“Is that sand?”
If not sand, it was certainly of similar quality. Fine grains of something rained down from above. Her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dimness, and she looked about. There was a hewn ceiling but no windows, as far as she could tell. Not far away, she could see the edge of the shallow body of water she was now sitting in.
Where in the world was she? It was not a building, but neither did she feel herself to be in some purely natural cavern. She couldn’t say for certain because of the darkness, but some aspects seemed familiar. The thick odor, somewhere between moss and mold, and the way the chill hung in the air brought memories of long ago. A place she’d once visited had been like this. It, too, had been dim, but not so oppressive. Perhaps given the light of several braziers, the similarity would become more apparent. What had that underground tomb been called?
“Reciele.” Just as the name came to her lips, another memory flashed to mind. She saw the chancellor of Niflheim, Ardyn Izunia, eyes full of anger and hatred, and in his hand, a dagger.
“I’m . . . alive?”
It seemed impossible. She remembered the indescribable pain as the dagger was driven into her side. She remembered the blood gushing from the wound and the fear as her consciousness slipped away.
A hand unconsciously moved to her flank, where the blade would have entered. At the site of the wound, she found an unnatural concavity of skin pulled tight, surrounded by a raised ridge of scar tissue. So her memory of being stabbed by Ardyn was truth. How, then, was she here, alive and well?
An involuntary shudder coursed through her body, not prompted by such macabre thoughts, but rather by simple cold. Her arms trembled, goose bumps forming across her skin. When she attempted to rub warmth into them, she realized her clothes were soaked. She looked down. This was the dress she’d worn the day she was stabbed. It clung to her skin, torn in several places, stained and ruined.
How could this be? She was supposed to be dead, but here she was, somehow transported to some mysterious underground space. It was all too much to fathom.
“It’s freezing,” she said to herself. Her voice was small and wavering. Her teeth chattered. Pushing all her questions aside for later, she stood. She’d need to get out of here before she could do anything else.
The world spun. She let out a small gasp, then found herself collapsed back on the ground, her left shoulder having taken the brunt of the fall. Standing hadn’t been as easy as she’d thought. In fact, it was almost as if she’d forgotten how to walk at all. She rubbed her shoulder and tried once more, slowly and carefully.
With a hand on one wall, she shuffled forward. She could feel a draft, and the direction in which the air flowed. If she followed that, she’d find her way outside.
After a few steps, strength seemed to return to her legs. As she walked, the heels of her boots clacked against the flagstones, and the sound continued to echo across the stone surfaces of the rooms and corridors. A little farther, and she felt certain she’d find a long stone stairway leading to the surface. Either that or a short slope leading upward to a higher level. All the tombs were built like this. They had to be, to accomodate the ceremonies when the dead were carried down to their final resting place. As Oracle, she’d visited a number of such places in order to perform the rites.
Although the layout was not unfamiliar, this time there was no one leading the way with light in hand. Doubt formed in her mind; suddenly, it seemed unlikely that her outward journey would be straightforward. She might wander here, lost in the darkness, for some time.
A sudden rustling noise reached her ears, along with a sensation of something like dry leaves underfoot. The clear, unsettling sound interrupted the steady clack of her heels and forced her to a halt. She stooped and groped at the ground, discovering the object at her feet to be an old, crumpled newspaper. Next to it was a small bundle, like withered branches. A bouquet, most likely, brought as an offering to the dead who rested here. The newspaper must have been wrapped around the flowers.
Lunafreya felt a flush of anger at the irresponsible soul who had left an offering on the floor rather than seeing it properly to the intended grave. She took the erstwhile bouquet and situated it properly on the stone coffin near where she stood, though not without some guilt. A gift of dry, withered stems seemed ill consolation for a departed soul.
She began neatly folding the newspaper, intending to dispose of it once she reached the outside. It wouldn’t do to leave rubbish behind in a tomb. When her eyes fell on a small photograph on one page, though, her hands paused.
“ . . . Noctis?” she gasped. Despite the photo’s size, there was no mistaking his face. But in the darkness of the tomb, she couldn’t hope to make out the words of the article. All she caught when she strained her eyes to read were scattered phrases: “third year since the disappearance of” and “king of Lucis.” When she looked to find the date at the top of the page, she realized it had been torn away.
“Noctis? Missing?” she whispered. “That cannot be.” She tried to calm herself. She hadn’t read the article properly yet. Perhaps it was not Noctis who had disappeared.
“Three years ago, His Majesty King Regis would have been alive and well,” she reassured herself. “If the article was about the king, then . . . ”
But how could she be sure Regis was king at the time the article was printed? Three years ago from when? From today? When was today? How much time had passed?
Another chill ran down her spine. Something vile was trying to crawl its way up her leg. She wanted to leave this place at once. She wanted desperately to be outside. She had to hurry.
When she turned to continue on her way, she felt a tremor at her back. From over her shoulder, she saw a burst of debris rain down from the ceiling. Then another, and another. Each time, the quantity seemed to increase, a steady mix of gravel, dirt, and who knew what else. Something up above was trying to break through the ceiling. What that something was, she had not the faintest clue.