Four Phases
Chapter 3: Autumn
Disclaimer: The usual.
Thanks for reviewing. So far everyone has guessed correctly that the first POV is a servant's. Phew: I thought it might be a bit too vague. About the scents: refer to chapter 2. Restrained emotion. . . probably.
Enjoy this chapter: it's my favourite of the 3 so far.
***
Drip.
Murderer. Butcher. Abattoir. Bloodbath. Kill. Slaughter.
Six words for one hundred and sixteen times more lives. Six times one hundred and sixteen slashes of red across the walls. Six times one hundred and sixteen times over has autumn's garish hand painted the chambers red.
Drip. Drip.
Six times one hundred and sixteen times has this blade cut downward. Has my hand bathed in the celebratory spurt of blood before death, six times one hundred and sixteen times already?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I cross the stairs, splattered with the remains of multitudinous lives. Incarnadine. But it does not match my shirt and pants and eyes.
No. Only the sword can wear it so boldly.
Up. Down. Left. Right. Wails-shrieks. Footsteps.
Shadows: I cut them down before they appear. Like a scythe set loose in a cornfield. The screams and cries--just solos in orchestrated cacophony. They rise and fall: studied in death.
Six times one hundred and sixteen lives. How many dreams have I sacrificed to see this? Six times one hundred and sixteen nights.
Drip. Drip.
I make the mistake of slashing through a curtain.
One hundred eyes . . . . One hundred eyes mark his limbs. I see one hundred eyes through a haze of blood-matted hair. Was it really that many?
They told me he had one hundred eyes, but they never told me--
--That he looked like me.
Drip.
Chapter 3: Autumn
Disclaimer: The usual.
Thanks for reviewing. So far everyone has guessed correctly that the first POV is a servant's. Phew: I thought it might be a bit too vague. About the scents: refer to chapter 2. Restrained emotion. . . probably.
Enjoy this chapter: it's my favourite of the 3 so far.
***
Drip.
Murderer. Butcher. Abattoir. Bloodbath. Kill. Slaughter.
Six words for one hundred and sixteen times more lives. Six times one hundred and sixteen slashes of red across the walls. Six times one hundred and sixteen times over has autumn's garish hand painted the chambers red.
Drip. Drip.
Six times one hundred and sixteen times has this blade cut downward. Has my hand bathed in the celebratory spurt of blood before death, six times one hundred and sixteen times already?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I cross the stairs, splattered with the remains of multitudinous lives. Incarnadine. But it does not match my shirt and pants and eyes.
No. Only the sword can wear it so boldly.
Up. Down. Left. Right. Wails-shrieks. Footsteps.
Shadows: I cut them down before they appear. Like a scythe set loose in a cornfield. The screams and cries--just solos in orchestrated cacophony. They rise and fall: studied in death.
Six times one hundred and sixteen lives. How many dreams have I sacrificed to see this? Six times one hundred and sixteen nights.
Drip. Drip.
I make the mistake of slashing through a curtain.
One hundred eyes . . . . One hundred eyes mark his limbs. I see one hundred eyes through a haze of blood-matted hair. Was it really that many?
They told me he had one hundred eyes, but they never told me--
--That he looked like me.
Drip.