8 July 2012
Ryu strained against the magic-woven metal that held him on the cold, stone floor of the Princess' dungeon. No amount of pleading from Tyuman or Mira could make him stop. The chains uprooted his blue scales and cut deep into his skin and muscle beneath.
In a way it was calming, at least he had control over this. At least he was not doomed to lie motionless while the world carried on without him.
Raoul's small, dark mouse eyes constantly searched for his in a silent, begging plea for him to release his fight. Even Mira's magpie-Image, Pirr, slipped through the bars to comfort him. The Magic Weaver attempted spell after spell, but none had any power - they were just words.
Tyuman's pool of magic was hidden from him by weakness, potions and torture. Mira tried to suggest that he avoid the drugged food, in order to regain his contact with the magic long enough for his spells to work.
Pirr even carried pieces of her bread over to the old man as a replacement, but it didn't work - even Mira's food was laced. And without sustenance Tyuman grew too weak to survive the Princess' relentless torture regime.
He was impressed with the hand-girl, she had not cried, she did not weep, even in her dreams she did not call out for her lost love.
Though she whispered one night, across the cool green-lit dungeon, "Mónne must find out where we are, and when he does he will come."
Tyuman did not want to crush her fragile hopes, just as his hopes of Joha's return were laid bare, naked and rotting in the corner of his cell. He wished for a sliver of daylight, just to know that the realm still existed beyond these walls.
Raoul often explored the confines of the dungeon, he visited every cell to search for some opening to the outside world. He slipped past the guards on occasion, but could not find the other end of the corridor beyond. Magic was knitted into the walls, old magic meant to keep in prisoners. Tyuman silently cursed himself for being so good at his job all those years ago, when the Princess' father still had use of him.
A thought flickered dimly at the back of the old Magic Weaver's mind, making Raoul look at him with a small squeak. A tendril of gold seeped out from the mental pool inside Tyuman's mind, it wrapped around the thought; holding it tightly, making it grow.
Then suddenly it burst from the old man in a flurry of words and emotion, the spell took on a life of its own - whizzing through the air before shattering into a thousand golden sparks that sunk into the walls with a faint crackle.
Tyuman dropped to his knees with a gasp. Something cracked.
The Image Realm | 6 • Opuss № I