Something clicks...

...and Merriman is left nonplussed. Other than the click, nothing happens. M’A-bja continues to look slowly between skull and Merriman with expectation, and Ambrosia, observing M’A-bja’s almost comical posturing, begins to laugh, the key’s distinct lack of effect allowing the tension to be replaced by a vacuum, into which relief clearly floods.

“Ye god’s I thought we were going to die!” Ambrosia says giddily, continuing to giggle, leaning forward and placing her hand affectionately on Merriman’s shoulder, squeezing it gently and smiling. Merriman, however continues to look puzzled, his attention remaining fully on the carved skull and the aetheric flow. Within the aether nothing has changed.

“I don’t understand,” he says, his eyes locked on the vacant empty sockets of the carving...except...Merriman withdraws the key and notices that the skull shifts slightly, as if it is no longer part of the floor. His changing body language alerts Ambrosia, who’s laughter fades. M’A-bja lets out a slight whine, shifting from side to side in what looks like impatience or agitation.

Slipping the key back into a pocket in his robe Merriman reaches down with an outstretched hand and, placing it firmly about the skull, lifts it free of the floor. It lifts easily, and, as he turns his hand over, it becomes clear that what he is in fact holding is a thin stone mask, the inside of which is decorated with strange swirling designs. He lifts it into the air and moves it about.

“What is it?” asks Ambrosia?

“Look for yourself.”

“The aether?”

Merriman nods.

As Merriman slowly continues to move the mask about, the two of them watch as the aetheric currents coil and undulate, deliberately avoiding the mask,

“So it’s not this place, but this thing.” Ambrosia says looking to Merriman. “Now what?”

“Well, what does one usually do with a mask?”

“How should I know, start a theatre troupe? You’re not going to put it on are you?!”

“Do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a thing.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“What d’you mean?”

Merriman shifts the mask from one hand to the other so that he is looking at the mask’s face instead of its interior. No longer locked to the floor, the skull seems to have a slightly different countenance, the sockets no longer shadows, the illusion of solidity gone - its look so much more delicate and finely wrought now. “Well it can only be described as a death mask, can’t it? There’s nothing really subtle about it.”

“A death mask which sits like a rock in a river of aether...about which the aether flows, bending to avoid it...sounds familiar.”

“Except that was talking about mirrors and Diabolicals.”

“Well maybe there are other things that are hidden in the aetheric depths.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

“Merriman, you can’t be serious,” Ambrosia’s tone shifting to almost parental concern.

Merriman just smiles at Ambrosia, fixes her with a stare, and lifting the mask pushes it onto his face.

Time stands still. Ambrosia, frozen in place, an outstretched hand, a rictus of shocked horror. Dust motes hang in fixed position. M’A-bja, however, is a strange amalgam of movement and stillness, as if a frozen shadow, within which it moves and changes, the shadow flicking in discrete increments from one position to another, a dull orange luminance the only constant

Merriman feels weightless, feels himself rising up, his spine arced and twisting, his arms being pulled into a strange arrangement, his fingers splayed and clawed. Something seems to move within, deep down in his guts, turning and unwinding and then pain like he’s never felt before, lancing through his head like an axe strike, plunging his guts like a knife, his mouth open, screaming. The world goes dark, his screams an echo into which he falls, and all about him a soft cool rippling breeze which he can only describe as becoming ‘tighter’, until it vibrates like a musical string, but there is not just one of these strings but twelve, each pulling him in different directions, first this way, then that, as if he is a fish, hooked by twelve different lines, each tearing at his flesh. And as the pain increases, the darkness fades and mist suffuses the gloom. He is no longer suspended now, and it seems he is standing on marshy ground, the mist swirling in strange eddies, the shadows of undefined figures ebbing and flowing, moving and twisting, coalescing into tableaux which melt the moment that they form. Then sharp clawed fingers reaching out, trying to grab hold, tearing through his clothes, ripping his skin, claws from every angle, all trying to take hold of him. Merriman’s mind freezes in horror, but some small part of him, some tiny grain of self preservation seems to whisper and reaching up to his face, his hand’s full span settling across it, he grasps and pulls, and feels himself falling onto hard stone, hears a shocked gasp and the sound of a familiar voice repeating the same phrase over and over: “What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?” all the while, each repeat, rising in panic.