Syn woke, in the darkest hour, just before the dawn. Her limbs entwined with her sleeping husbands. Dark gaze was given, it had been done and she felt secure. But with security, came a revulsion that simply could not be repressed with fantasies any longer. She pulled away from him gently, taking pains not to wake him, then jumped from the bed silently, running to a nearby potted plant. Syn fell to her knee’s and retched, releasing the bile that had been churning in her stomach since she had subtly urged Ilgnuit to take her. When the heaves finally ceased, she leaned back against the cool stone wall, sliding down until she rested, slouched against it, and slept.
The chapel was finely lit. Torches burned down the aisle. Incense wafted lazily through the air. Somewhere, a child was singing something soft, and sweet accompanied by a soothing harp. She moved down the aisle, dressed in her wedding attire. She beamed at all the smiling faces she passed. Glancing over, she aimed to whisper something to the priestess that held her elbow, only to see the face of her mother. “Mama?” She said, quite confused. “You’re dead.” The old woman laughed, dry and bitter. “I came to see you make a fool of yourself, darling.”
The music grew louder, the child’s voice reaching a strange pitch that was both beautiful and terrifying. She reached the alter. Gaze slid over to the man who stood, smiling so serenely at her. The confusion grew. Gaze drifted from his wide brown eyes, to his reddened fingertips. “ What are you….” He shook his head, begging her silence. And she could not help but do as he bid.
The Priest spoke, his voice loud and booming. But she could not understand his words. She felt sick. The statues of angels, the murals upon the ceiling, the eyes of people behind her, all glared and hissed. She knew they were screaming, she could see their mouths twist. But that voice covered all the sound. Painted fingers clutched her love’s tightly. Her fingernails began to leak, dripping blackness down his hand. The child began to sing, drowning out the Priest’s non-words. He sang of fire and flame, the torches extinguished. Of death and decay, the gathered people fell to the ground in motionless heaps. He sang of sin and lust, the statues crumbled, the mural fell like ash from the ceiling.
She felt a tug on her hand, gaze following the now frozen looking blackness, trailing it until she saw where it had been running to. The priest was impaled, on a thousand needled tendrils. His body was burning, fire pumping into him, blood flowing out. Flames licked from every puncture, every orifice. Then all at once, the black liquefied and swallowed him whole. It writhed and shifted until it began to take on a new shape. The shape of a man she did not know, but who’s eyes burned the terror from her veins, calmed her with his wordless commanding.
The bald man beside her released her fingers, and kissed her cheek gently. He was nude, and covered in blood. Long scratches and teeth marks littering his flesh. She smiled, feeling her own gashes weep their crimson tears. The child sang on. Her burning palms rising into the air. She turned to the lifeless crowd. Burning eyes fixing on the only few who remained squirming in their pain. The child sang louder, his melody a eulogy. She leaned down and touched a palm to the writhing red headed princess’ forehead. “Goodnight Garnett. Sleep sweet.” Fire licked up, and consumed her. She moved, palm on the forehead of her brother. “I hope you do not find your child in the next life.” To the Queen then; “I failed you. I’m not sorry.” The king, she said nothing, her dark gaze said it all. SHE had won the game. Finally her husband, his eyes holding so much aggression she nearly had to look to her love for help. But she steeled herself and put her palm to his heart. He screamed at her “You are mine.” She shook her head. “I was never.” And he went up in a blaze greater than the rest.
She turned, to regard the strange man her magic had borne, and her love. “Take me away from here.”
The child sang of fire.
Wed Nov 26, 2008 1:34 pm