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Haunted
In the shadows cast by the full moon's light, she glows in an unearthly manner. Oblivious to the icy winds that ward away the unwanted from this place, she hesitates before she steps cautiously into the cavern lit by moonbeams and a few dying torches.
He stands still and silent in the dark, his wings folded tight against his back and all four arms crossed anxiously over his torso. He watches her stop before the mannequin that wears armor that was once his, a divine smile on her lips as she runs a hand affectionately over the cheek of the vacant face made of alabaster. If he closes his eyes for just a moment he can remember and feel that touch of hers once more.
How he envies that dummy.
"Venturas," she whispers, her hands on the doll's shoulders, fingers hooking into the grooves in the armor. She pulls herself close, pressing her forehead to the helmet, eyes closed and breath washing over the cold, cold stone. "I miss you so, my love."
"And I, you," he whispers, but the unfamiliar harshness of his voice brings her forth from her reverie. There's a hand clasped against her heart as she turns on her heel.
"Who is there?" She calls out, her voice meek and small all of a sudden.
He sighs and looks away from her before their eyes meet through the shadows. "Venturas," he responds.
She shakes her head. "Do not play me for a fool! You sound nothing like him. Tell me who you really are!"
"I kid you not, Lady Mirim," he says, his second pair of hands now at his sides, fisted so tight his talons dig into calloused, scaled flesh.
Her fear is masked by disbelief, and suddenly she is bold and daring. "Then show yourself."
There's a warmth on his fingertips, blood. "I would rather not."
"Why not?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
"You will not like what you see," he tells her.
"So be it," she says haughtily. She takes a determined step forward, "if you will not show yourself to me, I will have to see you for myself."
"No!" He shouts, and the echo bounces off the walls of the cavern. Although he is sorry to have frightened her, he is thankful she retreats. "No," he repeats, then asks, "are you certain you want to see?"
"I am," she tells him, but he can tell she is now wary. As she should be. As she always is.
He takes a breath, braces himself, and slowly steps forth into the light to reveal himself to her. A grotesque creature made of man and dragon and dark, Stygian magic. One of the Lady's hands raise up to cover her mouth as she shakes her head, denying herself a reality she's lived many times over. He takes a step forward.
"Please, do not be afraid," he begs, two of his four arms outstretched in vain.
"Get away from me!" She screams, hurrying away from him backwards in a blind panic. He stills, arms at his side once more. He waits, prays, remembers.
She is short of breath now, and her eyes roll back in their sockets as she falls to floor. Face down, lifeless in death, the specter begins to fade, leaving a surreal glow in her wake. He falls to his knees and screams.
For how long, he wonders – for how long will it be he who haunts the ghost?
-End