BLURB
It’s the end of the world and Vyla, the last mortal, falls into a sinkhole, descending into the depths of the Earth. In this world of darkness, she meets Rhodri, an Immortal Man of Stone. They are the last man and woman, and as they collide and spark, so do a cascade of paradoxes.
BETA READER REVIEW
‘Transcendent, esoteric, ethereal.
It felt liminal and timeless’
The Fainting Spell by H. Scribe Wren
an excerpt from chapter 2
…
Falling was hard work, and the bruises were busy coming to the surface. An indeterminate amount of time lapsed, and I woke with my ear pressed to a crack in smooth stone, listening to the movement of smoldering liquid rivers. Formless rock. A state before birth.
Even the darkness had moving parts, like a secret clock ticking away, veiled in shadow, far away from the surface I longed for.
This is Rarth.
I sit up, my head spinning as I absorb that nothing-light underground. It’s tinted a saturated green. Lambent and bent.
My eyes lift to see further. Beyond my stone cradle and walls of mud.
Tunnel vision reveals one place, forming a silver slice of water rimming a garden of mirrored forms. Flora, haloed by its own ambience.
Then I glance to my skin and I get a little shock.
Where my eyes track, I am omitting a source of light. Confirming that the light in Rarth is coming from within. And so, where my eyes look, I can clearly see. And where I do not look, I am blind. I am therefore both seeing and blind.
This place makes my head spin.
Nothing makes sense here, it’s all backwards and inverted. It makes my heart ache with a slow, choking squeeze.
It would be a terrible time to develop claustrophobia in the world’s deepest tomb.
When I look back to the water of the deep pool, I see ripples on the surface as something submerged, rises quickly. Solid movement breaks through in a harsh, bubbling swirl.
It’s him.
Rhodri climbs out of the pool. He’s so quick he’s almost formless. Most of him vanishes behind a boulder. My eyes skim the top of that boulder where his dark shape leans back, hands lifting and dragging through his hair, wringing and flicking out the water. The strands are a lustrous dark grey, streaked with black, not unlike the inky stone all around us. From the small patches I can see, those streaks of darkness continue along his arms, but they’re jagged with cracks. He’s a mix of stone, breaks and shifting tones. He even glints with polish.
But I didn’t see his eyes and I want to. Do they give light like mine or swallow it whole?
“Rhodri, is that you?” I want to make sure I am not jumping to conclusions, so I call out to him. But my voice is too sharp, too loud as it bounces off walls that imprison us.
Rhodri freezes.
He turns then, his shadow growing as he lifts himself up from the other side.
…
end of excerpt
H. Scribe Wren 