The anger still gripped him; it was hard to think past his rage, but he did. His mind was sharp, a needle, a knife, and he watched and listened and hissed as Clover repelled Belladonna, her bright white light spearing her into nothing.
The owl looked at Clover, and heard her words. Bevy.
I miss you.
But this new sharpness--he couldn't afford to let it go. He had things to say, a message to pass on--and if he couldn't find Bevy... if it had been this deer, this twin-soulled mad creature, then so be it. She would have to do.
But first, he made an observation. This rage that trembled within him was good, it was empowering, it was strong. It made things clearer. Perhaps if he'd been sucked down just a little more, maddened just a little farther, he'd have descended into incoherent madness. But as it was, he had passed through a forge, and come out hotter, stronger.
He looked down at the twin deer, one dissolving into nothing, and he cocked his head to one side, still hovering overhead.
"You are the same," he noted, his thoughts simple as ever. "If you hate each other, than you hate yourself. You shouldn't. This black is anger. Anger is good. You're fighting yourself."
It was more another observation than a fact, or some deep wisdom. Dark knew what he wanted to say--what he meant to. He tried to put it into better words.
This was the last chance he'd have.
"If it's two parts of you. Two parts need to make peace. All this black should not be down here, in a sea. It should be with the white. Anger protects. Protects the children. Protects the ones who are hurt. You don't know how. You push it away. You become the hurt."
That would have to do... he didn't know all the words to talk about unity, about inner harmony, about pain and the nightmares of the past turning into a raging horror of a mind. He didn't know, too, about Clover's past, what had made her who she was.
And he didn't have time. Didn't have time to go over it all. He could feel his body, behind him, failing. Falling.
Slipping away.
"I was already dying. I still am. I don't have much time. I came with a warning--for Bevy. But Bevy is dead. You are not Bevy."
He paused, eyeing her again, the fury still filling him, still coating him black. But it was a good anger. It kept him sharp, and it kept him determined, fixed on his goal.
"I will try to show you."
Dark gathered everything he could--every bit of magic, every pulse of anger, all the concentration he could muster.
He turned, and rose up high, his black form quickly nothing but a distant silhouette against Clover's white marble mindscape.
He showed her what he could: a thousand gem chrysalises glittering along the walls, in a rainbow of colors. So many shapes, sizes, textures; so many lives, waiting to be reborn.
The screams faded, faded around them so Clover could hear. Dark forced it, he shaped the dream to reflect what he had seen.
Footsteps approached.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The echoing grew louder, and visions of wicked claws filled the air. A thousand eyes opened, and turned to look down upon the gems--and then, one by one, they began to shatter.
Dark swept back down, his shifting black dream-form pierced by those twin green eyes, which blazed as he watched Clover.
Waited for her to understand.
A word seemed to hang in the air, a sense of something, the very idea of moonstone. Then the chrysalises smashed, one by one, the clicking wicked-clawed feet circling, the eyes fixed upon each one. And for every that smashed, another life--no, another soul--was snuffed out forever.
One, by one, by one.
Until there was nothing left.
"I am dying, and I saw it. My magic showed me. I will be gone, soon. This will happen. You need to stop it. Find your peace--and stop it. Please."
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