For a moment, I'm disconnected from reality, a sensation that my body isn't truly mine. The man from the abyss feels like a distant dream, a memory fragment forged in darkness. A hand rests on my back, and panic flares at the touch. I scramble to my feet, unsheathing my sword, locking eyes with Mikhael, his expression a mosaic of astonishment as I press the blade to his throat. A fire rushes through me, wild and untamed. My grip on the knife remains unyielding, the blade's edge poised at his skin. He does not avert his gaze, and just as I prepare to press harder, to break through his flesh, something like a gust of wind sweeps through me - releasing into the air.
The grip on my knife relinquishes, and I slump to my knees before Mikhael. The battle rages on behind us—metal clashing against metal, inhuman howls and screams, the resonance of potent spells. The sky once again ignites with hues of green and orange. I touch Mikhael's neck where the blade had rested a moment ago, feeling the trickle of blood wet my fingers.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I apologize..." I repeat, my voice a broken refrain, fumbling in my knapsack for a scrap of linen to bind around his neck. Mikhael has yet to utter a word. Is he waiting for me to regain my composure, or is his silence a mirror of my shock?
Tears scald my cheeks, mingling with the emptiness in my left eye that longs to weep as well.
"You were only gone for a brief moment," he finally speaks, his voice softer, transformed from its usual timbre. "''Twas as if you had left your body, not died, but... as though your soul wandered elsewhere." I struggle to articulate the reality of what transpired. I part my lips to relay the tale just as a colossal explosion echoes behind the inn. We both turn toward the source of the fray, encountering naught but fireflies in the dark—a constellation of stars suspended midair, painted in hues of blue, white, and yellow. The source exudes power, pure magic—an ancient force.
I have never felt power like that of a half-deity before.
A sudden downpour erupts from the cloudy midnight sky, a thick silence falling over us. Mikhael's hand clasps my wrist, propelling me to my feet. "We should go," he intones, and we flee. Like thieves. Like murderers. Like everything the Book loves to call me.
--
We seek refuge from the relentless, icy rain in a small cave. My body shivers as I find leaves and twigs to start a fire—a meager attempt to ward off the encroaching chill and prevent illness. Rifling through my soaked knapsack, I grasp the Book, its vibrations resonating through my touch. Mikhael immediately eying it, although his expression reveals nothing of his thoughts. Perhaps it's as enigmatic to him as it is to me. He shuffles closer as I kindle the flames, our drenched bodies pressed together. His shallow breaths mirror my own, his body shivering at the same pace as mine
"We need to get out of these wet clothes," I suggest. Mikhael regards me as though I've invoked an ancestral curse upon him. "You'll fall ill if you don't warm up. As a healer, you should know this."
"I'm also a murderer," he responds, gesturing to the bandage encircling his neck. "And a victim of your violent blackouts." His tone carries a hardness, a sense of distance.
"I know," I murmur, guilt gnawing at me as I avoid his gaze.
"What happened to you after we left the inn?" Mikhael's eyes lock onto mine, then shift toward the Book. It rests in plain view on a rock, nestled among my other belongings. The rain failed to drench it, unlike the rest of the knapsack's contents, which seemed to have been submerged in water.
I shake my head, the image of the white-haired man fading, becoming an elusive dream slipping through my grasp. If I clutch it too tightly, it might disappear altogether. The Book had hummed with intrigue at the man. Whatever he was, the Book recognized him, referring to him as Master. A chill snakes down my spine. When I attempted to probe the Book, it had remained uncharacteristically silent, withholding answers as questions multiplied.
Now hushed, it leaves me adrift in a sea of questions. Mikhael rubs his hands together, drawing closer to the modest fire.
"The Book," I begin but halt, realizing I've not divulged my ability to hear it. Does he already know? He's aware of the bond forged with blood and murder—perhaps more than that. Clearing my throat does nothing to dispel the chattering of my teeth, my body's persistent shivering.
Surveying the sparse surroundings for more combustible materials—leaves, twigs, a slender branch—the pitiable fire persists. Just as desperation fuels my intention to toss my blade's hilt into the mix, Mikhael plunges his hand into the embers. Upon its withdrawal, his palm is aflame. He raises it to his face, inspecting the flames with a practiced air. Then, he touches his flaming hand to his chest, drawing a deep breath. Smoke coils from his frame, melding with the air as he dries. A sigh of relief escapes him, his eyes lifting to mine.
"Do you want me to do you next?" he inquires, a peculiar choice of words.
"How did you... I've never seen anything like it." His smile, one I've not seen before, accentuates a dimple on his left cheek. Rising to his feet, Mikhael submerges his hand in the embers once more. He glances at me, the flames tracing the contours of his hand as they dance, advancing toward my chest. "The initial sensation can be intense," he cautions, his smile unwavering. As he presses his blazing hand above my breasts, a fire ignites—a fierce, searing agony akin to an inferno, consuming me. I must've contorted my expression, for in an instant, his other hand wraps around my waist. He thrusts the fire deeper into my chest.
Then, pleasure blooms. The fire enfolds me, caresses me, devouring the cold dampness within. It courses through me, a symphony of tingling sensations spanning my being—my abdomen, my limbs, even the hidden crevices between my thighs. The touch feels like Mikhael —his essence saturating my skin, from within. My moan rises unbidden, my body surrendering to the enchantment as it infiltrates every pore. The fire roots itself in my chest, settling there like a smoldering ember, warming me in ways no flame could.
"A trick I picked up during the war," he reveals casually, his arm still encircling my waist. My breath remains heavy, a tantalizing hum lingering at the tip of my tongue. Our gazes lock, and I recognize he's attuned to my response. Teasingly so. His breath ghosts over mine, and I lean in, reminiscent of my proximity to the stranger—whether dream or reality. He tastes of smoke, fire, and sandalwood. Potent, magical.
Mikhael retreats, severing the connection and leaving me bereft. I'm momentarily speechless, longing for his closeness. Then, the fire's warmth within me triggers a seismic awakening—a nightmare's end. My body twists, contorting, and I stumble backward a few paces.
"Spirits! You could've warned me…" I spew forth, spitting on the ground, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Had I wanted it or was it just a remnant of the spell that took hold of me? I've known mages whose magic could inflame passion even in the most unfeeling souls. Is Mikhael one such mage, or... perhaps I am making up excuses.
Mikhael chuckles, his attention shifting from me to the Book. "What do you want to know?" he inquires. I pivot to face him, then divert my gaze to the Book, its pages radiating a faint glow in the pathetic firelight. The rain has subsided at last.
"Everything," I reply, determination ringing in my voice. "I want to know everything."