had consumed Rayne’s mind, and were the
scars the Envoy’s flaying intellect had left.
Tarke knew the
horror of her mind’s emptiness, which the ship described as
absence. There was a subtle difference between a naturally empty
space and one that was normally occupied. The sensation of howling
vacancy he had experienced was the result of her mind’s lack of
presence, and another’s mind could be pulled into the yawning abyss
that longed to be filled. Tarke found this confusing until
Scrysalza explained that the Envoy’s scars included a heightening
of her natural empathy that sucked in the emotional presence of
another, feeding on it as the Envoy had done.
Envoys,
confined to an existence of sensory and emotional deprivation, had
evolved to enjoy the pain of others, their favourite sensation.
During her battle with the Envoy, Rayne had been forced to mirror
his weapons and turn them against him, reflecting his pleasure at
her pain, which had poisoned him. That had caused her to burn new
pathways in her brain, which she had become lost in when she had
dragged her enemy down with her. Now Scrysalza had to find her
dormant mind and bring it back into the familiar realm of
awareness, a difficult task. It would be like bringing her to the
surface of a black pool at whose bottom she had lain for five
years.
Two days later,
Rayne coughed while Tarke was giving her water, and his heart
leapt. He called her name, but she sank back into her quiet pool.
The next day, she blinked when he lowered her into the lake to
bathe her and flinched when he stroked her cheek, but once again
she slipped away after a few minutes.
Scrysalza
claimed that it was like dragging a reluctant animal from its den.
Rayne’s fear made her long to stay in the dark silence of her
deepest lair, shunning the light of consciousness that held so many
dangers. The following day, she flinched when he spoke her name and
opened her eyes for a moment before sinking back into her coma.
Tarke longed to send his mind in after her, but Scrysalza
admonished him to be patient, for to rush such a delicate matter
could do irreparable harm.
For the next
four days, Rayne had brief episodes of consciousness, each one a
little longer than the last. During the fourth one, she stayed
awake for several minutes, gazing into space, her eyes unfocussed.
She flinched when he spoke and blinked when he stroked her face,
but no awareness entered her eyes. The ship informed him that there
was a distinct possibility that, even once awakened, she might
never be the same again, perhaps damaged or insane. It continued to
nudge her towards the light, however, like a mother whale raising
her new-born calf to the air.
Tarke lay
beside Rayne and stroked her arm, willing her to awaken. He had
lost count of the days now, but he had decided to remain here for
as long as it took.
Rayne opened
her eyes and focussed on him, looking dazed. His heart pounded as a
pang of joy and hope shot through him. He spent many hours each day
either massaging her limbs or stroking her skin, for tactile
sensation was important in the battle to bring her out of her dark
place. He took hold of her arms and called her name, afraid she
would slip away again. She gasped and flinched, her eyes roaming
over his face. He smiled, but her eyes closed, and he patted her
cheek to try to keep her awake, aware of the ship warning him to be
gentle. He wanted to, but the prospect of losing her again, even
for another day, was unbearable.
“Rayne! Come
on, stay with me. Don’t go, please. It’s all right. You’re safe.
I’m safe. Snap out of it now. Rayne...”
Her eyes opened
again, and she swallowed, gazing at him with a puzzled expression.
Tarke cupped her face, stroked her hair and called her name over
and over again to try to hold her attention. Her eyes drifted
closed again, as if she was immensely tired, and he pulled her into
his arms, begging her to stay with him.
Tarke’s
heartfelt pleading
scars the Envoy’s flaying intellect had left.
Tarke knew the
horror of her mind’s emptiness, which the ship described as
absence. There was a subtle difference between a naturally empty
space and one that was normally occupied. The sensation of howling
vacancy he had experienced was the result of her mind’s lack of
presence, and another’s mind could be pulled into the yawning abyss
that longed to be filled. Tarke found this confusing until
Scrysalza explained that the Envoy’s scars included a heightening
of her natural empathy that sucked in the emotional presence of
another, feeding on it as the Envoy had done.
Envoys,
confined to an existence of sensory and emotional deprivation, had
evolved to enjoy the pain of others, their favourite sensation.
During her battle with the Envoy, Rayne had been forced to mirror
his weapons and turn them against him, reflecting his pleasure at
her pain, which had poisoned him. That had caused her to burn new
pathways in her brain, which she had become lost in when she had
dragged her enemy down with her. Now Scrysalza had to find her
dormant mind and bring it back into the familiar realm of
awareness, a difficult task. It would be like bringing her to the
surface of a black pool at whose bottom she had lain for five
years.
Two days later,
Rayne coughed while Tarke was giving her water, and his heart
leapt. He called her name, but she sank back into her quiet pool.
The next day, she blinked when he lowered her into the lake to
bathe her and flinched when he stroked her cheek, but once again
she slipped away after a few minutes.
Scrysalza
claimed that it was like dragging a reluctant animal from its den.
Rayne’s fear made her long to stay in the dark silence of her
deepest lair, shunning the light of consciousness that held so many
dangers. The following day, she flinched when he spoke her name and
opened her eyes for a moment before sinking back into her coma.
Tarke longed to send his mind in after her, but Scrysalza
admonished him to be patient, for to rush such a delicate matter
could do irreparable harm.
For the next
four days, Rayne had brief episodes of consciousness, each one a
little longer than the last. During the fourth one, she stayed
awake for several minutes, gazing into space, her eyes unfocussed.
She flinched when he spoke and blinked when he stroked her face,
but no awareness entered her eyes. The ship informed him that there
was a distinct possibility that, even once awakened, she might
never be the same again, perhaps damaged or insane. It continued to
nudge her towards the light, however, like a mother whale raising
her new-born calf to the air.
Tarke lay
beside Rayne and stroked her arm, willing her to awaken. He had
lost count of the days now, but he had decided to remain here for
as long as it took.
Rayne opened
her eyes and focussed on him, looking dazed. His heart pounded as a
pang of joy and hope shot through him. He spent many hours each day
either massaging her limbs or stroking her skin, for tactile
sensation was important in the battle to bring her out of her dark
place. He took hold of her arms and called her name, afraid she
would slip away again. She gasped and flinched, her eyes roaming
over his face. He smiled, but her eyes closed, and he patted her
cheek to try to keep her awake, aware of the ship warning him to be
gentle. He wanted to, but the prospect of losing her again, even
for another day, was unbearable.
“Rayne! Come
on, stay with me. Don’t go, please. It’s all right. You’re safe.
I’m safe. Snap out of it now. Rayne...”
Her eyes opened
again, and she swallowed, gazing at him with a puzzled expression.
Tarke cupped her face, stroked her hair and called her name over
and over again to try to hold her attention. Her eyes drifted
closed again, as if she was immensely tired, and he pulled her into
his arms, begging her to stay with him.
Tarke’s
heartfelt pleading
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