The pacing was all wrong.
Leon had just been with his friend laughing beneath a sunset.
Things were happening too fast.
Reynold appeared so suddenly, and with him, questions. But now, the noble and his mystique had been replaced by the new revelations and their horrors.
The Siren—Lady—Thing... Was it his imagination?
The voice that cut in, like a narrator had been sharing his own past experiences, without any introductions...
Was THAT his imagination?
How much was real? Was he even awake?
He had to have been.
The slap was too real.
He didn't know if the rest was though. And he especially didn't want to think the same about it all.
'I don't understand.'
Everything after he left that cold dark room had been like a psychedelic trance.
It was all one big spiraling staircase. And he was falling down it at an impressive speed, only catching glimpses of everything going on through the odd window placed around the staircase.
He witnessed visceral scenes of modern art pass by. Different shapes smudging together on a poorly treated canvas.
First, his reflection. A blurry, distorted image of himself. Like he was constantly changing to fit someone else's story.
Second, he saw a pallid vision of sable. But something was missing. Like there was no life at all in that painting.
Third, a depiction of shadowy figure, one that changes as you move past it. Like he wasn't a part of the story to begin with. Like he wasn't supposed to be there. And yet he was.
Fourth, a blood-stained potato, surrounded by chilling frost, and the figure of something sinister hiding just out of the peripheral.
Fifth, an outlandishly beautiful woman. Her skin, soft and inviting, and cleverly hidden gills under invisible scales that just barely cast a shadow. But her silhouette betrayed her, telling the story of outrageous horrors.
The worst part about his descent by far; there were no railings. Nothing to catch onto and tether him to reality.
How long had he been here? Hours? Days?
Was Time even a thing here? Or was this world just motion? Like a clockwork piece, created solely to move forward, leaving any fragments that couldn't keep up, lost in the past.
"Can the writer even tell a damn story—It's like this is their first book!"
His voice was shaking, and his breaths had no rhythm.
Throwing himself against the closest wall and taking a moment to try and breath through the suffocating mess that was an unclear telling of a story, he glanced bleakly at the room around him.
Wiping away the dried-up tears from his breakdown over Sable, he began looking through his lonely cell. The gargling, spit-churning voice of the god preaching man had said something about putting them in cages.
Was this what he called a cage? It was quite cozy.
His last place was a fragile yet unbreaking maze of endless halls, the roof so high you couldn't reach them, always displaying a symphony of beautifully changing gradients. Natural light would leak in from the skylight ceilings, illuminating the paths for those who wander the great halls.
This was of course, the belly of the city, since he was homeless.
But something about the vastness of it he missed.
The cell he was in was claustrophobic. There was no natural lighting. No beautiful gradients to dress the skies like a delicious salad.
"It's definitely a far-cry from home."
He thuds his head against the wall and lets his eyes rest.
"How long was I tied there?"
The flow of time seemed warped. This effect was multiplied by the lack of a sun and moon, and no clocks or watches to read.
With time making space, questions that had built up took their chances to try and climb into view.
Questions like:
"What was going on right now? Is this all a dream?"
"Genuinely who was that voice? Am I losing my mind?"
"If that really was a siren, why was she hiding with these apparent cultists?"
Each brought with it even more questions. And still zero answers.
Bright side was, Leon had all the time in world to think on them, and plenty of room to stretch his skinny little limbs.
He didn't like to think too much too often. Ignorance was bliss. And thinking removed both from the equation—it left truth—unveiled, raw, and ugly. It made people sad, regretful and horrified.
But he was in a situation where it was necessary.
He needed answers.
He needed to let his mind go, letting it try to grasp every brick, stick and idea, collect them, and build them into something that made sense.
So, he did.
Like an ancient chain finally snapping, the seal of something powerful surging past the shattered links.
He broke his greatest rule.
He let his mind go wild.