บท 62: Virgil's Past III

"Virgil," she said softly, "this is the man I spoke of, the one who might be able to help you with your nightmares."

Esmandeus stepped into the room, the candlelight playing off the crystal atop his staff. He regarded Virgil with a keen interest, his eyes searching, probing the depths of his soul. "I am here," he said, his voice a soothing balm, "to help you find the peace you seek."

"Your dreams are not mere whispers of the night," the mystic continued, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "They are a window into the very fabric of your being, a gateway to the truth that lies buried deep within your psyche." He placed a hand on Virgil's shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. "Tonight, I shall venture into that realm, guided by the light, to uncover the source of your torment."

"Could you please take your leave Mari..." He continued. "I need absolute peace and isolation."

Mari nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. She squeezed Virgil's hand before leaving, her eyes filled with a silent promise of support.

Esmandeus instructed Virgil to lie on the bed, the furs drawn back to reveal the cold, wooden frame beneath. He began the ritual by lighting candles at each of the four corners of the room, whispering incantations that danced in the shadows like gossamer threads. The flames cast an eerie glow, painting the walls with flickering images of ancient runes. The mystic's eyes never left Virgil's face, as if searching for something only he could see.

Next, he drew a circle around the bed with a stick of chalk, the lines precise and unwavering. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, his expression unreadable. "This circle," he explained, "serves as a shield, a boundary between the waking world and the realm of dreams. It will protect us from the malevolent forces that may seek to interfere."

With a wave of his staff, a fine mist filled the room, the scent of sage and frankincense thick in the air. The candle flames flickered and grew, casting an otherworldly glow upon the mystic's face. He began to chant, the words ancient and unfamiliar to Virgil's ears. The room grew colder, the very air seeming to coalesce into a thick, palpable presence that pulsed in time with the rhythm of the mystic's incantation.

Virgil felt himself sinking into the bed, his body growing heavy with a strange, lethargic warmth. His eyes grew heavy, the edges of his vision blurring as if dipped in ink. The world around him grew distant, the sounds of the festival outside his door muffled by a thick curtain of sleep that descended upon him.

The mystic's chant grew louder, the syllables of power resonating within his very bones. He felt a tugging at the very essence of his being, a pull that drew him into the abyss of his own mind. The room grew darker, the candle flames swirling into a maelstrom of light that danced before his eyes, pulling him deeper into the abyss.

Suddenly, he was in a different place, a memory that was not his own. He saw a young boy with red eyes and shoulder-length black hair, standing in a dimly lit room.

The room was small and cold, with a single candle flickering on a dusty shelf, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls. The boy's mother, a frail woman with hollow eyes and a tightly wound shawl, hovered over a cauldron, her back to him. The air was thick with the stench of her potions and the cries of despair from the alleyways outside their shack.

Virgil, the child, approached her tentatively, his bare feet making no sound on the hardened dirt floor. His eyes searched her face for a glimmer of affection, but found only contempt. She had never wanted him, a burden born of a violent encounter she refused to speak of, and her hatred had been a constant in his life.

The vision grew more vivid, more painful, as he watched his mother turn and raise a gnarled wooden spoon, the stew bubbling malevolently in the background. Her eyes were wild, a tempest of anger and despair. The spoon came down with a crack, and he felt the agony of it, though he was far removed from that moment in time. Each strike fell in a brutal rhythm, punctuating the air with a sickening thwack. His body, so young and fragile, buckled under the onslaught, but he never made a sound. Not a whimper, not a cry for mercy. The resilience that would come to define him was already a stark reality, born from the crucible of pain.

The scene shifted again, he saw him a little older, begging in the streets of a bustling city. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and his clothes hung from his skeletal frame like the rags of a forgotten scarecrow. The smell of rotting food and human waste filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the sweet scent of the sage and frankincense in his present reality. The faces of the passersby were a blur of indifference and revulsion. They threw coins at him with disdain, silver glinting in the moonlight, their eyes averted from the spectacle of his suffering.

In the alley's shadows, a group of men watched him, their eyes gleaming with greed and malice. They were bandits, their leather armor worn and patched, their weapons crude but effective. His mother, desperate to escape her own fate, approached them, her voice a whip crack in the night air. "Take him," she spat, "and let me live. He is yours for the price of my freedom." The transaction was swift and cold, the clink of coins ringing in Virgil's ears as he was torn from the only life he had ever known.

The bandits dragged him to their camp, a festering sore upon the outskirts of the city. There, he was subjected to a life of unspeakable horror. They broke him in body and spirit, forcing him to fight, to kill, to survive. He became a plaything, a vessel for their darkest desires, their twisted appetites. The taste of fear and despair became a constant companion, one he knew intimately as they took turns with him, their laughter echoing through the night.

One night, as the campfire cast long shadows across the filthy tent, one of the bandits stumbled upon an old, leather-bound book. It had been plucked from the corpse of a merchant who had foolishly resisted their advances. The pages were brittle, the ink faded with age, but the symbols and incantations within spoke of power that even these brutish men recognized. The leader, a man named Krov, took the book, his eyes alight with a newfound greed. "This," he murmured, "this will be our ticket to wealth and power beyond our wildest dreams."

Virgil, now in his early twenties. His once-innocent face had been chiseled by hardship into a mask of cold resolve. He knew that escape was a distant dream, but survival was a constant battle. When the bandits began to murmur about the book's dark secrets and the need for a pure soul to unlock its power, his heart sank. The whispers grew to a dull roar in his ears as the men looked at him, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

Krov, the brutal leader of the band, took Virgil by the scruff of his neck and dragged him before the group. The book was placed before the campfire, the ancient text open to a page that spoke of a blood ritual that could grant untold power. "You," Krov sneered, "you will be our key to greatness."

Without foreboding, the vision shattered and the mystic found himself in an empty, dark realm. The air was cold, the scent of the alleyways replaced by the sterile nothingness of a place between worlds. The floor beneath him was solid, yet intangible, a void that stretched into infinity. Esmandeus' eyes searched the darkness, his heart racing with the sudden change in scenery. The echoes of the past clung to him like a second skin, the horror of Virgil's memories seared into his mind.

"What just happened? It's impossible that I was forcibly pulled out of the vision... Where am I?" He mumbled to himself as he looked around in the darkness.

Then he suddenly heard words repeating from a distance, echoing through the darkness.

"Humans are horrible! May they all burn in hell!"