Part III: A Tomb in Autumn
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Of black and white his heart, it she seeded with plea's colour. In her thoughts, if her tongue could utter, that arose from the deep she had created a realm of lust, a chamber of need. Her words, in thoughts, had risen to touch the grey and hard-feeling sky of his dreams. Was that so—it was not so.
And he slept fast, and unfeeling weather bred fear in her limbs; but want was a companion of hope, her spirit. It erased the custodian of doubt that barred her way with his sword. She would see him here, in this dream; go to him here, in this gleam. Eternal his thoughts, immortal his memories that galloped to the realm beyond her reach.
And in her dreams she cried, in waking she tried, to grasp the purple-striped robes of a God that dreamt in glee. Aloof his edifice of beauty, cold his eyes of red, in her passions that bled from the womb; and she had seen him, eyes sombre, coming into her, a union that debased her spirit.
A dream? A swig? Who was to say for sure when she partook of the sweetness distilled of her well-held, well-dreamt, well-remembered reveries? It spread into her spirit, a vile disease, all black and white in glory. Going in and coming out, going in and coming out, going in and coming out—over and over again this wanton union she had coveted for so long.
O', with speed, into dream's litle gleam, he came on wings made from dews, spreading and spreading, a union of black and white; and she partook of the colours of both, breathed from him, drank in from his ripeness, a corruption that was Godly and Divine; and days went by, nights sped away, and her dreams became his, her dreams struggling from her limbs—to be free, freed by his love.
A dark horizon in her vision, fringed with the Lord's glory. A maiden, Carmilla, clothed in rainbow, a thousand hues against the sky's gold—beautiful, eternal this place's memories. Why not this—why not this? He had placed a cold globe over this land that oozed brown, expelled decay; yet out of the rot rose his signs. Surely, this was love—this was divine?
And she wept and she crept and she slept in wait for the Revelation fitted for her spirit's growth. He would come from the high on wings of saffron—he would join with her and make love and drink in the ecstasy from her mortal coil . . . the only thing she could give.
Yet he did not come, and her spirit, in restless grief, had let out secrets for his love. It had killed, maimed, bloodied for his love, for he ruled Carmilla, but he ruled her heart's domain more. Mount and ride her till she squealed and laughed and spilled from wanton pleasures!
Forlorn—guilty her spirit that had tainted its matter by drawing his lesser mirage into her body till she had cried out in excitement, bled out the remnants of loyalty in breaths that did not hide his name—no, they announced it with fervour as she wriggled, struggled, trembled on the warm bed of Carmilla's spring Eternal!
Flowers had cushioned her back in which muscles moved with the fire of release; his seed full in her womb, organ honey in her mouth, presence fury in her eyes; and he granted her what she had wished for—always. Bliss—bliss Eternal, for her flesh sung with the pleas from her spirit's tongue. Free. Free. Free!
O', Carmilla, take my soul, for blessed are those with hearts pure . . .
Sitting upon Heaven's arch, he had flashed from the sky as he flew; and beneath his spreading wings of Light Eternal, a procession of Monks had taken its way across the lands to the trembling shores of His heaven's bridge.
For the Pure shall see the Lord!
On the bow of rainbow's bridge
He perched to overlook Carmilla's Godly ridge.
And he wore unity's colour, sun's gold, that radiated bright in the first morn after the battle; so many red tints gleamed across the ground, reminders of his parting. He went away from her, left her distraught in grief and fear. For years, she had waited for him under the boughs that wore an Eternal green as their garb, her heart in lust's waters, submerged.
And he had come at last as a mirage, asked of her to give him what he desired, and he would in return fulfill her wish—One Wish! She had given him her heart, her spirit, her soul and told him of the union she coveted.
Bless the Lord!
Bless the Heaven!
Bless the Sky!
Take from me
And rip from me my spirit!
Come in me
And find in me your heart!
One day—some day
You shall know my love!
And he had done what her pleas spoke of; and she had done what he commanded of her. She was obedient in mannerisms, doing it in the name of love. Her heart's oceans, spilling from the coil's crevices, told him of the desperation, of the devotion in her spirit that danced to the melodies from his tongue—always.
Into the Eternal petals he went, and the flower closed up to take him in for years; and she ached in his wake. He had forgotten her, and no matter what she did, she only felt him in dreams, her pleasures a dream-haze, a dilution of her flesh's reality. It desired and it wanted and it craved for the trembles that travelled unchecked in her organic matter's apparatus. It wanted him to be real! This unreal nature of his presence was tearing her apart.
Someday, Carmilla would throw open the gates for the Lord's to-be-bride, and she would become his—forever. So she waited and waited and waited . . .
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The halcyon days of Konoha's spring, trees grew in time and birthed flowers in time—nothing was ever out-of-place, nothing was ever un-natural. Hanabi, in the cradle of her mother's arms (milky and soft), remembered the breeze as it made tremble her layered Kimono.
She would carry her to the garden and gaze upon fish, small and bright, flurrying amidst the weeds in search of food. Sun had a strange way of being benign, kind, bright, glowing on her mother's arms and cheeks. Trees lovingly fed on its rays in hunger and sprouted Sakura flowers; and they lined the streets as gifts from Spring.
Hanabi told Sakura of her stories these nights, often. Fear and suspicion bred darkly in her eyes, but Sakura's heart had borne so much that she cared little for them. Mother? Child? A lovely thought. Hanabi could tell that they frightened Sakura . . .
Spring birthed her children, and they, too, came out to play. The wayward ones that left the sides of their mother got taken by the winds and perished soon—alone and deserted in the streets, trampled beneath well-shod Men. Had spring wept for her, her sons? Did she court with Autumn's Reaper, kill her children in love? Did she ever weep for her sons? What a strange thought that had her mind wandering in places she did not want to wander.
Spring came along, all jubilant and fair
She forgot her dead children after a prayer
Spring was like that. Summer was her new face, an affliction of her courtship with Autumn Prince; and he was radiant, beautiful in a manner that was un-natural. He killed her children, left them to bleed out their colours on the sun-soaked ground; and she devoted tears to their memories; and once their union was a promised affair, she chose death at his feet, heart joyous and gay—full of love in May.
And she pleaded and let flow from her eyes her young heart's wish. Pure and sorrowful they went, mapping her countenance in ways she never wanted. And still he was cold, still he was bold in rejecting her heart, her love for him; but she wept still, for that was all she knew.
And he had asked so much from her whilst she showed him her eyes' miseries in spring's sun. Bright, crystal-bright, each teardrop—loving, ever-loving, each plea. She exhausted her throat, thrashing at the steps of his temple, amidst the Monks who remained prostrated in reverence, humbled and in love—more in love than her? No, her heart could bear the storm of their prayers no longer.
So she ran from Carmilla, ran from the twilight that darkened the mountain's cold breast. Its heart had gone to a state of slumbering, and his had, too. He left her behind, and this loneliness, of body and spirit, was a heavy song over her spirit, her heart.
She had borne much for him—where was his love? Hidden away, deep and secure, inside her womb. She expelled sludge made of night, and borne of that one unholy union he had granted after her many tears, in return for her wish, her children grew as adult men from Carmilla's ground: Reapers—she birthed Reapers!
And the sludge kept coming, going into the Tomb of Autumn that was this earth, with each cycle of menstruation. A reminder of her lust, a song of lamentation, her children grew beautiful, grew deadly—each a Reaper that killed men, women, children who ventured into the woods, to fight or to flee towards safer lands beyond the hills. It was all the same . . .
Yet what was safer than a lover's arms? O', how her love drove her mad, made her wild, had her in hysterics. She saw their countenances change, shift into the fine contours the older one once possessed. They were just as cruel, too; they cared not who they pinned at the ends of their crow-beaks—blind to faces, deaf to entreaties, cold to touches, they were men of means!
Spring wept; she wept very hard; she wept often. Her heart ran fast, faster than ever, and Autumn's Prince, still sleeping, did not pay any heed to her whimpering. His children, who were truly his brothers from her womb, perished; but he brought them back to life to kill, kill, kill . . . as if to punish the brother he had loved more dearly than his soul, remember and adore him evermore. Stubborn, like he was in his previous life before he fell to a state of sleeping, he did as he pleased.
She wanted them to stay dead, stay dreaming in the soil forever; but they kept rising from the earth, without a joy in their spirits, for that was what their father, the Lord, had sown into their hearts, a nature colder than winter's wails. They roamed the forest, pecking, hunting, loving in the name of what the young Lord stood for.
Few circled his sleeping place and stood round him, faces smooth and lovely. Did they love him? Did they feel adoration when they looked upon the man who created and re-created them in love? She did not know—she could not know. She had no milk in her breasts for them, no droplet that adorned the tips of the pink teats. Her milk, each drop an ocean of love, could never appease them!
What would she feed them? Love? She did not love them. She desired for them to leave, hide away into the earth's deep, drink through the porous ground when rains would come—in spring? She was a mother most cruel—she had made peace with that.
For now, she travelled the winding stone-road to Konoha (a missive had come from Hanabi's home, and she was restless), a patch of green surrounded by her children's infestation. In the sun's un-kind light, they came in search of her bosom; and they would kill her in love . . . surely!
O', merry Children of little Spring
Growing in the care of Autumn King
So hungry for the mother's milk
Hiding away in night's silk
To kill her was their dearest wish
They ate ravenously from this land's dish!
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