today
Eyes slide open.
A woman is talking to a Fayth. She's chanting secrets to their dreams, turning the screeching nightmares of the slumbering Fayth into the raw power of an absolute avatar.
Today, it's the spirit of a beautiful woman; a dancer in the valley of ice and mist. Shards appear where tarantella steps collide with the sun bleached ground. The soft chill of a winter night kiss the skin of her enemies; caressing flesh that has been screaming for moisture.
Fingers snap, and crystals sink into flesh that was caressed by the inviting hands of a devastating oasis. The memory of blood flies through the air out of the wounds of deformed bodies. And soon, blood is feasted on by a colony of pyreflies.
The woman who called on her (witch, the dancer whispers behind her back) smiles through the façade of her innocence, smiles at the death and the feasting lights in a hot summer air.
The dancer blinks, and sees blood over the witch's clothes.
And yet, the wings of the pyreflies never flutter to feed on the nectar covered witch.
yesterday
Once upon a time, they were all humes. The dancer was once a priestess, cold, frigid, had her heart shattered into pieces by a guard her father employed. She cut herself with one of his blades, watched herself bleed over and die.
They all have histories; The demon was once a sailor, who threw himself into a funeral pyre after the ghost of his SIN killed his wife and son. The angel in the sky was a girl who was pushed over a cliff, friends playing a friendly game of truth or dare.
They all have histories, some more gruesome that the others, but their dreams and nightmares have made them all forget who they ever where.
They forget their names, the faces of who they loved.
They forget everything but the chanting. The monotony, chanting.
The dancer is trying to sleep peacefully deep in the cavern of her chamber, trying to remember one thing that isn't myth from her past life. The chanting rouses, and she dreads the death that will forthcome. Soon, the taste of her unrequited lover is at the back of her throat.
and tomorrow...
She's here again, at a different time, different place. The dancer tastes the onslaught of blood in the air, and suddenly, she remembers how she died.
She snaps her fingers, and the enemy is encased in ice. But the fiend, a monstrosity of man and machine, roars through the ice, and lunges forward. Her chest is soon pierced by claws wrought with malice and glee, grinding the shattered remnants of her heart into dust.
She falls to the frigid floor, her own element is bemoaning her fate by crying small particles of dust. She shrieks as she clutches the wound on her chest, and wishes that the pain could be nothing more than a dream.
The dancer feels cold.
The witch, once by her side, now takes initiative. Closes her pretty eyes, and the sound of her chanting is in the air.
The demon vapourizes the snow with fire and earth.
The pyreflies are feeding on the dancer's corpse now, and the demon snarls and growls his own chant. A eulogy of empathy for the corpse buried in the snow, and a serenade of his own fate.
...never comes
Eyes slide open.
And it starts all over again.
disclaimer
and
concrit greatly appreciated