TiHerbert
“How long does that usually take?”
He watched the creature scurry away, and then stared off into space, not looking at Twain. It was unspoken that Twain understood what he was going through, and that it had truly been him in that vivid dream, if one could call that experience of shared consciousness so. He feared the innumerable alternatives that didn’t bear thinking about.
A stiffness pervaded Herbert, and his vision was pulsating, the darkness at the edge of his vision ebbing and flowing, so that at times he could not see more than a few inches in front of his nose. In those instances, he was blessed; it hid apparitions, creatures made from floating spider silk and barely-fogged glass. They resembled human forms, in most cases, and faded in and out of the world, sometimes phasing through the room and the people in it, and sometimes they just stood. Their faces were indiscrete; Herbert could not tell if they were looking at or away from him. Whispers hung like cobwebs in the air, too faint and tangled to understand. He shivered.
“I am not overly fond of this.” He whispered on the barest of breaths, his own voice joining the hush, mixing with it, and forming an amalgam of sorts.
Louder voices, real voices, shattered the whispers, and chased them away until Herbert might find silence again. Dimitri's and Twain's. Herbert was beginning to accept the arcane and secret world unveiled to him, and he was not sure what that meant for his sanity. The recent experiences were irrefutable and too vivid, and had made his mind more open and plastic; clearly there were forces greater than science. That realisation seemed dully familiar, and reminded his of a dark-bound tome…
A hand on his shoulder and deafening clamour. It was Dimitri, but then his face warped, and his clothes melted and reshaped, and copper tufts spread in clumps until a ragged mop was covering his head. A fervent and angry face filled his vision, all frown lines and shining eyes.
“We’re so close Herbert, why do you want to give up now?”
“It’s… it’s inhumane.” That was his voice. He remembered.
“So is what we aim to achieve; above man, above even God. Do not worry for your humanity, you’ve already sacrificed it coming this far, turning back now would mean all has been in vain.”
Air! Herbert sucked it in, in a shallow gasp, and then bigger, steadier breaths.
He remembered. A little at least, and it rattled him.
Dimitri was there still, and the parts of Herbert’s brain that had been in reality related what had been said to his consciousness. He realised he should say something, or they’d think him psychotic.
“Then you have my deepest gratitude.”
Herbert thought he was dealing with this all rather well. Perhaps it was the incentive; Herbert was a smart man, and not blind to the possibilities that has presented themselves. Or perhaps it was that part of him had been changed, corrupted maybe.
The monk left.
“I wouldn’t mind some tea,” Herbert said, mainly to Twain. He turned to face the man, and noticed for the first time, thing wisps of complete and utter darkness burning off him, licks of black flame. The corner of Herbert’s mouth twitch and his eyes flitted ever so quickly to look Twain up and down.
“Then after the meeting, perhaps we can talk?”
“How long does that usually take?”
He watched the creature scurry away, and then stared off into space, not looking at Twain. It was unspoken that Twain understood what he was going through, and that it had truly been him in that vivid dream, if one could call that experience of shared consciousness so. He feared the innumerable alternatives that didn’t bear thinking about.
A stiffness pervaded Herbert, and his vision was pulsating, the darkness at the edge of his vision ebbing and flowing, so that at times he could not see more than a few inches in front of his nose. In those instances, he was blessed; it hid apparitions, creatures made from floating spider silk and barely-fogged glass. They resembled human forms, in most cases, and faded in and out of the world, sometimes phasing through the room and the people in it, and sometimes they just stood. Their faces were indiscrete; Herbert could not tell if they were looking at or away from him. Whispers hung like cobwebs in the air, too faint and tangled to understand. He shivered.
“I am not overly fond of this.” He whispered on the barest of breaths, his own voice joining the hush, mixing with it, and forming an amalgam of sorts.
Louder voices, real voices, shattered the whispers, and chased them away until Herbert might find silence again. Dimitri's and Twain's. Herbert was beginning to accept the arcane and secret world unveiled to him, and he was not sure what that meant for his sanity. The recent experiences were irrefutable and too vivid, and had made his mind more open and plastic; clearly there were forces greater than science. That realisation seemed dully familiar, and reminded his of a dark-bound tome…
A hand on his shoulder and deafening clamour. It was Dimitri, but then his face warped, and his clothes melted and reshaped, and copper tufts spread in clumps until a ragged mop was covering his head. A fervent and angry face filled his vision, all frown lines and shining eyes.
“We’re so close Herbert, why do you want to give up now?”
“It’s… it’s inhumane.” That was his voice. He remembered.
“So is what we aim to achieve; above man, above even God. Do not worry for your humanity, you’ve already sacrificed it coming this far, turning back now would mean all has been in vain.”
Air! Herbert sucked it in, in a shallow gasp, and then bigger, steadier breaths.
He remembered. A little at least, and it rattled him.
Dimitri was there still, and the parts of Herbert’s brain that had been in reality related what had been said to his consciousness. He realised he should say something, or they’d think him psychotic.
“Then you have my deepest gratitude.”
Herbert thought he was dealing with this all rather well. Perhaps it was the incentive; Herbert was a smart man, and not blind to the possibilities that has presented themselves. Or perhaps it was that part of him had been changed, corrupted maybe.
The monk left.
“I wouldn’t mind some tea,” Herbert said, mainly to Twain. He turned to face the man, and noticed for the first time, thing wisps of complete and utter darkness burning off him, licks of black flame. The corner of Herbert’s mouth twitch and his eyes flitted ever so quickly to look Twain up and down.
“Then after the meeting, perhaps we can talk?”