the_lioness | Alex's nightmare

The heavy iron door slams shut behind you with a definitive clang that leaves no room for doubt; if and when it is opened again, it won't be by your hand. You are trapped until others decree you have fulfilled your obligations to king and country. You have no control over what happens now.

If you die, will anyone care?

Your knees ache from the night long vigil in the Chapel of the Ordeal. You suspect that other Squires use the time to reflect upon their past and anticipate how to survive their Ordeal with honor and dignity. Not you, Alex of Tirragen. Not you. Instead, you ruminate on power, on being the best and on the many promises Duke Roger of Conte has made to you over the years. His seductive voice curls around the dark spots of your memory, infecting your mind with madness and malice.

You contemplate how to hurt all those that dare to stand against you.

The darkness teems with a tangible despair, and your skin begins to crawl. An odd, otherworldy light fills the chamber, and a voice you never thought to hear again haunts your ears. Breath shallow, you turn in circles, hunting the source of that voice. The light resolves into a scene from your youth, one that makes you twitch in reaction. Your father, back recently broken, lies on a window seat and glares at you.

The disappointment in his eyes threatens to flay you alive.

Who are you? I thought I sired a son, not a coward. Do you think sitting here watching you fall down repeatedly makes me proud? Do you think it does my health any good to know that a girl could pick up a sword and run you through? I will NOT have you disgrace the Tirragen name. How can you ever hope to become a knight unless you conquer the blade? The gods saw fit to ruin my body. Don't ruin my good name, boy. Get out there and practice until your hands bleed.

Chilled to the bone, you bite your tongue. If you call out, all your hard work will be for naught. Roger will forsake you, much like you turned your back on your friends.

Your friends. The image of your father fades slowly, the memory of his disparaging gaze searing your brain long after you can no longer see his eyes. Suddenly, you are gripping a sword hilt, the blade resting precariously in the hollow of young Alan's throat. As you turn your head left and right, you see Captain Sklaw, Lord Martin of Meron and your friends, all watching with bated breath. Wait, this is wrong. This is Alan's freestyle sword fight with Geoffrey of Meron. I didn't fight Alan that day. You scan the crowd frantically, finally finding yourself to the left of Prince Jonathan. Arms clasped behind your back, you watch with apparent interest, but something in your eyes reveals the truth. Jealousy. You want to be the one out there proving to the famed Lord Martin how adept you are with a sword. You want to be the best. You deserve to see Captain Sklaw's eyes light up with approval. But Alan won that fight. Why is my sword at his throat? Confused, you blink and try to make the image conform to your memory of that day. Purple eyes stare imploringly at you, and your hands itch to drive the blade home. No, that's not right. I want the pain.

The sword falls to the ground and the chamber goes dark again.

A small flash of light flares before you and gradually spreads until the Chamber is illuminated by hundreds of candles. Roses are everywhere, their petals littering the floor. The scent should smell so sweet... Glancing down, you notice a bottle of wine with a note from Roger that reads: "Alex - for a job well done." You scoop up the bottle and take a long drink, but instead of wine, you taste blood. Sputtering, you throw the bottle against the Chamber door, knocking over an entire row of candles. Fire races up the walls, threatening to engulf you at any moment. Panicked, you race to the door, trying fruitlessly to yank it open. The fire sweeps closer, the heat all but melting the clothes from your body. The fire will consume me. Who will sweep away the ashes?

The cry of terror creeps up your throat before you can stop it. At that moment, something grips your throat and holds your tongue with unshakable determination. You want to cry out, to end this torture, but this unseen force makes it impossible. Collapsing to the ground, you gasp soundlessly for air. The fire vanishes, and the Chamber door swings open. Duke Roger waits on the other side, his eyes bright with triumph. You stumble out of the Chamber and into his waiting arms.

I thought the Chamber couldn't be influenced by outside magic under any circumstances.

He smiles, looking very much like a satisfied cat. Ah, but it wasn't. I was with you. I'm always with you, in your head.

You shake like a newborn foal, your brain telling you this is impossible. Maybe this is still part of the Ordeal, and you are still inside the Chamber.

Maybe you never really left.