Scheherazade
By SMYGO4EVA
As time passes, things change and countless stories are told, even in a slowly changing world where little or any little piece of existence in an eternal metamorphic state. Ever flowing and ever changing, happenings have a way to being remembered and withstanding the ebb and flow of time, preventing it from being erased from our memories forever.
Kul Elna withstood time for too long in the vast land of royalty and riches, beyond all that was regal and all that was viewed as a part of the black sands. The rivers and the villages ebbed and flowed together, seemingly untouched by the strands of fate, just as nostalgic places seemed to. Just as nostalgic places seemed to endure any sort of change that it weathered, if only for so long.
Kul Elna was simplicity in its most simple. Nothing too grandiose, nothing even to distinguish it from the next village; but to its inhabitants, Kul Elna was all they needed. Everyone knew each other, and everything that they could need was in their grasp.
Its inhabitants knew of stories as well. One inhabitant in particular, named Kisara, was a master of telling stories. You couldn't tell from her seemingly shy personality, but Kisara had an imagination only prospective tale-tellers could fathom. Every day, on the same corner of the street, a crowd would gather around her whilst she herself gathered strings and webs of fables and stories, and acted them out for all to see. Her introverted demeanor vanished, alongside with any thoughts of her existence on this Earth being in vain.
Another inhabitant of Kul Elna had stories to tell as well; Bakura, or as he was famously known as "The Thief King", would listen to these yarns as they were strung above the heads of the innocent civilians, intently focusing on the storyteller in particular. He wouldn't be in the crowd with the others though. He would be across the street, leaning on a wall and drinking in all that the lovely maiden had to offer. The Thief King knew that the stories that she told were pure fantasy – nothing real about them. But what intrigued him so was the fact that she was so vivid in describing everything in the stories.
As if foretelling the future.
As soon as it came, Kul Elna was soon no more than a vestige of the past when visions of blood-soaked streets and riddled nightmares came true.
The senseless violence, the gore, and the horror of it were all it took for the storyteller to lose her voice.
The madness, the depravity, and the apprehension were all it took for the Thief King to get revenge.
Life and death did not matter anymore.
In just one moment, chaos and silence amalgamated and became nothing. They transcended and merged into a memory one would want to forget for all time.
Stories of fantasy and wonder were erased from her mind, and only anguish and longing for the sweet release of death was her one wish and her one fear. Her inner turmoil and strength merged to create a power that was monstrous and that of a God, like the ones from her stories. The storyteller, Kisara, would only wander in the endless sands of the black land stained forever by cruelty and supremacy. She would wander the lonely sands forever and seek the wish that would come to her soon.
Marred memories of the bloodshed would plague the mind of the Thief King, and with that scar upon his face and his mind, he would spread even more bloodshed in the name of vengeance. Acts of the most heinous kind, he would tear down the ruling empire that kept the land in its clutches and it too will be forever scarred by what sin they bestowed upon his village. Yes, the thief king would soon take his place on the throne that sent his lineage and bloodlines into the descent to Hell and take what was rightfully his. The power of a God would come to him soon enough.
There was no end to the darkness now.
Left by the horrible and nightmarish memories.
Taken from the stories of one's imagination.
Time stood as it did, and it was the cruelest master to obey.
The Thief King would bring God against it.
The Maiden of the Dragon would no longer recall stories as she did long ago.
Blood would spill and a memory would last from it.
A memory that hopefully would fade away as death claims them.
Scheherazade would be no more.
(A/N: How time flies when you write stories for three years and you write something to commemorate the date you first started telling stories. Since it's the New Year, I'll be writing more fic and more chapters for my longer fics for you all! Read and review!)
Soundtrack:
"Diorama" Eiko Shimamiya
"When The Cicadas Cry" Cristina Vee
Sound Duel 4 – Evil Will
Sound Duel – Kisara
Sound Duel – Bakura, King Of Bandits