Bronte switched to Chopin, the piece like slow rain on a dreary day. Mabel sat with her back against the upright, down next to the pedals, playing with a set of carved animals that were part of a large crèche Bronte had given her for Christmas.
The Witchblade had changed almost immediately that day, in front of both Rolf's and her eyes--retracting into the unrecognizable piece of jewelry she now wore constantly on her wrist.
Bronte hummed along softly to the concerto she played. It was familiar, cozy--like an old friend. Her eyes wandered from the elaborate arrangement of lilies atop the piano to one of the two inset mirrors bookending where the sheet music would sit if she were to have any. The mirrors were tiny, barely large enough to reflect her entire face, yet the closer she looked as she played, the more deeply she could see into them--beyond her own reflection.
The cold fog of ice rose up all around her, the horsehair sofa on which she sat hard and unpleasant. She was cold enough to want to shiver, but unable to move.
An ancient, elderly man in a wheelchair sat opposite her, and if she were not so chilled in this place, from his manner she would assume they were about to take afternoon tea.
His right hand, scarred by a strange, upraised penumbra-like marking of dual spheres, shook at his side. His lips moved slowly, with great effort, but she could not hear what he was saying. She looked for the Witchblade--could not feel its presence on her wrist. It would know the answer. It would tell her what he said.
The old man moved to her hand, and she saw--as though outside of herself--what was there. No Witchblade. Missing fingers. No fingers.
No fingers. No hand.
The brightly lit sitting room of the suite in Paris flooded her consciousness like a cold-water dowsing on a sleeping soldier. She had finished the last movement of the Chopin, her hands still holding their positions until the last sound died away, years of practice taking over while her brain and consciousness absented themselves elsewhere.
She heard Mabel, trying out sounds for the donkey she played with--the sheep and camel. She looked down to her hands, the vision making her undecided about continuing to play or abandoning the instrument altogether. In the side mirror she caught her own reflection. She looked pale, shaken. Afraid of her own shadow. She brought her hands to her face, and startled, pulled them away. Several fingers on each hand had begun to slowly seep blood from under the cuticle, as though she had played with great force, and strength beyond her own ken.
Bronte hurried to the bathroom before her blood stained the keyboard--or frightened Mabel. She was disturbed enough for both of them. And though the Witchblade did not tell her, it would be only hours before the next disturbing pounding would be heard at their door.
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...to be continued...
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Disclaimer: I do not own Witchblade, nor the rights to its characters. Seek out Warner Bros. and/or Top Cow if you want to talk to people that matter. I'm not in their employ, and I'm not making any money off of their creation. But I am having a good time with it. ;)
by: Neftzer (c)2003
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