BURIED ALIVE
Ouverture


There was mist. It coiled languidly upon the calm waters of the fjord, livened only every now and then by some rocking, rippling waves. It slithered lazily down the long sleeves of an elegant dress of a deep, purplish hue. It lapped almost lovingly at the hands, adorned with pitch black lace, abandoned among the ruffles of the rich gown.

The woman was standing at the edge of the rocky shore, her feet encased in a pair of dark slippers kissed by the quiet waters. She didn't seem to mind the wetness – actually, she seemed oblivious to it entirely. Her glassy eyes were fixed on the light that the mansion in front of her cast onto the sea.

It had all started so long ago. All because of a childish, stupid caprice. It had been so long. Many years she had dwelled in the darkness of doubt, in rage. Eight more she had spent waiting still, but in anticipation, enjoying his anxiety. Ten more she had passed reveling in his despair.

She casually brought a hand to play with her short, raven black hair.

She wished she could have savored that bliss much longer… but alas, that was not the case: she knew he had made up his mind. She had to act, before he could attempt to restore that peace she had worked so hard to jeopardize.

Her skin cold, colder than the northern sea itself, she dissolved in the thickening haze that surrounded the slope of the mountain and the banks of the fjord. The piercing drizzle swirled and crept towards the mansion, apparently headed for that light shining behind one of the windows of the Western tower.

The shadow of a gale seemed to glide right through the glass.

The candle that had been casting the light went out.