A/N:
An ICO story in 2017? Oh golly! Bet'cha didn't expect that! Jokes aside, chapter will be real short, but updated daily. As usual have fun and RR!
Prologue: But the Castle is not empty.
The wind echoed in the castle. Dust running through its cracks, through rocks too old that witnessed history now forgotten. The wind is strong, and it feels cold. The now broken columns and roofs of the castle make it harder for the sun to pass, and as such, the place is bathing in shadows. On the walls, remnants of torches, once lit and now reduced to little, small cinder, gently blown away by the air that passes through the hallways.
But the Castle is not empty.
There's a throne. It's made of stone; hard and rigid, like its ruler. It is finely decorated- or at least it was. Time has gently consumed this glorious seat, and only glimpses of this work remains now, unrecognizable and tenaciously attached to its former glory. There's columns around, once used for the purpose of holding fire and light. The same very thing that this place misses the most.
The throne room is enormous, and the echoed wind almost deafen the poor ghosts that inhabit this place, such is its strength.
There's a beach, somewhere, under this castle built on rocks and ascended in air. The sand is white as her, and the water is pure as it's strong.
Still silence, even here, broken only by the almost too loud sound of waves crashing on the shore. Trying to break a fate binded to them, and thus, dying and reviving thanks to such tenacity.
But the Castle is not empty.
Green grass covers one of the only places covered in sunlight, gently growing around the stones. Dozens of tombs lie in there, all grey and once written. But now the time has erased those memories, making them wither away along with those scripts.
The balconies that cover this area are broken; some fallen, some are simply too unstable. Rocks fell on the floor, but grass is acceptance: it covers everything. And as such, those rocks now blend with the ground.
It's the castle's soul, the wind murmurs. It blends what was once inside of himself. It is nothing but a faint whisper sang in between the columns.
But the Castle is not empty.
There were drawings, art, on those walls. Some still remains; carrying out their duty as lingering wills, refusing to give up to time that still now, with gentle weeps and a the soft touch of wind, slowly caresses those old, old drawings, bringing an all too slow death to those souls.
Dust falls from the walls- tears, maybe, of a construction who's seeing it's own demise by the hand of time.
The wind weeps along with the dust, it's singing echoing all around the castle.
Nobody is to listen.
But the Castle is not empty.
The Castle has stairs, rails even, witnesses of its own old and withering glory. Much of them are broken now; destroyed rocks block many paths, bridges falls under the heavy weight of years. Rusty chains rumbles against the wind, threatening to give up, to leave even that piece falling in the darkness of the sea beneath. But they do not.
The don't listen to the wind, not they weep for themselves. All of them, and the wind itself, all weeps for her.
But the Castle is not empty.
There is a tower, much higher than any other one. Time had been forgiving with this one- her cries must have corrupted even this unforgiving judge.
Spikes come out from the top, windows of stone covering the very last area. Inside, there is a single chain, rustled and crying, but not at the time. It descends from the ceiling to the ground, attached to a cage of rusting black metal. The cage though, has now fallen, breaking the ending part of the chain, which now silently moves and cries for it has broken.
Such selfishness.
The fire coming from the torches is warm. It all too gently gets light on her, almost afraid to touch such ethereal and delicate goddess.
Here, too, the wind weeps, bringing along the dust. Her hand caresses the ground, and she feels the sand and the rocks gently caressing her skin. Her pure, white skin.
She's the ruler now, a ruler of shadows and cries. Yet she does not sit on her throne; she does not call her spirits upon. She weeps, and the Castle weeps with her.
Because the Castle is not empty.
But there is only one inside.