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Spider Lillies

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Spider Lillies

Post by Necrophilimaniac on Fri May 29, 2015 7:48 am

Death had been the last thing she’d expected to be greeted by; not today, not in such a way. The Great End called to her. It sobered her. It quelled the tide of her fever and the intoxication of her adrenaline rush. Her once valiant struggle against the scorch of burrowed iron and the hot flush of blood dimmed away into a numbness that reached all the way up to her head. And, with little more than a tickle to her spine, she fell. Her knees thudded harshly against the compacted ground beneath her. The whole of her form came down like a demolished monument, and so too came the clank and scrape of armor crumpling along with her. What was left would be a corpse doubled over in defeat, riddled with arrows of such numbers that she’d become a macabre pin cushion.

Yet, she did not meet her maker. There was no light to carry her away. In death there was only darkness and silence. For how long did she steep in the muted dark? She’d never know. With time and reality divorcing, all she had was the notion that, in some shape, in some form, she was still there and still waiting. She was waiting on the end.

Then, finally, it arrived.

Light glimmered in the distance. From her perspective she had begun to float towards it, the dwindling spec growing with increasing velocity. Though initially she’d not felt anything in terms of sensation, there was a gradual recollection of movement, of her body being pulled by an unknown gravity. This feeling strengthened the nearer she got towards the source of the light she was following. Only when she could make out the vision of what lie before her did she grasp the reality of her surroundings. Only when she could make out the shapes comprising a stained glass depiction of her final battlefield did she understand that she was not floating at all.

She was falling.

She was falling with a sudden notion to how fast she was going, and with it came the weight. No longer a feather drifting, her body was now cement hurtling towards a stylized glass portrait, its mosaic panes depicting her carcass laying in a heap amongst fellow dead.  Fear took her, but no amount of it could keep her from colliding with the window. And it hurt. All the pain of a person living coursed through her as she broke past the layer of colored glass. She went to scream, but there was nothing to pierce the silence around her. Only vivid colors prevailed, shattered bits of the picture coming to life with reflections of memories that coincided with her death. The element of surprise, the smell of horse dander, a familiar coat of arms—the scene played out in broken order as the falling continued, her momentum returning to her the longer she remained at the mercy of gravity.

Grief blazed hot in her veins. The blood of sisters, of brothers, of fathers and mothers, of daughters and of sons, cousins, lovers… it all pooled together to rinse away what was left of the visions refracted in the broken glass. In its wake she was accompanied by shards of red rain, and fell with them, falling and falling till light shown once more through the darkness for which she plunged.

The second time around she was not as jarred to see yet another window. Even so, its scene still solicited her terror. The impact of flesh and bone meeting glass once more had all the stark sensation of the first, but the fear was in the picture, itself. A mare mounted by a man of fair, white hair crumbled from the force of her smashing through it. With its shards again came the reel of memories, and her grief intensified. Lonesome hills rolled on and on in a never ending sea. No matter which way the head turned, there was only green. But, to look down was to be immersed in the fresh, loose dirt of a grave. The marker, a sword engraved with silver, provided her with the name she desperately wished not to see.

Eamon’s blood joined that of the shards from before. Thus, the red rain increased in size. This process repeated itself with expanding increments of haste. A pair of green eyes met her for a fleeting moment, only to disintegrate into that horrid crimson hue. Her golden-haired mother was swept away in a rush of honeysuckle and red.  Window after window came and went. With it, so too went her grief, her pain. For a while she sank into the dark without so much as a glint of light. In the chill and loneliness she gave away all of her emotion, all her tears… only to have the final hurtle bring it all back again.

Hell. A lake of fire was the last thing she was pit against. Vivid pigments were forever captured in the stained glass flames, charring the skeletal remains of woods once lush and green.  She did not want to find out what lie on the other side of the picture. She didn’t want to see what hid behind the window. With everything she had, she fought against the force that dragged her to her doom, what she knew was the end. This was the last memory for her to endure before it would all be over!
It was nothing like what she anticipated or assumed.

No faces met her. No memories of those long lost came. Through the looking glass, the only reflection was red. Red, the color of roses, color of mourning, of apples, and demise— Her color. The color red was what hid behind the burning grove, and it was the color that life had first shown her. But, there’d be no moment of inner reflection and searching of soul to accompany this reveal. Mere meters below came a SNAP. Bone fractures rippled through her. Face-up, everything from phalange to cranium felt like it had broken. Finally, she had smacked into something more substantial than glass. The ground and her had found one another again.
The rain followed suit not long after the initial touchdown. Red fragments turned to droplets that splashed the ground below it, dappling her and her surroundings in the sight and smell of blood. So familiar, so fresh in her mind was the scent. She swore she could taste the metal in her mouth. It lingered there even after the liquid washed away, haunting her as she lie there, immobile, and permitted to have all sensation slowly drained from her wounds. Grief and suffering died away one final time before he found her.

Death found her….

The ground beneath took on texture. Her curves were cushioned with petals, flowers slowly emerging to ensnare her in their brilliant scarlet. Here, at the bottom, her grave marker became a sea of spider lilies. Her fate was accepted. Thereafter, the man of the hour arrived.

She watched as a silhouette approached, the being’s form slender and features sharp. His touch was akin to thistles— his voice, suede. He knelt down beside her and at long last the shadow of Death was upon her. The voice of Death, so too, had come. “Myra…” The manner in which he spoke was ethereal in nature. Its beauty, the softness of it paralleled by its clarity, how it caused something inside her to stir— She would follow this voice to the end of the earth, the end of time, and space. Though she was unable to move, his call moved her. Though she had no air left in her lungs, it took her breath away.  Her very soul was dragged from the reaches of her being by the serenade.
Death’s hands, forged of braided vine and barbs, brought her into the cradle of his prickly arms. Therein she became Sleeping Beauty, and he her coffin of thorns. Likened to a dryad, his form was a bond between plant and human, woven from a bramble bush and the spiny stems of roses. Yet, the characteristics of his face were well enough defined that she could discern the somber expression he wore. He was worn. Sad, almost. She wondered why.

“I have for you no quiet. I can give you no sleep. There is no solace, no peace, nor happiness for you here…”

He crushed her with this. Her spirit crumbled just as her bones had, a foreboding feeling of loss usurping the numbness that had comforted her. A great loneliness dug into her body like the arrows for which had killed her, and it burned and bled just as similarly. As though she’d once again become a warrior fatally wounded in battle, Death held her like she were on the brink of departing from him. He acted like there was only enough time for a last few words.

“Remember their faces and remember their names, for you will never see them again. Go in silence, and never speak of them again. Leave, and never hear from me again.”

His words… they held in them finality. Though her soul sought to rage vehemently against him, the rest of her lacked the passion.  She wanted to go with him, no matter the case or cost. But, she didn’t go. In his hold she savored the moment. Pain tingled across her skin and slowly infected her, just as the loneliness had done. Her senses once again blossomed akin to the lilies of her grave, and she felt anew. It ushered tears. She wept, and the world around her blurred until she could no longer help but to blink away the saline haze.

He was gone.

That’s all it took. Life was a blink from death, and death a blink from life. She opened her eyes again and the scenery had drastically changed. Her body lied partially obstructed by the corpses of fellow dead, the smell of blood, sewage, and the beginnings of decay creating brilliant contrast to the sterilized world of which she’d returned from. The initial reaction was to vomit, but the heave of her stomach and diaphragm only seemed to produce blood. A punctured right lung had her chest cavity pooling with liquid. She could only see out of her left side, because her right eye seemed to have been decimated by a well-placed arrow.  Multiple puncture wounds plagued her, as well as bone fractures and the oppressive weight of dead bodies and her own armor.

In lieu of all this, though, there was no semblance of dying. A strange, near terrifying feeling of shocklessness had taken her captive. The looming threat of death no longer registered with her body. She was empty of the adrenaline, empty of the inner instinct of survival. She felt panic, but it was not on the level of fight or flight. The fear was in the lack of fear. The terror was in not feeling afraid. All she had was what blood that remained in her veins, and it was the only thing left that made her feel alive. But, the longer she stayed still and complacent, the more of this precious commodity that was lost.

The voice of someone now far from her reverberated in her psyche. “No quiet, no solace, no sleep… No peace, nor happiness.” What she took from those words was that there was no other place for her to go. This was it, and there wasn’t anywhere else. This blood was her only inheritance. This life was the only place where her existence could reside. Her spirit once again raged against death, and this time her body raged, too.

She would not come quietly.  She would not go gently into good night. She would rage, and rage valiantly, rage with a fury beyond that of hell and a conviction surpassing that of heaven. She and the fallen dead comprised the Red Sea, and her will was likened unto the staff of Moses.  Mongolian wrath was outmatched by the way in which she conducted her carnage. Those who had ambushed her now were ambushed, themselves. Men, women, and children became puppets controlled by scarlet strings, and with every knight reaped by her hands the number of walking dead grew larger.

The element of surprise coupled with her accrued legion became the company’s downfall, and no soul survived. Even the enemy’s horses were slaughtered. She offered no other alternative than to have them wiped out in likeness to her own people, and in the aftermath she was the last to stay standing.  Therein was the quiet. A morsel of solace was given to her. A portion of peace was regained. Still, sleeplessness and sadness perverted her victory. Death haunted her in that familiar, festering feeling of lonesomeness.  There’d be no way to reconcile things, not between her and her family, not between her and death, and never between her and humans….

In the aftermath bodies were strewn across the area like ragdolls. She took it upon herself to pick through the remains and take what would be useful to her. Food, scraps of armor, cloth, her pack she’d been carrying prior to the attack—there was plenty to accommodate her needs that wouldn’t be missed. Beyond this, she merely prepared for a long walk. Instead of a full set of armor and leather, she donned something less cumbersome. Her wounds that still hadn’t regenerated were tended to. And, though there would be no chance to bury any of them, she took what moment remained to conduct a funeral’s prayer.

Her father, the last of her immediate relation, lay still with head resting in her lap. Silently she gave her last words to him. Surprisingly steady hands combed through his hair, the once ivory strands now caked in a mixture of mud and blood.  There wasn’t much certainty in how long she stayed there like that. For as long as she could stand it she hovered over him, quiet and unmoving aside from the motion of her brushing. The intimations of Death’s words now turned into a clear picture of his meaning.
This was the last time.

She would never see her father’s face again.  There’d be no chance in hearing his voice, no way of telling him anything more than what she’d said in those last few minutes. It was Eamon and Eernin all over again. It was just like when her mother had gone. Only, this time around, there was no one’s shoulder to lean on. This made it much harder to accept. Even with her supplies and small trinkets, to leave like this would still be to leave with nothing. He’d be left behind, all of her family would be left behind, because she didn’t have a way to take them with her.

Such was likely the catalyst for her choosing to do what she did. After all, it was something she needed, and it was the only piece she could keep. This in mind, the fingers that had once been gingerly brushing at her father’s hair instead moved to retrieve his eye. The right socket was emptied after meticulously prying it from his skull. Beyond this, her replacement for the eye she’d lost was utilized. It almost made her feel whole again. Physically, she was complete.
She couldn’t say the same for the rest of her.

Full vision wouldn’t return till long after she’d put distance between her and the blood bath. Once it did, the flood of emotion was consuming. For his age, his sight had been good. There wasn’t too large a gap between them in terms of vision. Still, merely the idea of seeing the world from his perspective was worthy of crippling her. In more than one instance it sought to bring her to her knees. But, only when she’d walked so far that she couldn’t see any hint of them did she at long last break. Morning was peeking over the horizon. She’d made it to the trees, and was out of the open. So, she stayed there. Weeping.

Daylight cast long shadows into the thickening abyss of the forest ahead. She couldn’t cling to the edge of the woods like this, but she couldn’t bring herself to carry on, either. Only a whinny whispered through the shade of the trees had been able to coerce her to go… and once she left, she didn’t return.
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Necrophilimaniac

Posts : 3
Join date : 2015-05-13
Age : 22

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