Re: Whispers in the Dark
“Wait one moment.” The Darkangel turned from his drawings and ran towards an overfilled closet, pulling out an assortment of clothing and obscure items whose purposes the prisoner could only guess. Finally, he pulled out a long over-coat, shook out a layer of dust and handed her the garment. She felt the worn cloth in her hands and looked up at him in confusion.
“What’s this supposed to be?” She turned the coat over and traced the back’s silver insignia–an intricate design of interweaving and overlapping flowers and thorns with a shaded feather resting in their center.
“It’s a gift, for you.” The Darkangel came and sat down beside her, climbing over a stack of large multi-lingual dictionaries. Despite the gift, the prisoner couldn’t help but feel a small sense of foreboding.
“But, I don’t understand….” She held up the jacket in front of her once more, noticing the ludicrous amount of straps and buckles along the sleeves and looked towards him in confusion before placing the gift on the floor.
“Humans generally don’t; you don’t have to understand it. In fact, it’d be better if you didn’t. I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” He clasped his black gloved hands together and stared at the floor, obviously in deep thought.
“What are you talking about?” She fixed the Darkangel with an inquiring glare, demanding an answer, but all he did was turn away from her with a soft smile and jump off the stack of books in a single leap. Her next question came quickly, with a shake of her head: “Are you just going to lie to me again and keep me in the dark like you always do?” Clambering off her seat of books, she ran after the retreating vampyre.
He stopped and turned to watch her pursuit and a moment’s silence waited. “No,” he began, his eyes following a mark on the ceiling, “it is I who am kept in the never-ending darkness. Not you. Never you.”
He turned and walked out of the room, retreating to the dark from which he claimed to deliver her.
Beside him is the girl, the broken girl who’s covered in blood
So much blood, so much blood
It stains the ground, it flows down the walls
He can’t take it,
he doesn’t want to see it there but
he can smell it
He can feel it
on his hands
soaking them to the core
He can taste it on his lips,
taste it on his breath
One last trace of her before she collapsed into dust
The onslaught of images continues to trample him,
forcing him into that bleeding floor
She blinked slowly before turning towards him, eyes clouded from the strain of her desperate attempt at escape. He wondered how long it had taken her to collapse against the pavement; how many steps it had taken before her legs refused to move; how many miles it took for her to realize exactly her predicament.
“There really is no escape from this place, is there?”
Outside the rain patted against the tin roof; he looked up, once again reminding himself that he’d have to fix the rusting sheets. The prisoner grabbed her dark hair and began wringing out the excess water, not removing her questioning eyes from the Darkangel.
“You can’t have expected to get far in this weather; you should have waited until the rain cleared up,” he said slowly, without a hint of admonishment in a tone that bordered on advisory. The vampyre looked through the make-shift window and watched as the bombardment of rain steadily thickened.
“It doesn’t matter what the weather is, though. If I had kept walking, I wouldn’t have found anything. You picked a very nice location for your prison; a place where no one but you can escape.” She laughed slightly before coughing into her hand and waited for her to cease before beginning his explanation.
“A prison?” His humorless words would have been mistaken for emotionless, were a tinge of bitter anger not apparent. “I’m glad you still have the na´vety to think of me like this–” and he paused, clinging to his calm, “as the demon whose only purpose in life is to tear out the hearts of innocent girls like yourself.” He sighed, reaching to his side and handing her a glass of steaming tea.
“How do I know this isn’t poisoned?” Her voice was cold, but her eyes flamed with the rebellious, fear-ridden anger of a cornered beast. She set down the glass on the floor beside the Darkangel’s black-clad feet.
“If I had wanted you killed, I would have left you to freeze to death instead of hauling your soaked carcass through the pouring rain.” His eyes met hers and the fires clashed–each flared equally as he dared her to grasp at the words left unspoken.
The silence around them froze as her eyes narrowed, boring into his with savage defiance.
“Or you could have touched me,” finished the prisoner in a soft tone that completely contradicted her granite expression, staring down at her captor’s carefully gloved hands.
His eyes widened and the ashes swirled.
“There are too many ways in which a human can die; for me, there is only one.”
He knows that the blood isn’t real,
that the stone angels weeping over his shoulders aren’t real
The faces, the tears, the pain
He knows it’s not there
and yet he feels it all the same,
he’s drowning all the same
The immortal god drowns in a pool of forgotten dreams, while alongside him
tears fall from a dead girl’s eyes
The new man stood hunched over in a deranged manner, his long, coarse hair pulled back into a messy pony-tail. He seemed almost sickly to the boy–pale skin clung to his bones in a starved manner, and yet his bright, crimson eyes seem to blaze under the non-existent black brows with a fervor so different from the dull haze or feverish spark he had recognized in the starving men at home.
He spoke in a rushed tone and a foreign accent, but with more familiarity than any disoriented traveler: “Greetings L. I bring news of the outside world, because–believe me, L–prior to what I had thought, there is a world outside of this dismal corner you’ve claimed as your own, and it is vast and wondrous and so ready for the picking.” The traveler laughed, leaning back and closing his eyes before reforming into the hunch. All at once, the child was struck by the similarities between this man–this stranger–and his own captor. The familiar hunch in the shoulders, the bare, pale feet, the wild, chaotic hair–his man seemed to almost be a colored, human version of the Icarus.
“Are people fruit, B?” The Darkangel smiled at some personal, inside joke, and stuck one pale thumb between his lips, indicating that the wheels in his head were in motion once more. The boy couldn’t help but slink farther back into the shadows, inching his way over towards the stairs; this man had not come to see him and would not be inclined to sympathy.
“No, of course not! They are cattle; dumb, mangy beasts! It is us, the Icari, who are meant to rule them–not be trapped by our own genius! L, we could be gods. We are gods; we have only to take our throne.” Here, he held out his hands towards the Darkangel, red eyes gleaming with possibility.
The vampyre merely cocked his head, expression remaining neutral. “B has a god complex,” stated the Icarus in finality, turning around and walking casually past Light and up the stairs leading to the bell tower with his dark wings falling off his shoulders like a poorly tailored cape. Even after he had passed, the child could smell the icy chill of death wrapped around the vampyre’s hands.
The foreigner rushed to follow the vampyre up the stairs and caught sight of the boy for the first time. He stopped. His back straightened and with an insect-like movement, reached forward and grabbed the boy out from the shadows and back into the light.
“And who the hell is this runt supposed to be?” shouted the stranger; in an almost imperceptible split of time, he had been transformed from the idealistic dreamer to the furious monster who held the boy in a choking grasp. “Is he my replacement, L? Is this little bastard my replacement?”
The Darkangel’s ascent slowed to a halt as the boy struggled in the man’s grip, his lungs aching for breath. Finally, the being turned and glared at the young man below him in accusation, his crystal eyes boiling in rage.
“You dare to call him an illegitimate son? You dare to look at his human features and call them counterfeit? Look in a mirror, B–what do you see? You are the ultimate disgrace; a child that is neither human nor demon–a monster without a definition to place it in the world. I may be a monster, but at least I am in no doubt that I am one–but you! What can you possibly know of what it means to understand what you truly are?” The vampyre jumped down from his position on the spiraling stairs to right in front of the stranger’s face, his clear-cut eyes driving deep into the man’s skull. Startled, the man dropped the brunette child and stared back at the Darkangel. “You think you’re a god,” he spat.
“Isn’t that what we are though? Isn’t it? Gods! We are gods! The fourteen dark gods from Hell–that’s what they call us! And you–it’s you who can’t see correctly! You’ve disillusioned yourself to believe that you are a monster… exactly what they want you to think! I used to think you were different; smarter, stronger. But now I see….. You are just as pathetic as the rest of them–just as pathetic as the rest of the humans. You’re no better than they are.” The red-eyed man sneered before spitting on the carpet, “You weren’t worth my time.” He bowed and stalked from the room stiff-backed.
The stranger never again came back into the stone sanctuary; it wasn’t until years later that the boy would ever set eyes on the half-blood god again, and by that time he would have grown accustomed to the blood-thirsty smile on his face.
“Why did you let her near me?! Why did you give me something to hope for?”
He wants to hear an answer,
to find someone to blame but as always there is no one
No one to answer him
No one to hear him
No one to pity him
He is alone.
Last edited by Scourge of Amaranth; 11-30-2008 at 03:34 AM.