The fog of memory parted as raven black wings unfolded, piercing the shroud of obscuring mist while hoof beats echoed lightly.  As the veil of darkness lifted, the golden notes of a cello echo through the cavernous warehouse, a figure sitting motionless in a circle of pale light on an old wooden chair.  

A ghostly figure removes the hood and I realize its me, sitting motionless, barefoot.  My silk shirt has been removed.  Dressed in silver slacks, I gaze straight, flashes of golden fire echoing in my eyes.

As memories and dreams do, I jump from my external view point into my mind, gazing out of the circle of light, recognizing nothing.  The dual nature of the scene is painful to reconcile, as I’m there watching, and I am there, experiencing the moment, the emotions, the panic as I realize I don’t know how long I have been sitting here.  Some distant memory hopes the team can track my comm signal, but the rational part knows we weren’t supposed to meet again for weeks.  The memory of panic and rage plays on, and distantly I recognize the notes of one of Bach’s cello suites.  

I feel the spittle that has leaked from my lips.  My arm moves, and my mind rages, the mustang throwing itself bodily against the corral, bloodying its mighty body, digging bloody gouges into its flesh.  I know, both as I watch, as I knew then, that I am not moving my arm.  It is not my will to do so.  

My left hand grabs the ornately carved silver butterfly knife resting on the tray that is now sitting next to the chair.   Subconsciously I note that it is wicked sharp, which means the pain isn’t quite instantaneous as I insert in through the skin near the heart, placing it as if a heart surgeon was going in through the ribs.   Blood leaks out as the blade is withdrawn, before inserting on the right side at the same level.  Carving its way up and under the ribs, perfectly filleting the skin around the heart.  Blood is pouring out of the multiple wounds.  

My hand moves to the side, slicing off a section of the abdomen at the skin level, before moving to do the same to each nipple on the chest.   My screams of pain reach for the heavens, but only in my mind.

The hand sets the knife back on the tray before returning to rest in my lap.  My ring flashes gold and I feel my magic healing myself, but just enough to reduce the blood flow so I don’t pass out, bypassing the damage done to the nerves.  

The stallion in my mind neighs a challenge and races for the slight opening in the corral that let the magic through, crashing into unconsciousness as it slams at full speed into the bars closing just ahead of it.  

It seems an eternity as I sit there, with the blood pooling in my lap and on the floor, drying to the skin as the cello plays on……

My eyes have seen no one other than the six-armed woman, who now sits on the edge of the shadow, two arms dancing rhythmically across the instrument.  No questions, no visuals, no threats, just pain.  

The music shifts lightly, towards a sonata from Chopin and I watch, helplessly, as my right hand reaches down towards the floor, grasping a long leather strap, weighted on the end.  I can’t see it, not yet, as my eyes continue to gaze upon the cellist. 

My right hand swings the strap.  I recognize the strap, well, the strap and the lead ball attached to it.  Not that it’s mine, but it’s similar to those I was trained in, beat with, to services customers with that particular brutal fetish.

I’m almost resigned to the ball as it pounds first into my shoulder, then a leg, the bright flash of pain an ascending peak to the flow of the sonata.   Pain overwhelms the senses, and yet, my right hand continues to swing, pausing for a few minutes to let each blow rekindle the agony, as if the pianist in counterpoint to the cello.  When the ball catches my left hand caught between the chair and the swing, no manner of outside control keeps me from lapsing into blessed unconsciousness as the leather strap and lead ball fall to the ground.

As the misty veil closes over my eyes, still my body sits upright in the chair, blood pool drying on the ground, spatters across the floor, and ugly bruises and open wounds crossing my naked chest.

I gasp as I open my eyes, tears flowing from my eyes and mucus from my nose in remembered pain.  As I look across the fire at Talon, she sits calmly, but eyes wide open, fully black, body silhouetted against the early stages of dusk.   She blinks, before speaking in her soft voice, “Rest tonight.  We start again as the dawn breaks.”