Prelude
Vici twirled a knife gently with his forefingers, feeling the cold steel make small cuts in the air as it twisted gently between his fingers. The twelve-year-old Aurelius suddenly tensed his wrist, sending the tip of the small blade into his desk. It quivered in the wood for a moment, next to all the other marks that had been made upon it. Gently, he picked the mask back up, brushing off a little dust from one of the lenses. He smiled at it, turning it over in his hands. Soft, red velvet lined the interior, disguising its true nature. He gently touched the side, watching the small springs twist and turn. He pressed a small switch right above the earhole, and was elated to watch the lenses magnify.
Like little telescopes for my eyes! he thought happily, placing the small mask on his face. He looked up at the wall, using his finger to zoom in on one of the many sketches that had been nailed up. Da Vinci would be proud. A boyish grin covered his face as he removed the mask, holding it delicately. He'd worked on it for a little over a year, fine-tuning it every night to make sure the gears clicked together perfectly. His fingers trembled slightly as he left his room holding his treasure, preparing for the trial that would make him a true member of their family.
Before
He was shaking. He wasn't supposed to be shaking. He'd been training since before he could remember for this day. The chasm was open, a black pit from which no light seemed to escape. He'd said his goodbyes to the family, promising them that he'd be back soon enough. He'd laughed a confident laugh, showing off the mask to his family. They'd passed it around, admiring the handiwork and the attention to detail. They'd given it back to him, wishing him luck as he set off for the site of the family's historical trial. They'd accepted that he be allowed to take it with him, a reward for all the hard work he'd put into crafting it. Other than that, he wore only a loose shirt and a pair of trousers, with small sandals on his feet. Shuddering, he placed the mask on his face, before descending into the darkness.
It's cold, he thought, feeling the air rush over his skin. This was a trial that was supposed to test his resolve. He'd been warned that it would be dangerous, that it would push him to his limit. He thought he'd be prepared. Sweat began to roll down his face despite the coolness of the air. Wisps of breath emanated from the faceplate, floating up around him. His eyes darted back and forth, slowly adjusting to the incredibly low light. It was his job to reach the center of the ruins, to guide himself on a quest to find what his uncle had described as a pit of water. He was to bathe in it, and be granted the same power that they'd all shared. But so far, he felt as though he hadn't even reached the ruins. All he that he felt were the sharp rocks lining the walls, and damp moss dripping condensation on his body.
It's not supposed to be this dark, he thought, remembering the old stories that his family would tell. And there are supposed to be...things. Things to fight, they said. He scrambled over rocks, trying to feel his way along the tunnel. He seemed to be in a maze now, running his hand along the wall. He knew an old trick about how to solve mazes...keep one hand on the wall at all times, and you'll eventually reach the center. He'd been walking for a while now, feeling the disgusting mess of water and moss on the ancient ruins. Sometimes he'd stumble, catching himself with ninja-like reflexes before he hit the ground; but soon, he began to grow tired, walking slowly instead of crisply. A few times, he just let himself fall, pulling back up rather than exerting the energy to catch himself.
He was starting to get hungry.
Three Days Later
...nnnnnng...
This was what passed for a coherent thought for Vici Aurelius. His legs were bloody with little scratches, and his stomach felt as though it was tearing itself apart out of hunger. He'd lost track of time, and his throat was dry with rabid thirst. Occasionally, he'd pull his faceplate up, licking the walls to collect what little condensation he was able to on his tongue. Twice, he lay in a ball, clutching at his stomach. He'd stay that way for nearly an hour before standing up to recommence his painful trek through the darkness.
He still couldn't see too well. The sounds of the crypt had grown, but there was nothing notable to speak of. Merely dripping water, small drops splashing against the ground repetitively. He'd grown to despise the sound, exhaling loudly whenever he heard the drip drip of water touching the stone floor. He gritted his teeth, the taste of his own saliva nearly worse than the stomach cramps. He had yet to encounter anything living. They all said that there would be foes to face, demons of some sort. ...some fancy way of saying inner demons? Stupid...stupid, stupid, stupid...no, no...Marte has scars from his trial...where are mine? Where are my enemies? Where are they?
He stumbled into a more open room, hitting the floor face first. He didn't have the strength to catch himself as he fell, hearing the clink of his mask as it broke the stone ground. He didn't get back up, merely laying on the ground, sobbing softly.
Another Day Passes
He'd taken to crawling. It was a far more energy efficient way to move. He felt every contraction of his muscles, his heart screaming for him to stop. He hadn't had anything to eat in quite some time, and his body was starting to give up on him. A few times he'd nearly fallen asleep, but he remembered his relatives' warnings that to sleep was to court death during the trial. They made mention of the things that lived in the pits coming out to devour them in their sleep, claws ripping at the flesh, rending them in twain, killing every last one...
...wait...but how would they get out to talk about it, then...he wondered gently, then reminded himself to stop thinking. It was far too strenuous. Dirt-caked fingers pulled him along the passageway, feeling out the inscriptions on the floor. His clothes had been run ragged, and it seemed like every bit of skin on his body had been broken open. The lenses on his mask shifted and twisted, gears spinning silently and methodically. No matter what magnification they were at, he could still barely see. Most areas of the cavern were black as pitch.
Viiiiiiciii, the abyss is looking into yooooou, he thought to himself, before cracking a very weak smile.
Why am I smiling?
Some Time Later
He'd stopped moving for a while, merely laying in place. He was far too dehydrated to cry, having since reached a part of the ruins that was nearly devoid of condensation. He thought he heard drums coming from the far ends of the tunnels, a low, mournful bass beat. He wanted to sing, but his cracked, dry throat wouldn't let him. Vici's pulse started to quicken as a high-pitched noise filled the tunnels, echoing off of every surface. It seemed to go on forever, a hellish chorus that ripped at his thoughts. Then he realized what it was.
Beetles.
They scrambled over him, pinchers clicking. He thrashed, adrenaline blowing life into the dying furnace of his body. His fingers dug into the ground as he pulled himself along, scrambling to his feet. He tried to run, limping blindly through the pitch black tunnels. Blood poured from dozens of bites, his skin shredded by the swarm of bugs. There were hundreds, no, thousands. Wings carried them through the cavern, their spiky carapaces tearing into him as he lumbered through the crypt screaming.
Suddenly, there was no ground beneath his feet. He felt himself fall, tumbling through the air as he left the cloud of bugs behind. He felt himself land in an enormous pool, somehow warm in all the cool air. It clung to his skin like blood, stinging every last cut and scrape. He didn't have the energy to save himself, drifting slowly to the bottom of the dark pool. It smelled of metal, but was sparkling slightly, despite the lack of any light source. He splashed wildly, the water running over the sides of the pool. It sloshed into his mouth, seeping into his body. He gave up, feeling himself die, hands twitching, lenses of his mask twisting and turning mechanically.
Slowly, the liquid stopped moving, returning to its gentle state, the masked corpse of a child drifting slowly to the bottom.
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