Private Curatrix Maledictum: Memories Past

[Empor]

Of all the wicked things taught through the tulmutious nature of Life and Regret, most horrid are those left inconceivable but for the final moments in which the Breath is claimed by Death. A moment of eternity, an act felt heavy enough to mark the mortal soul with Damnation, in a time in which no error made, or sin committed, allow correction, save the hellish path through the Hollows, down the River in which all face purgatory, only to be cast out yet again through means unknown, by the will of thirsting Gods, or an unloving act of the Force, to befall the same, up until the end of Days, never to cease the galactic spins through the emptiness of the Void. It is worst of all, the fate of those cursed with the fate of awakening, those truly resented by the Force, to remain yet unclean, Wicked, through their drowning in the River, or never to reach the shallow waters, for it is them who shall be damned still, to remember actions never corrected in lives never completed.

The limbs twitched without the mind's will to do so, as if protesting to the timeless stay in stagnation and famine, of which no pain nor anguish nor weakness blighted the shell of flesh and bones and mind and Regret. The Onyx walls devoid of carvings or any a decoration, save for the simplicity through which the doorframe of the hall was made. Ceilings high enough, a chandelier made of bones dressed in silver, illuminating the chamber with pale light, offering no sensation to the eye but the unnatural feeling of tranquility, as if the rules of Realspace had never plagued this barren place.

The sarcophagus in which she lied was placed in the middle of the chamber, the centre of a deformed star made of the same pale light the chandelier poured into the chamber. The star on the floor was made by a single line, forming a Seven-pointed Star, allowing contrast to the black Onyx of which the chamber was carved through. Beyond the doorless doorframe, there was light pouring in, hinting to the many chambers that made the labyrinthic halls beyond the chamber. The white cloth had been embracing the woman in the sarcophagus for long enough to have adjusted to her silhouette, while her ashen hair placed freely, immobile and untouched by dust or wind or Breath.

Miniel​

A voice called... Calm and distant, reverberating across the labyrinth as smooth and with as much ease as would the wind in a seaside structure. Faceless. Formless. Heavy with intent.

Miniel​

There was cold, in the chamber. And yet, though all-consuming in the absence of any warmth of flame, that ethereal breeze did not come as unnatural or hostile frost would, upon the flesh of the Living in Realspace...

Miniel​

 

[asara kata]

The vast darkness unfolds even to the deepest edges of the empty space, swallowing everything in its path even the smallest mollecule of dust. Always moving, always existing. When nothing exists any more, the darkness will be there always creepling, always watching. Ready for its next victim to embrace.

And this is exactly what she sees. Darkness. Emptiness. Falling over and over again, screaming with no sound to be heard. Always falling. Over and over she plummets, her long ashen hair streaming upward with the motion, her hands outstretched toward an unseen savior. Trying to survive. But in the Darkness's embrace there is no hand to grab you. Only gravity, forcefully pulling you to the core of fathomless bottom.


Miniel

Again it comes, the same voice, the same tenderness, yet there is no answer.
Only the echo of her own breath, trembling somewhere between fear and longing. The sound fades into the endless void, devoured by the same silence that has claimed everything else.
Then, without warning, the motion ceases.

The air thickens around her, heavy and unmoving, as though the universe itself has forgotten how to breathe. Her hair drifts slowly around her face, suspended in the stillness, each strand glowing faintly against the sea of black. For the first time, she realizes she feels nothing beneath her body, no wind, no pull, no sound.

Time itself seems to hold its breath.
And in that fragile moment of stillness, she opens her eyes wider searching the dark for the source of the voice, for any flicker of light that might give her the unseen savior she so much yearns for.

 

[Empor]

As the palm eclipsed the starless void, the absence of all became so dominant, it grew flesh and bones and mass and will. And as her eyes reached out to the Darkness, in search of reason and purpose and cause, so did the Darkness glared back at her. Beholding her in an eyeless stare, an impatient urge to enact will upon the absence of all, while her body had forsaken any and all sensation, her mind flooded as the ever-present herald of the hereafter approached her in a manner so distant from the material of Realspace, his cosmic essence took a shapeless presence and revealed Himself to her.

Miniel.

Is Dead.

The voice called out from the depths of the labyrinth of her own mind, now a marionette to forces foul and incomperhensible, the experience carried little continuity than that of an amalgam of present, past and future yet. Each moment passing becoming a distant fragment of imagination, too unreal to be a memory.

Distance. Everything was afar. And yet, all was there, with her, in the sarcophagus of Onyx, whirling around her as if she was the bright Core of the galaxy of memories that spinned around a mind lost adrift.

Killed.

Never Learned.

The blood was still warm in her hands, as the body hit the deck. The vibrowblade dripped, as the gaze of the crimson-haired Sith looked up to the Captain, beholding her in awe and disgust.

"Kill them all." she demanded.

The Captain turned to the line of the captives. None wore but a farmer's cloth, or the merchant's garment, or the nurse's suit, so foreign to the warship's deck, surrounded by grim-clad shadows of soldiers, marked by the Winged Skull.

"You are a monster." said the Captain, stepping back, only to befall to the grip of the soldiers behind him.

Bit by bit, the red-haired Sith shattered into black mist. Each of her steps closer to the captives, furthering her descend into the same void that usurped all.

There was Darkness.

Absence.

Entropy.

The Onyx chamber stirred once again. The black mist sliding over the marked floor, forming a phasma of ethereal shroud, barely the height of the sarcophagus.

Ignis.

Ignis.

Ignis.

The voice bellowed. A chorus of indistinguishable echoes grew in the labyrinth beyond the onyx chamber, as if populated by nothing but Ghosts and memories lost in time foreign to this barren place. Into the far distance, somewhere deep in the labyrinth, the screeching of a lightsaber invaded the ghastly ambience, only for a scream to once again banish the disturbance back into the same outworldly stagnation.

Ignis.

Ignis.

Ignis.

 

[asara kata]

Miniel, Ignis...

Names that fade like whispers from an age long past, an era so distant it feels as though it belongs to another life, another dream. They slip through her mind like mist, just beyond the reach of clarity, barely more than shadows of forgotten memories. A fleeting dance of thought, caught in the winds of time before they vanish, as if they never were.

She tries to call them back, to remember, but she’s frozen, suspended in the void, in the Nowhere. A place that exists only in the space between breaths, between moments, where time ceases to flow and yet, she is still falling. Falling, but never moving. Existing, but not truly being. Phasing in and out of presence, like an echo struggling to be heard, yet destined to fade without answer.

The sarcophagus stands in the Onyx room. Its weight not just in stone, but in the silence it carries within, who it carries. The one who once was. The one who has long since faded from memory. The circle begins again. As it always has. As it always will. An eternal recurrence. A cycle unbroken, where each ending births the next beginning, yet none can recall the start of it all.

She tries to remember, as her body weigtless drifts in the frozen time. What was the beginning of it all? When will it end? Now. She just needs to give up. To close her eyes and dream of distant memories. Of dreams before they fade away. Alas, the Darkness has its claws deep inside her skull. Its grasping on it, intertwine its fingers like vines swallowing an old oak tree.
The cold fingers of Death. Its touch, familiar, inevitable. One might imagine the touch of a Brother to be gentle, reassuring,a comfort in the void. But not hers. For her Brother is Death.
And nothing can escape Him. Even her.

She knows not how she came to be here. She cannot recall her face, her name, the shape of her hands or the weight of her body. Time blurs, fractures into a distant fog, and with every descent, it becomes harder to hold onto the fragile threads of her past. The more she falls, the more the details slip through her grasp the once vivid tapestry of who she was,
now unraveled, thread by thread, into nothingness.

 

[Empor]

A moment...

That was all it took.

A moment of Wrath. A moment of Envy. Engulfed in a lifetime of diseased will and blighted cause, crowned by Death.

A moment of Passion. Toyed and deformed, Manipulated and Denied, never mourned by none, but Death.

And all that was, unmade. All that meant, inconsequential. Null. Until the Void swallowed all yet again, rendering the cosmic tails of the Galaxy the sole entity yet enduring, when all others faltered and decayed, in matter and in ether, in a maelstorm of birth and rebirth, purpose and mindless drive.

It was a moment, chosen by thirsting will and ungrateful Gods, that drove His blade through the Fallen's hearts. The moment lived on, haunting the day the War of Wrath became the first Dawn. A moment to cease the sins of old, yet it birthed in their Death a new breed of horrid repetition, which plagued matter and ether without fail...

A moment, driven by passion and Lust, guided the Seven into disunity and discord, up until the Dawn saw a sunrise of blood, and the rays gleamed of divine sacrifice so perfectly commited, the Force herself wept to is repetition.

A moment. That was all it took. And in their Darkness, in their whirl of errors and sins, those who stood Guardians of All, had forsaken that which they held at bay...

The memories spinned, each a life orbiting the bright star of her mind, yet unyielding to the tide of celestial wind and cosmic tempest. Like meteors, the shards of past bombarded her, as if willing to silence the star into oblivion.

Ignis

Is Dead

The voice sounded again. Its influence an anchor, keeping her mind in place from being driven against the rocky shores of Oblivion, carried by the tidal waves of Loss and Regret.

Killed

Never Learned

The timeless Onyx walls sweat with mist of black ether, offering a glimpse of movement to the ever-static hall. Latched on the floor, the mist split, pierced against the light of the blazing star.

Asara

Asara

Asara

The name reverberated in the emptiness of the labyrinth, as if the structure itself refused to let its sound fade into the same nothingness that defined the hellish place. It was in these echoes, fading and distant, the voice shifted. Though faceless and colourless, in a moment, the voice became twisted into an inexplicably calming tone. Its sound a lover's forgotten caress on the flickering light of her soul, as if calling her from a distant lifetime beyond memory or Life.

Forgive me, my Master​

 

[asara kata]

Within the Darkness’s embrace, she is held weightless, suspended in the hush between heartbeats. The void wraps around her like silk spun from shadow, tender yet unrelenting, refusing to let her go. A whisper of nothingness glides across her cheek soft as the breath of a forgotten god, fleeting as a sigh lost to time. It is almost warm, almost real, and yet made of the same emptiness that surrounds her.
Her eyes drift open, glowing faintly against the endless black, searching for the source of that voice, the one that calls from somewhere beyond the veil. The sound ripples through the silence, familiar and distant all at once, carrying something she cannot name.

Is it… a name?

Asara...

And between these two worlds, the silent void and the whisper of something beyond, colliding for what feels like an eternity, she realizes she is not falling.
She is being pulled...
Drawn by an unseen force, gentle yet irresistible, toward a single trembling point in the darkness, a fragile dot of light, so distant it could be a star… or a memory. It flickers softly, a heartbeat in the endless night, calling her closer with every breath she doesn’t take.

She looks around into the vast emptiness of the cosmic chaos, a place both endless and intimate, as if it stretches beyond all creation yet exists entirely within her. She swears she has seen it before, perhaps in a dream, or in the fleeting space between waking and sleep, and as her gaze drifts across the void, she begins to notice something strange. There is movement, faint and uncertain, and for the briefest heartbeat she believes she can see color.
But no, it is not color...

It is something else. Something far older and infinitely more terrifying than the Darkness itself.
It is…

Mist.

It rolls and sways in the void, twisting like a living breath, shimmering faintly with hues that cannot exist, glowing and fading in rhythms that almost seem alive. A mist familiar, perhaps, she cannot say from where, yet her soul recoils in recognition. An omen, a warning, a whisper that something else is here with her… or someone.
The air, if it can be called air, grows heavy and cold, pressing against her skin like the touch of unseen hands. The silence deepens until it hums within her chest, a low, trembling resonance that feels like a heartbeat not her own. And as the mist begins to curl closer, wrapping the edges of her sight, a shiver of dread blooms within her, vast and suffocating ,for in its shifting depths, she can almost sense eyes watching her from afar.

 

[Empor]

Asara

The voice beckoned. A voice twisted, lost in echoes of timeless chains. The corridors of the Onyx labyrinth swell with intent as heavy as the stars offering the galaxy her immortal glaze. Perhaps in the absence of time, any frequency remained pure across the ether, denied the corruption suffered by time, made any and all sparks of existence coexist in a mutual void, fleshless of all but Dreams. What a purer form of existence, save for that in which all wounds of those that is become alive in absence, abstract in design, followed by none and preceded by naught but the void that consist them? It was in these corridors, in the depths of these halls, all purpose or cause, drive or urge, passion or clarity, denied of all corruption, presented themselves in the sole, naked form they emerged from the timeless fountain, crown of the Rift, bane of all but the never-mourned.

Asara

Is Dead

Never Killed

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Steps. Echoes. Dread. The labyrinth stirred again. This time, the star in the Onyx chamber beamed, as the mist was banished from near the sarcophagus.

Asara

The voice formed anew, a melody sung in loss. Crafted from the flawed synchrony of a thousand echoes, casting a reverberation manifested in an abscent wind, driving the labyrinth's will into the chamber. A soft warmth caressed her skin. Something in her abdomen twisted, foreign; Protesting.

Learned

Motherless

In Birth

A cloud of black mist flooded over the edge of the sarcophagus, whirling into form of skeletal hands, holding onto the onyx. Eyes, devoid and despised, the Darkness staring back to the one who lost her gaze in it for too long. The mist thickened. Bones of darkness formed the silhouette of a being that never lived. Timeless, in its deprived existence, His gaze made of a thousand lives lived in Death, until Death became Him, and He was lost between the glyphs of the shard that fell in Defiance and Regret.

Queen of Pyre

Queen of Cinder

Queen of Shadow

Voices called from the labyrinth's depths. Voices in torment. Voices in sorrow. Voices in ecstasy. All dwarfed, mute to the cacophony of the River made in Essense, the One who Walked the Void. Irrespective of all the sins that preserved His existence, His fingers yet deprived and deformed, baring inexplicable wounds of absence, as if his form could never fully spawn. Marks of biting, gaping and presistent, as if prey to a cosmic Maw, famished and berserk.

Forgive Me


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