91 of Summer, 517 AV
Aislyn sat bolt upright in bed, one hand clawing at her throat as the air escaped her chest. Her head jerked forward, chopped brown hair lurching forward with the rest of her body. There was a brief moment of weightlessness before the illusionist came to a scientifically sound conclusion.
Aislyn Azura Leavold was dying a slow and painful death.
She had been for the past three days.
Running clammy hands against bloodshot eyes, Aislyn tried to remember if it really had been three days, or if it had been two. Perhaps four, maybe more. It could have been seasons, and she'd have been none the wiser. She counted the days by the number of times she woke up to see the sun in the east. Which, given she had lost all sense of the unequivocal progression of time by the dawn of the second day, was a rather unreliable measure. And besides, the number of times she had regained consciousness from fitful sleep must have far outnumbered the number of days that had passed.
Pulling her hands from her face, Aislyn blearily looked about the room. It was dark, the curtains still drawn. The only light was a single candle, sitting precariously on the post of her bed. Leaning forward, Aislyn reached for it. She herself couldn't have left it there; it made no sense. Any source of light would do her no good next to her bed, it better served its purpose on the table, by her journal- still open to the last entry she’d made.
Aislyn had taken to writing symptoms in her journal. She wasn’t sure what else she could do. She slept. A lot. But that was the same as her average slump. The only difference now was that the ball and chain was physical, rather than mental. She wrote of small insect bites, as the illness started. Small insect bites on her ankles, which turned into rashes, which turned into fire, all along her legs. Then the fire turned into spasms.
Spasms that occasionally caused the woman to seize upon waking, which caused her hand to drop the precariously balanced candle onto the freshly kicked off sheets.
It was in that moment that Aislyn learned precisely the speed at which fire spread. Across the sheets, across the wooden frame, onto the walls where two decades of parchment lined the walls. Sketches, drawings, paintings, artwork from before she could walk to just a few days before. A fire that burned her legs, her arms, her heart and her mind.
Until for the second time that morning, Aislyn woke up, grasping at her throat and clawing at her face. Hallucinations. That was something new to write in her notebook. She'd been barely functioning before, but this was a new low. Even worse, she wasn't even certain it was the sickness that was fraying her mind. She'd returned to surviving on Sirencestine, an addiction she'd told herself in winter she'd quit by spring, then in spring that she'd quit by summer. Now, it was nearly fall.
Grasping the post of her bed with knuckles turned white, Aislyn pulled herself up. Her head reeled with the movement, but she persisted past the spots in her vision and pounding in her skull. Up, to the foot of the bed. Up, to the table. Up, to her near-empty canteen and bottoms up to the vial of Sirencestine beside it.
Not a tick passed before Aislyn rushed to the corner of the one-room abode where her chamberpot resided and retched up what liquid has managed to stay in her stomach. A darkness filled the corner of her vision as she fell against the wall for stability. This was it. She was going to die. Right here, in her own home. Completely and utterly alone.
There was a knock at the door.
A light knock, but enough to make Aislyn jump out of her skin. The illusionist stumbled to the window, not even bothering with the mirrored contraption as she just barely parted the curtains to find out who her visitor was. A bright eyed, red haired youth had arrived on her doorstep expectantly, and Aislyn almost wished he hadn't.
Perhaps a bit more lethargically than usual, “Maya” materialized. Blue, unburdened eyes. Clear, scarless skin. Hair, unmatted and blonde. Her mind might not be playing the part, but her body, at least, looked perfectly healthy. Even as she struggled to grasp the handle and leaned against the doorframe for support, Aislyn was determined to greet her guest.
She was still going to die, but it appeared she would not, in fact, be dying alone.
Aislyn Azura Leavold was dying a slow and painful death.
She had been for the past three days.
Running clammy hands against bloodshot eyes, Aislyn tried to remember if it really had been three days, or if it had been two. Perhaps four, maybe more. It could have been seasons, and she'd have been none the wiser. She counted the days by the number of times she woke up to see the sun in the east. Which, given she had lost all sense of the unequivocal progression of time by the dawn of the second day, was a rather unreliable measure. And besides, the number of times she had regained consciousness from fitful sleep must have far outnumbered the number of days that had passed.
Pulling her hands from her face, Aislyn blearily looked about the room. It was dark, the curtains still drawn. The only light was a single candle, sitting precariously on the post of her bed. Leaning forward, Aislyn reached for it. She herself couldn't have left it there; it made no sense. Any source of light would do her no good next to her bed, it better served its purpose on the table, by her journal- still open to the last entry she’d made.
Aislyn had taken to writing symptoms in her journal. She wasn’t sure what else she could do. She slept. A lot. But that was the same as her average slump. The only difference now was that the ball and chain was physical, rather than mental. She wrote of small insect bites, as the illness started. Small insect bites on her ankles, which turned into rashes, which turned into fire, all along her legs. Then the fire turned into spasms.
Spasms that occasionally caused the woman to seize upon waking, which caused her hand to drop the precariously balanced candle onto the freshly kicked off sheets.
It was in that moment that Aislyn learned precisely the speed at which fire spread. Across the sheets, across the wooden frame, onto the walls where two decades of parchment lined the walls. Sketches, drawings, paintings, artwork from before she could walk to just a few days before. A fire that burned her legs, her arms, her heart and her mind.
Until for the second time that morning, Aislyn woke up, grasping at her throat and clawing at her face. Hallucinations. That was something new to write in her notebook. She'd been barely functioning before, but this was a new low. Even worse, she wasn't even certain it was the sickness that was fraying her mind. She'd returned to surviving on Sirencestine, an addiction she'd told herself in winter she'd quit by spring, then in spring that she'd quit by summer. Now, it was nearly fall.
Grasping the post of her bed with knuckles turned white, Aislyn pulled herself up. Her head reeled with the movement, but she persisted past the spots in her vision and pounding in her skull. Up, to the foot of the bed. Up, to the table. Up, to her near-empty canteen and bottoms up to the vial of Sirencestine beside it.
Not a tick passed before Aislyn rushed to the corner of the one-room abode where her chamberpot resided and retched up what liquid has managed to stay in her stomach. A darkness filled the corner of her vision as she fell against the wall for stability. This was it. She was going to die. Right here, in her own home. Completely and utterly alone.
There was a knock at the door.
A light knock, but enough to make Aislyn jump out of her skin. The illusionist stumbled to the window, not even bothering with the mirrored contraption as she just barely parted the curtains to find out who her visitor was. A bright eyed, red haired youth had arrived on her doorstep expectantly, and Aislyn almost wished he hadn't.
Perhaps a bit more lethargically than usual, “Maya” materialized. Blue, unburdened eyes. Clear, scarless skin. Hair, unmatted and blonde. Her mind might not be playing the part, but her body, at least, looked perfectly healthy. Even as she struggled to grasp the handle and leaned against the doorframe for support, Aislyn was determined to greet her guest.
She was still going to die, but it appeared she would not, in fact, be dying alone.
