Life moves on, Life moves on. This next part was a bit difficult to write (gasp! 'difficult to write?!' you say), in the fact that I had to make sure that it was not boring and repetitious, yet still display feelings and/or physical attributes in the process. Writing angst comes naturally to me, as I am a teenager and we are keen to such things. Ever so emo. However, writing descriptions of people annoys me, as sometimes I cannot settle on a word to appropriate with a characteristic. But such things can (hopefully) be overlooked.
And thanks ever so much for you whom corrected me on my spelling errors. English is still rather strenuous to me, so Spanish is quite out of the question. But I can learn, and I will.
Faithful, part two
Their village was always in some sort of crisis. It frustrated him, sometimes- just after he had solved one problem, another would surface, worse than the last. Crops would fail, wolves would kill livestock and poultry, or Lord Salazar would rip out their proverbial jugulars with and increase in taxes.
Well, at least he had some time. Truthfully, he didn't know what to do with the time allotted to him, but know he could think and act without the heart the heartache of a financial hole in his peoples bucket. He had to find a way to feed the masses.
Bitores plodded along the frozen forest road. It was late September, and the foliage had disappeared from the tall, thin, white branches of the birch trees that bent over the path. The light of the setting sun elongated his shadow, making it seem to stretch for miles. Bitores was an already huge man, standing at seven foot, five inches tall, and he looked menacing enough for his size. He was strong and honest, and his skin was dark for the earth he had worked his forty-three years. His long beard had once matched his worn leather duster, but now occasional silver-white hairs crisped his chin, in contrast to his bald head.
He must speak with Sera.
Ramon Salazar pulled his shirt from himself, baring his pale chest to the cold autumn air. He straitened the silver cross around his neck and sat down at the dresser to pull the silk ribbon from his long hair and begin brushing out the tangles. He paused to look up at himself in his richly framed mirror, sighed, and continued brushing.
Ramon pushed his silver bangs from his eyes and felt the tips of his hair just brush the bottoms of his shoulder blades softly. Something cold suddenly touched the back of his neck and his gasped, turning quickly. 'Hello?' He questioned.
There was no one. Ramon turned back to the desk, glaring down at the marble surface before him. Of course there was no one. There was never anyone.
There was the sharp clack! of the jeweled brush being cats into the drawer, and the rumble of the drawer being slammed shut by the cross castellan. Ramon sauntered to the bed, throwing himself onto it and wrapping his head with a pillow. The horrible quiet was suddenly muffled, and he shut his eyes to silently listen.
A slow throb met his ears, followed by another, fainter version of the first. This pattern repeated, and he had the rhythm, curling into a ball and kicking away his pajama slippers. He felt calmer, but only slightly so- the beat of his own heart assured him that he was, in fact, alive, and had not somehow died unnoticed, leaving him to wander his empty hollows as an ethereal spirit interminably, but the fact that it was the only heartbeat within twenty miles of his small, cold room rang with hollow loneliness in his mind.
He knew he was alone. He accepted it. But sometimes he wished that someone would be there. Anyone would be there.
It was complicated, being mad.
His eyes sprang open as a high scream filled his ears. 'No…' Ramon whimpered softly, 'No, not again…I can't listen anymore….' Yet still the screaming continued, high and harsh, loud and unrelenting. Ramon shut his eyes, crushing his ears to his head to stop the noise, but to no avail. It wouldn't stop. It had haunted him, changed his hair and eye color seemingly overnight, and finally driven him to madness.
The castellan let out a long, hollow wail, hoping to drown out the screaming with his own. But it only added to the pandemonium, until his throat blistered in his efforts and his head was nearly splitting with pain, and he was weeping softly into his pillow. 'Dear God!' He begged in a whisper, 'Dear God, please help me!' he kicked his feet unconsciously in agony, 'Please kill me!'
Ramon knew where it came from- It came from Hell itself. Long ago his ancestors had killed the demons that roamed the land, and sealed the gates of Hell with this castle. And for eight generations they had guarded and protected this secret, at the price of their sanity. It was now Ramon's turn to best the Devil, and relinquish command of his mind in the midst of it. The townsfolk had no idea what Hell could be set upon them, if he ever stopped fighting.
He gave everything he was for a people that hated him.
END PART TWO