Axel; Ⅷ; The Flurry of Dancing Flames (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
got_it_memorized) wrote1999-10-10 02:58 am
got_it_memorized) wrote1999-10-10 02:58 am
(no subject)
You've been waiting forever. The sky turns scarlet and then plunges into an inky indigo as the sun falls. Where is he? Something must be really wrong this time.
A sound catches your attention and you turn over your shoulder to see the shadows hitch and warp, sliding across the cobbled walkways like living oil. It's a peculiar sound they make: like wet, heavy feathers falling into one another or long sheets of pooling satin. There are no feathers or satin to these shadows, though, only darkness and the sick yellow of their eyes. They rise from the ground, all claws and quaking, spasmodic movements, and you back away, instinctively moving into the darkness cast by the great columns. It's in the darkness that these creatures thrive, however, and no sooner do you step into the black cloak of shadow than you hear the sound again, whispers in your head that don't even register to your ears, like they're in your mind and under your skin before you see them. Their numbers have increased exponentially lately, they're everywhere and Ma doesn't like you to stay out after dusk these days but you can't just leave him. You got into this mess together and that's how you'll get out, and so you whirl and backpedal and lash out, knowing you can't hurt them but you try anyway. You always try, and maybe this time you'll succeed.
You try all night, until your shoulders ache and your clothes are torn and there are scratches from their impossible claws all over your arms, your legs, your back, and you can feel yourself bleeding but you don't care because where is he? The sky has turned a wan, watery green, the color of nausea, and as the shadows begin to recede they take the shadow monsters with them and you drop to your knees, breathing heavily. Your heart pulses in your ears and your head is heavy and your eyes are heavy and you're not sure you can stand up, but you have to. You have to try. You always try. The sky turns an odd pinkish orange now, like when you put a flashlight in your mouth and your cheeks light up, and you look down at the blood on your arms and then brace your palms on your thighs and get shakily to your feet.
The castle gate is a great blue door with gilded edges and brass rings. Lifting one of them, you rap it heavily against the door and it echoes in your head, in your hands, but there is no response. You open your mouth and shout, but it's like your tongue has forgotten how to form words and so your voice just tears from your throat, a horrible wail, the sound reverberating off the high walls and the empty air and the sick red-orange of that bloody sunrise. You slam your fists into the wooden door and it thunders and rumbles and quakes beneath your skin and bones but doesn't budge. You hit the door until your fists are bleeding like your arms and the wood has gone slick and red and there are splinters beneath your skin but you don't even feel the pain now because where IS he? You got into this mess together but now you're alone and you hate being alone and as you watch the blood slide down the door, black and thick like mud, you think you won't know what to do if you have to be alone forever.
The sky is pale yellow and barely blue, watered-down lemonade and crushed forget-me-nots and torn paper clouds. How long have you been awake? You feel like there's sand in all your joints, like your clothes are made of lead. Staggering back away from the door you stare blearily at the festive firework patterns of your blood on the wood, the spatters like dead flowers against the blue paint.
Your knees buckle and the ground rises up to meet you and there's a loud sound as your knees strike the stone but you're sure you can't really feel pain anymore. You're too tired, too scared, too daunted by your own solitude. Where is he? Where is he? Panic wells up in your stomach, your lungs, your throat, and you can't breathe anymore. What if he's gone? What if you're alone? You can't be alone, you can't. What have they done to him? What will they do to you if they catch you?
You can't breathe, your hands are shaking, your legs are shaking… no, the ground is shaking. You draw a halting breath and lift your eyes, watching as the castle begins to shake, the towers throwing dust as they pitch and twist. You crabscuttle backward, leaving a festive trail of blood in your wake and your arm gives out from under you and you feel the shock of impact radiate up your arm, and there's a massive crrrrrakk! but you realize with something like horror that it's not your arm that has shattered. Perhaps you wish it had been. Twisting where you've fallen you watch the ground open up, ripping apart like a gaping maw with jagged stone teeth, swallowing the benches where you used to sit, the flowers you never appreciated… Wrenching yourself to your feet you just turn and run to that big blue door and throw yourself at it and your throat is raw as you scream. Maybe you scream his name, maybe you scream nothing at all, but there's a cacophony of noise, of voices and wet feathers and falling rocks and dying flowers and you never thought the end of the world would be so loud.
And then it's silent.
The sky is the deep purple of crushed black grapes. There are no stars. Your back hurts, your head hurts, everything hurts, and you're not sure if you're asleep or awake or alive or dead. No, you can't be dead, it wouldn't hurt if you were dead.
But you're alone. Maybe that's worse.
The ground is wet, but it isn't raining, and you sit up and groan because everything aches. The fear is gone, though, and the panic. Actually you don't really feel anything. You look down to inspect the damage to your hands, your arms, but they're covered in black fabric. All of you is cloaked in black--a coat with a hood and pewter zipper. Your gloved fingertips swim to your face and press against the skin and you lean forward to try and glimpse yourself in a puddle.
A cry escapes your throat as the puddle turns black--suddenly, like someone spilled paint. Looking down you see that your clothes are soaked, but not with water. It's blood, and it's pouring black from your chest, and as you push the fabric of the coat aside your voice fails you as you see the great gaping hole in your body, the empty space where your heart should have been. You can't move, and you can't breathe, and you can't feel anything, not pain or shock or even fear. You can't feel anything.
Where is he?
The sky is black. And you're alone. And you're still waiting.
A sound catches your attention and you turn over your shoulder to see the shadows hitch and warp, sliding across the cobbled walkways like living oil. It's a peculiar sound they make: like wet, heavy feathers falling into one another or long sheets of pooling satin. There are no feathers or satin to these shadows, though, only darkness and the sick yellow of their eyes. They rise from the ground, all claws and quaking, spasmodic movements, and you back away, instinctively moving into the darkness cast by the great columns. It's in the darkness that these creatures thrive, however, and no sooner do you step into the black cloak of shadow than you hear the sound again, whispers in your head that don't even register to your ears, like they're in your mind and under your skin before you see them. Their numbers have increased exponentially lately, they're everywhere and Ma doesn't like you to stay out after dusk these days but you can't just leave him. You got into this mess together and that's how you'll get out, and so you whirl and backpedal and lash out, knowing you can't hurt them but you try anyway. You always try, and maybe this time you'll succeed.
You try all night, until your shoulders ache and your clothes are torn and there are scratches from their impossible claws all over your arms, your legs, your back, and you can feel yourself bleeding but you don't care because where is he? The sky has turned a wan, watery green, the color of nausea, and as the shadows begin to recede they take the shadow monsters with them and you drop to your knees, breathing heavily. Your heart pulses in your ears and your head is heavy and your eyes are heavy and you're not sure you can stand up, but you have to. You have to try. You always try. The sky turns an odd pinkish orange now, like when you put a flashlight in your mouth and your cheeks light up, and you look down at the blood on your arms and then brace your palms on your thighs and get shakily to your feet.
The castle gate is a great blue door with gilded edges and brass rings. Lifting one of them, you rap it heavily against the door and it echoes in your head, in your hands, but there is no response. You open your mouth and shout, but it's like your tongue has forgotten how to form words and so your voice just tears from your throat, a horrible wail, the sound reverberating off the high walls and the empty air and the sick red-orange of that bloody sunrise. You slam your fists into the wooden door and it thunders and rumbles and quakes beneath your skin and bones but doesn't budge. You hit the door until your fists are bleeding like your arms and the wood has gone slick and red and there are splinters beneath your skin but you don't even feel the pain now because where IS he? You got into this mess together but now you're alone and you hate being alone and as you watch the blood slide down the door, black and thick like mud, you think you won't know what to do if you have to be alone forever.
The sky is pale yellow and barely blue, watered-down lemonade and crushed forget-me-nots and torn paper clouds. How long have you been awake? You feel like there's sand in all your joints, like your clothes are made of lead. Staggering back away from the door you stare blearily at the festive firework patterns of your blood on the wood, the spatters like dead flowers against the blue paint.
Your knees buckle and the ground rises up to meet you and there's a loud sound as your knees strike the stone but you're sure you can't really feel pain anymore. You're too tired, too scared, too daunted by your own solitude. Where is he? Where is he? Panic wells up in your stomach, your lungs, your throat, and you can't breathe anymore. What if he's gone? What if you're alone? You can't be alone, you can't. What have they done to him? What will they do to you if they catch you?
You can't breathe, your hands are shaking, your legs are shaking… no, the ground is shaking. You draw a halting breath and lift your eyes, watching as the castle begins to shake, the towers throwing dust as they pitch and twist. You crabscuttle backward, leaving a festive trail of blood in your wake and your arm gives out from under you and you feel the shock of impact radiate up your arm, and there's a massive crrrrrakk! but you realize with something like horror that it's not your arm that has shattered. Perhaps you wish it had been. Twisting where you've fallen you watch the ground open up, ripping apart like a gaping maw with jagged stone teeth, swallowing the benches where you used to sit, the flowers you never appreciated… Wrenching yourself to your feet you just turn and run to that big blue door and throw yourself at it and your throat is raw as you scream. Maybe you scream his name, maybe you scream nothing at all, but there's a cacophony of noise, of voices and wet feathers and falling rocks and dying flowers and you never thought the end of the world would be so loud.
And then it's silent.
The sky is the deep purple of crushed black grapes. There are no stars. Your back hurts, your head hurts, everything hurts, and you're not sure if you're asleep or awake or alive or dead. No, you can't be dead, it wouldn't hurt if you were dead.
But you're alone. Maybe that's worse.
The ground is wet, but it isn't raining, and you sit up and groan because everything aches. The fear is gone, though, and the panic. Actually you don't really feel anything. You look down to inspect the damage to your hands, your arms, but they're covered in black fabric. All of you is cloaked in black--a coat with a hood and pewter zipper. Your gloved fingertips swim to your face and press against the skin and you lean forward to try and glimpse yourself in a puddle.
A cry escapes your throat as the puddle turns black--suddenly, like someone spilled paint. Looking down you see that your clothes are soaked, but not with water. It's blood, and it's pouring black from your chest, and as you push the fabric of the coat aside your voice fails you as you see the great gaping hole in your body, the empty space where your heart should have been. You can't move, and you can't breathe, and you can't feel anything, not pain or shock or even fear. You can't feel anything.
Where is he?
The sky is black. And you're alone. And you're still waiting.