At 7 years old, Erelinn Erebos accidentally created a pocket dimension and trapped herself in it. When Erelinn was 13, Maris fell prey to her unintentional trap and joined her.
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Erelinn is 10 years old. She has spent 3 years in this prison she made herself. The walls are covered in her scribbles, the floor is covered in stones, some sharp and jagged, some rounded, evidence of the countless hours of magic that have proved useless to save her from her own mistake. She lay down on the ground, not bothering to move the stones aside. They press into her skin and she stays still, letting them dig in painfully. She has done everything she can think of. She has screamed at every god she’s ever heard of and then some. She is exhausted. She is out of ideas. She is out of hope.
She is done. She lays there, staring up at the bare ceiling, too far out of reach to paint. There are some spots on it, from where she has thrown paint up, nicks and dents and specks of color. She closes her eyes and makes a decision. She will show the gods one last show of strength. She will lay here, perfectly still, until she disappears. Maybe that could deem her worth saving. Probably not. But at least she will leave this world poised as a princess ought to be. Her mother could be proud of her, if she knew. Of course she never will. So it doesn’t really matter how she goes. But she has to do something, so she will do this. She will lay here, unmoving, until the universe lets her go.
She does not count the hours. She closes her eyes and runs back through every memory she has. She’s heard this is what happens before people die. Their life replays before their eyes. It’s her way of preparing. It confirms her worst fears. She cannot remember her mother’s face. She cannot remember the scent of her father. She remembers describing it to him once, telling him he smells like the fire just after it’s burned out, but she cannot remember what that meant. The world is too far away for her to reach any piece of it.
She does not know how long she lays down. She stays still, even when she feels her head itch, even when her feet go numb, even when her stomach growls so loudly that it echoes in the empty room. She lays there until she does not have the energy to get up even if she wanted to. Until her mind cannot form words, until all she knows is the growl in her stomach that is begging her to get up. But she will not give in to it.
She should’ve died then. She wanted to. She was determined to.
But when her conscious mind grows too exhausted to work anymore, her instincts kick in and she doesn’t have the energy to stop it. Water drips onto her face. Her mouth opens before she can stop herself, letting it drip down into her parched throat. She clamps her lips shut firmly, but her magic has never let her destroy herself. Everything else maybe, but there is something inside her determined for her to live and she cannot kill it, no matter how hard she tries. She feels the dripping water spread, raining down on her body. She stays still as she feels water lapping against her fingers, the soaked carpet beneath her separating from her skin as the water lifts her up. She floats until she feels the bridge of her nose pressing against the ceiling. And then she pulls her arms in, forcing herself to sink. She keeps her lips firmly shut, refusing to breathe. Surely this is the end. The water she summoned to save her will kill her. It would be too perfect. The final proof that her power was always going to destroy her, that every attempt she made towards salvation would only ruin her more. She opens her mouth, willing the water to flow into her lungs, choking her. It starts to and she feels a terrifying sense of relief. Her body is fighting against her, trying to push herself up and she is out of energy to quell her instincts but a voice in the back of her mind says it’s ok. The water reaches the ceiling; there is nowhere to go. She will drown no matter what. There is nothing she can do to save herself now.
So she gives in and pushes herself up, breaking through the surface of the water and gasping for air before she realizes what has happened. She opens her eyes, her vision blurry after so many days keeping them shut. The dark spots clear slowly and she watches as the water slowly drains out through the windows, disappearing into the darkness outside. She goes back underwater, holding her breath, trying to sink again, but soon it is too shallow for her to stay under. She kneels on the floor, every muscle in her body exhausted. She falls down onto her side, her knees curled up against her chest and screams until her voice gives out. She falls asleep there, curled up on the wet carpet.
She dreams of a feast, in the hall back home in the castle. She opens her eyes to find a pile of fruit and seeds scattered on the floor in front of her. She is still half-asleep, still at the dreamt table she barely remembers sitting at. She reaches out and picks up the first thing her hand touches, puts it into her mouth. It tastes like heaven. Maybe, she thinks as she grabs another, she is finally dead. After all, this is far too good to have come from her own power. She eats mindlessly, moving her arm back and forth from the pile to her mouth without thinking, drifting in and out of sleep, her parents’ blurred faces smiling at her across the table. She eats until the floor is empty and her stomach full, then falls back asleep.
The next time she wakes up the floor is dry and her stomach is no longer growling. She sits up, looking around, part of her hoping that she will find herself back home, part of her hoping she’ll find herself somewhere else entirely, somewhere the living don’t go. But she is still in the dismal imitation of her old room, alone with the darkness outside her windows.
It was the first time she really tried to die. It was not the last. But it was her most diligent attempt.
And when she came out of it alive, she cried. Because she had failed even at this. The last shred of hope she’d held onto, even when she’d given up on going home, was that there might be another way to escape. A more final one. And now even that was gone.
She was ten years old when she gave up on everything. It was a sad start of a sad three years, a time she can hardly remember, though the walls prove she got at least a little better at drawing. Practice will do that, even when it’s unintentional.
That was how Maris found her. A girl without hope, far too young to be that devastated, too long gone to imagine anything else. Sometimes he looks at her and he still sees that girl. It still scares him as much as it did the first time.
Sometimes she still looks at herself and sees that girl. Sometimes she thinks that’s all she’ll ever be.
Sometimes, in her happiest moments, she remembers the thought that stuck in her mind that year. That she had begged the gods to save her, offered up anything and everything. And she lived.
Was that the trade she’d made? Hope for her life? It scares her, every time she feels herself looking forward to anything good. If that was the trade she made, then she can’t afford to hope for anything. Not if she wants to keep the life she fought so damn hard to keep.
