*This comes right after The Dream*
She inhaled, a quick choking of breath, eventually giving way to the soft, constant movement of her chest as it took in air. Her breath curled upwards in the cool night, dancing as it disappeared, lips moving slightly with each exhale. She was flushed, blood once again running through her, heartbeat steady. Her left hand twitched, making an indent in the snow, tiny spasms animating her otherwise unmoving form along her arms and legs. The crystals of ice that had held her began to melt in her revived heat, enhancing the movements already coursing through her. She was whole and living once again; a living body below a darkened sky. But all was different; everything had changed. A new light had been twisted with the previous three, scarlet slowly coalescing with what had once been. And the girl only breathed, her mind shut as it, too, tried to mend. Murder knew she would not wake. Not yet. The Reaper only watched in awe.
The call came unexpectedly to Rotten. He woke with a start, nothing but a faint intake of breath revealing his surprise, fist absentmindedly tightening around the small dagger still in his left hand. He felt no pain as it bit into him, a bead of black blood blooming on his palm. The all-too-familiar pulse of his call beat at the soft flesh of his lips, the living image moving upon the tissue. The obscure sign twisted silently, relaying death’s message to the Reaper. He smiled at the irony of the sensation, its tragic beauty, like the faint kiss of a ghost.
None of the messages were ever clear when Death called to him. She used no words but his name, his true name, and even then it was still only a touch. Yet this time, something was amiss. Through her soft kiss-like message, he could feel something – something wrong. Something he wasn’t able to place. He dismissed it, looking down to his palm as lines of black liquid etched themselves on the dagger, seeping into it’s scratched surface and scarring its rusted frame. He always found a way to bleed when she called him – it was easier that way.
Using his abnormally sharp hands, Rotten began to etch the frame into the wall beside him, careful not to wake the children still asleep across the partial darkness. Looking at the sky, he noted carefully the time - barely 5 minutes before midnight – just in case she kept him overly long. His face was blank as moonlight caressed it, the clouds all but clear, and he thought, for a moment, of how striking the night was after snow. Looking back, he began to focus on his current task of making the doorway, a task time consuming but easier than finding another. He dipped his right hand into the blood pooled in his left, easily outlining the door in the liquid. He finished quickly, blood on the wall hardening as it, too, began to change. Without hesitation, he pushed, the slight movement moving the segment silently, until it seemed to fall away completely. He crouched, sliding through the gap until he felt himself land in the total darkness of the timeless staircase he knew so well.
Her slender back was to the lamp light, long coat thrown carelessly over her sleeping companion. The Reaper’s skin was pale, illuminated in the dead cold night; smooth and unbroken but for the living name carved in black on her spine. Her body did not shiver though it was unhidden from the snow, covered barely by the bindings around her chest, by the knives and guns surrounding her small form. Her trousers hung loosely over her emaciated hips, the edges of her shoes gently brushing the sleeper’s side as she rocked back and forth. Short black hair, messy and damp, hung limply over her eyes. Her pupils were clouded in thought, their color similar to gold littered mud.
Murder exhaled involuntarily when it came, unsurprised at the familiar, anticipated whisper on her back. She felt death’s sharp anger in its pulse, stabbing at her with its soft, twisting, incoherent message. She looked over at the body absentmindedly, running her hand over the scars it bore, finding its dull warmth strangely comforting. She, the girl who died, was alive. Alive. She marveled at it, at herself, at the world. And she smiled without understanding why, letting the odd motion stay as it was.
The black mark twisted fiercely, Death’s command biting ruthlessly into her skin. The sensations were odd, new to her as her mind tried to understand the burning. She sighed, a heavy sound, looking up apprehensively, pleading inwardly for guidance. Drawing the girl into her arms, she lifted her small body almost effortlessly, as much to keep her as to calm herself.
Murder walked slowly through the winding alleys, knowing instinctively which way to turn. Her doorway was not far. If only the girl would wake.
Forgetting Time is Fatal:
Innocent blood upon the wall
Draw the door and watch it fall
Be wary as you loose the gate
Always moving, never wait
Death is far and death is near
Death to those who forget fear
In the fireflies it’s found
What men thought buried in the ground
Death is far and death is near
Even death can’t catch you here
All may try
Time will die
Here you can’t remember fear.
In our mind we may
Stay our time
Though what they know
In the darkness shows
Maybe nothing and
In the true language of everything, or so it is said, the name given to death is life, but a name of inversely equal power. Thus they are, in fact, equal. So can each summon the other, so are their powers the same, each can destroy the other. In doing so, however, they would both be destroyed. Hence it is the natural checks and balances slowing the impending decay of reality. And so it goes. Life cannot exist without death. Nor can time exist without a thought’s reality. Nor can I, really. For what is existence? One intellect knowing another? No, that’s not it, is it. Or is it?
But, of course, it is one thing to learn and another to understand.
You may learn, in time, who I am. But you’ll never understand.
You must realize that understanding is entirely dependent on language, the pairing of obscure sounds and invented meanings called words and phrases. In your thoughts, there are no words reserved for me.
But if you MUST give me a name, as you humans always must, I will allow you to call me Wednesday. No, I am not what you call TIME, and I am fully aware of your unusual names for him. And I do not control as he does, nor am I so kept as he.
But WHAT am I, you may ask? Haha, have Patience. You will learn soon enough. Besides, I can’t have you bored with me just yet, can I now. Not when we’ve only just met.
Dark black water sought out the extremities of the hall. It had carved out the ageless walls and floors and cracks, exploring furthermost boundaries without disturbance. Twining between stones, it was to forever remain untouched and still. The water was vast and blank, concealing beneath its permanent calm silenced secrets told by those long gone. Shallow grey steps scattered themselves carelessly, cold pillars standing erect within the calm. The ceiling stretched up, a black void of twisting motion and tiny colorless stars. There was nothing frightening, except perhaps its endlessness, though hearts beat quicker when eyes gazed upwards. And among all this, within the center of the hall stood a single seat as bleak and cold as its surroundings. At first glance, it seemed a simple seat of iron or stone (no one was certain, except perhaps time), altogether ageless and ancient simultaneously; yet lines and markings had forever danced upon its surface, shifting almost playfully in their patience.
The child landed gracefully, the blackness below gathering reverently at her feet. With each step it followed her lightly, rising up to her and bearing her burden, though never did the two forms meet. She moved swiftly through the semi-darkness, long hair limp at her back, unaffected by her coarse gait. Neither did the water stir as she stepped over its glossy surface. The markings on her body flicked in anger, though her face betrayed nothing.
The child’s appearance was naked and small, clear white skin held in stark contrast to its gray habitat. Black hair cascaded down between her shoulder blades, falling past the curve of her back, brushing the exposed skin. She had wide shoulders and a small head hidden by her hair. Beneath it, Plump white lips accentuated the round curves of her face, heightening her babyish appearance, with a petite button nose. Tiny hands and a thin neck gave her the childlike façade of frailty; yet she held an aura of age, hard and undeniable, reaching like the water through the extremities of the hall. And her pale surface was covered in the shifting lines that engulfed her, twisting and dancing through the expanse of her small body.
Yet of all her oddities, her eyes were the most bizarre and beautiful.
- Current Location:Home <3
- Current Music:The annoying voices of Eternal Sonata <3