Who will call to it?
It cries for the ichor, and the ichor soothes it. The flesh mends itself, and the heart soothes it. But the soul doesn’t listen, doesn’t hear the call.
But the power feels it all, knows it all.
Hear the quiet song whispered in between the spires.
Sing to me, it pleads.Sing to me once more.
Awaken, my love.
Awaken.
My Love.
XXIV
At first, there’s only colours. Colours and sounds. They swirl around each other like petrol in a dirty puddle. I hear the echoes of a waterfall, but all I see is shades of brown. The sound of wind howls through tree tops, and leaves fall into the thicket. The breathing of emeralds and charcoals drowns out everything else.
The side of a mountain.
Moist and dark.
Conifer trees try to climb its surface, giving up half way to the top. Grey clouds hang low. Mist crawls along the sandy ground.
Then, a boy.
Thin limbs. Too short. Too sharp.
Dull eyes. A mean mouth. His head is too big for his frame, like a toddler’s. His mudbrown hair droops like a faded curtain around his head. He’s holding a puppy by its scruff, dangling it in the air, staring at it not moving an inch.
A shake of the wrist. Piercing yelps, begging for release.
With the puppy still clutched between his bony fingers, he climbs up the side of a boulder. From there, he lets the dog fall to the rock-covered ground. The puppy whimpers, tries to moveaway. It struggles. Slips. Legs twisted in unnatural angles. The boy grins and grabs a rock, lifting it high over his head.
I want to close my eyes.
I don’t want to see what’s coming.
But my eyes don’t belong to me now.
The sound of whimpers and death pierce my ears as the boy cackles in delight.
Muted colours, washed out and faded from the passage of time. A thin curtain of rain draining the life from everything it touches. I see a thin man crouching in front of a hut made out of sticks and mud, barely big enough to stand. I recognise those same dull eyes and mean mouth.
I want to look away.
The clashing of stone against stone fills the air. The man holds his work up toward the sun. A spear glints in the light, thin as a razor’s edge.
With the spear in one hand and a torch in the other, he sneaks along the side of a hut. This one is bigger, but still, it’s barely a building. Wooden beams hold up the sides, and the roof is made out of straw. The darkness of the night is unnaturally oppressive. The dark is full and alive. But through the cracks of the wood come laughter and light.
The thin man lights the straw on fire. The flames lash out furiously, ravenous.
A woman’s scream cuts the darkness in two. The wailing of an infant. A terrified family tries to escape the hut, but the thin man stands in the distance, growling. His eyes are wide and shining—delighted.
“Abas! Abas!” they shout, too afraid to run for safety.
The screams blur.
