With a silent cry, the spirit-children fled, seeking out some dark corner for refuge.
At first she was oblivious to the evil dark as it cut its ragged swath like violent black strokes on a black canvas; the portrait of some mad artist.
Then, she was alone.
It was her sense of isolation that first appalled and alarmed her senses; a silent echo of danger.
She fled before she knew she was doing so, and it was then that she realised that the darkness that was not a darkness pursued her.
The chase was long and relentless, and the dark intent that followed stalked her without need of rest and knew no distraction. All it needed was time . . . time she no longer had.
Her hopeless flight carried her far beyond her ken, and she knew for the first time what it was to be lost. At the last, in desperation, she struggled towards the surface where another doom entirely awaited her: the doom of mortality.
Seeing no other choice, she chose the doom of the surface rather than that of the blackness below.
In that small instant of choice, she hesitated, instantly feeling black, invisible hands trying to grasp her feet. She fought wildly to escape-