SCENE 8 – Heavenward
The fire around the corner shines its orange along the stone walls. Clare sees the still-glowing embers drift out in her direction, fading away to black ashes. Something is continually nagging on the back of her mind, dull, unnerving. She could fall into a deep hole, and fall forever into the abyss.
Clare inches her head around the corner, before going through.
The lone torch hung low on the wall shines light along the empty hallway drenched in the red. Beyond that seems to lie the faint shape of a grand stairway that spirals up to heaven.
The red trail seems to end at a closed door along the way. Something juts out in the middle of all this from the blood – small, round. It's an ear.
In spite of the overbearing pull of her greatsword, fluttering in her hands, Clare decides to wield it one-handed, while picking up the illumination with her left. The air whispers, and the flames burn on.
She makes her way following the red on the stone floor to the closed wooden door. Then she holsters the torch under her arm. Giving a twist to the ring handle, she unlatches the door. It slowly turns open on its own.
There within is a small room of sorts, holding dusty, upturned stools stacked over each other, and a man with his purple robes laying out along the stools, covered with his red. His skin is drained of all its warmth. His wide open, reddened eyes stare on, and his mouth is slack-jawed - an inhuman grin baring his blood-soaked teeth and pulsing gums.
On a longer look, Clare realises that his lips have been torn out so violently – the red drips down his chin.
A long beat.
Clare thinks it best to grant the servant his long-desired peace with his patron saint. She steps forth with the torch in hand, and holstering the torch once more, she reaches out to close his eyes-
He latches onto her hand so hard. His eyes turn to her.
"Hel- help me." His teeth move in tandem with his words sounding so inarticulate and muffled. Red drips down his mouth as he tries to speak some further.
Clare lets a frightened gasp out. He's alive?! The words to say escape her for a moment - stunned under his sudden feisty grip. She recovers her composure.
"What happened?" she goes.
His teeth clenches, teeth scraping on each other, as he tries to say his words. Then he retches out that burst of red that had lingered so long in his throat – straight down beside Clare splattering on the ground.
Clare's own jaw and throat tingle.
"G-gg he-" he goes. "He- it hurts.. it hurts so much.."
Clare lays the torch along the side. Then she kneels down with him.
"Do you know where it is now?" Clare goes.
"Came- took children away.. left me here.. to die." Tears come from his eyes and drip down his motted cheeks.
A beat.
"It's all right now," Clare goes. "It's all right.."
The servant's purple robes is all but entirely drenched and dripping with blood. He couldn't have bled that much from just his inflamed mouth.
"Where else does it hurt?" she asks.
The man seems to cradle something, so nervously, under the cover of his robes.
"M- my.."
Clare looks behind her to the unsure darkness exposed by the open door. There's a slight flicker of movement – maybe from the chaotic light of the fire. She goes to push the door shut and turns to be with the man in his last throes of life. As she gently lifts his robes up, she is surprised on how wet with blood they are – filled so much of the warm wet. The blood drips down along her hand, cold, down to her bracers where it finally goes to drop away to the cold ground.
She sees something glisten under, so dark to be able to see what exactly, but it brings something of utter pain to just try imagining what agony he has to bear.
"Hold on."
Taking the man's velvet robes into hand, she tears most of the cloth into her hands, leaving his naked, drained skin showing in the firelight.
Then Clare sees under the remaining cloth, his left arm is gone. Red blood pours down the grisly stump even now. The man lets out a throaty gasp.
Clare pulls away the leftover velvet, smooth flowing on her fingertips, away from the man's left shoulder. She goes to tie the cloth around the stump – recalling some of the survival training before. Around covering up the stump.. and tight enough to halt the blood flow..
The result looks so crude and ruffled on his arm but it should help.
His skin is drained of all its warmth. His wide open, reddened eyes stare on to her weakly, and his mouth is slack-jawed – a faint smile mustering with his exposed teeth and gums.
Then he looks upon her for a last time.
"Clare.. I.. I'm sorry.."
She looks to him wonderingly – what is there to feel sorry for?
"I know.. you tried the best you could- tried to save.. us.."
His eyes wince.
"I see.." he goes, choking up. A tear glistens in his eyes, dripping down his face. Then he breathes in a last, and gives a final, brave composure to his words. "I see her courage in your eyes and I know everything will be all right.. I can see St. Hélène.. you.. out by my side.. Maybe when I'm with her, I hope to look down upon this world, and see you.. carry her bre.."
That dying flame that had held on in his eyes lets go, and fades.
And for a moment of eternity, Clare looks on to his eyes, and ponders what his heaven must be like. Then she goes to give him grace, and closes his eyes for his peace.
And for her moment, the young Clare begins to feel something beyond all her comprehension - of a vast, otherworldly nature. It faintly caresses her, comforting, reassuring. A little tinge of hope, for where she would take herself next, if anywhere.
Finally, Clare turns to face the closed door. With determined steps, she grasps the iron handle – cold and hard on her fingers, turns it, and pushes the barrier open.
/
She finds herself back in the open corridor leading to the grand stairway up heavenward. The flames in her held torch show only the shallowest of the depths around her in yellow light. Lying aghast on the floor is a slightly woman, headless. Her stomach has burst open, covering her familiar grey clothing and silver armour in red.
A far cracking echoes down the hall.
She turns to face the dark depths on the other end, at the entering corner. As she strains to peer her eyes into the blackness, she can make out something faint, approaching – little. It rolls, tumbling, scraping little pieces of itself along the ground. Strands of something light swaying along.
It becomes clear in the light of the flames. The head slows down to a timid crawl – stops by Clare's feet. Its cropped, yellowing hair has the red blemish of the blood. Her face looks upwards, back to her with blood-soaked, silver eyes
it hurts
She finds herself back in the open corridor leading to the grand stairway up heavenward. The flames in her held torch show only the shallowest of the depths around her in yellow light. Its flickers and ambers are reflected in sinister light in the pools of red along the hallway.
The strange sense that had been ebbing on dully is now clawing on her nerves, wanting to scream out on something, anything at all. There's a familiar, imposing presence here..
Clare readies her greatsword defensively with both her hands, letting the torch drop to the ground. She turns to face the dark depths at the other end, by the corner. The Yoma, holding a glint of long steel in its gnarly hand.
For a first time, she sees the brimming, daemonic yellow of its eyes, looking back to her coldly from the dark. It takes slow, approaching steps toward her, and she sees its grotesque, gargantuan deformed self under the flickering yellow show more clear and clear with each of its steps.
Clare looks on back with her silver eyes, holding tight onto her sword.
Then she draws within her the same daemonic flow to her body – through her arms, legs and very self, with the strengthening feelings of it all coursing in her veins. Her silver eyes change into the yellow rage, as her own body goes to deform itself to a more powerful, rigid feel.
A beat.
At first her steps are timid and shaky as she goes to approach the monster. Each of her own steps sink deep in the ground, boots scraping on the rough stone and splashing the red blood.
It takes another billowing step.
Along the edge of her mind, sweet hope reveals its warmth so briefly a moment.
She forces herself to move her stubby legs faster, and faster – Clare is coming to a run now. The Yoma is just a minute length ahead.
Clare prepares to feint a length-wise swing to the Yoma's gut, holding the sword out to her side.
She can reach it now – the stink of its coarse, decayed self comes to her.
Clare carries out her feinted swing, turning her hips through and forcing her arms around. She half-expects the longsword in Yoma's hand to appear up all the sudden to meet.. nothing. Halfway through the carrying motion, she pulls her sword up at the last moment, making it curve a different way, straight around and down, down to its head.
She finds her breath knocked out from her in a hard blow to her stomach. As she finds herself hurling in the air, the numbing pain comes. Clare sees the out-extended foot of the Yoma in the blurs.
The young woman crashes to the bloody ground, face up. Her sword makes its clattering somewhere farther down.
Clare brings her head up – seeing the Yoma come in a rush to her this time. She brings herself upright standing, finding the glimmer of her sword close to the torch on the ground.
A low growl behind.
Clare scrambles to retrieve her sword. She falters, her weak legs almost collapse back down as she heads on over to her only weapon. The pounding footsteps of the Yoma are behind her.. louder.. closer..
She barely manages her fingers around the smooth grip, before the Yoma's low breathing is brushing along her bare skin – the sour, pungent stench going up her nose as she breathes in. Turning around, Clare sees the longsword in Yoma's hands come – it's lunging straight to tear her own stomach open-
Clare swings her sword – a blur to her eyes – it hits hard against the Yoma's sword, just barely nudging its thrust out the way. It instead rips through her side. She tries to bury down the scathing pain just swelling from the open flesh, as she tries to avoid more of its oncoming blows, forcing her back more and more.
Her parries are met with harshly, ebbing her wrists and arms. Pieces of the stone fly off in the dust in deafening noise when the Yoma barely misses her. Some of the dust comes to her eyes, making them sting, having Clare blinking more.
Clare finds utter exhaustion settling down upon her; her lungs strain to breathe the deathly air, and her sword parries feel more slow and cumbersome, until she loses all will to carry out her arms - having to resort dodging its heavy blows. And even then..
She is knocked back down at the foot of the spiralling stairs. The Yoma swipes away the last of her defence, sending her arms fumbling away to the side.
It brings the longsword down to her exposed throat, and everything seems to come to a close.
"You are beaten. It is useless to resist. Don't let yourself be destroyed as everyone else did."
The longsword seems to leer closer, shaking little in its controlling hand - threatening. Clare tries to shift her own head and lungs as far away from the cutting tip, against the edge of the climbing stairs.
Its yellow eyes grimace.
Clare is helpless, sprawled out on the stairs. No matter how she looks at it, the longsword would make an unmoving body, lifeless, out of her. She begins to whimper a little, just a little to herself..
The longsword.. sticking in her face..
no
With only her drive and heart beating on, she finds it in herself to punt away the Yoma's blade, pushing away the longsword with her bracers. Clare reaches once more for her greatsword. And for the briefest moment where she could budge away certainty, she gives the Yoma a quick kick along its leg – making it stumble just enough to have her chance to escape.
Clare struggles to pull herself up the stair case – spiralling so high up to a dark heaven. Hot sweat pours down the the sides of her face, as she manages to have her legs break for it, away from the Yoma, away from the monster..
Up, and up she goes on the stairway to heaven. She runs until the torch light far down seems but a glimmer in the dark. She runs until her muscles come so close to tearing apart and her lungs squeeze out. And even then, she runs up over to the endless depths, never minding the low panting that follows her incessantly.
/
Clare comes to the pinnacle of which the cathedral extends to in the sky. The air gusts forth, blowing coolness along her sweat-soaked self. A large bell looms in the middle of the limited area. Beyond all this, is utter, unsure darkness where she can fall.. forever.
Then she hears the panting that goes on behind her, and turns around to face the upcoming Yoma.
It lunges to her in an enraged swing, and Clare immediately raises her heavy sword to meet its blow. Another lunge to her. Clare backs away, careful not to bump the gargantuan bell.
The cold air blows through her cloak, ruffling it in the wind.
The Yoma leaps out from the doorway, and decides to make a long, hard swing to Clare's head, to the darkness beyond. Its blade clangs deeply against the bell, cutting through it with such force-
Clare makes her sword stop the blade's way from doing her in – but with her resistance, the longsword manages its force against her whole body, sending her tumbling to the edge. She barely recovers her balance, before she goes to an offensive stance, about to take her stand.
The Yoma bashes its longsword hard on the bell. The sound is so harsh, resonating hard with the Yoma, and Clare – it stuns her, making her topple.
In that instant, the Yoma comes down upon Clare's forearms, cutting them off to the wind's pleasure. They, and her sword in the grip, fly down and away..
With utter pain peeling at her stumps, Clare tumbles at the edge, falling over-
But the Yoma catches her by her ankles at the last moment.
Clare screams in pain as the Yoma holds on at the joint.
"I wonder.. what a Claymore shall taste like.." the Yoma goes. "You are sure feisty, and I enjoy those who put up a good fight. I really do.."
Its forked tongue stretches out of its mouth. The Yoma leans itself in closer to her legs, and has its tongue go about exploring her leg, slithering, dripping its saliva along.
The blood rushes to Clare's head so much – she almost passes out from the strain.
Then to her horror, the Yoma's tonguestabs into her right leg.
"AAUUH!"
As its tongue penetrates deeper, Clare's screams, out in the pain, out in the insanity.
All she wants to do.. is to be away from all this. Away from this hell, this hellish Yoma, from its tongue. Away..
She longs for the happier times, with Mama, with Papa – however so vague they were in her memory now. Mama's loving embrace, when something bad would happen – Mama would come, hug her, wanting her to be happy. She longs for the happier times with Teresa, who was just so kind to her out of all the world. If they were only here..
The Yoma stops its tongue's excursions.
"Your taste.."
A beat.
"When I taste you.. you're something to get used to.. but.."
The Yoma resumes its excursions inside her leg.
"Auug.."
Something is very wrong.
Clare could feel it prodding her – her mind and heart.
"Yes.."
No..
Clare withdraws further into herself. She tries to hide away from the horrible reality, but there is no way to hide the feelings and thoughts that go on in her mind. The Yoma's consciousness is entering that private haven.
"No!" Clare screams.
"Ohh.." it goes. "Mama..! and Papa..!"
These two words, once so loved, are crooked from the Yoma's mouth.
"Ohh.. you wish they are here? Don't you? Hugs and all?"
The Yoma prods further into her.
"Teresa!" it goes. "Oh.. Teresa! Like your second mother.. after she died.."
Clare snaps.
"Don't you say.." Clare finally goes. "Don't you ever say her name!"
She wrestles against its grip with a superhuman frenzy she had never known. Harder, and harder, until she could feel its tongue rip out from within her and its hands go slack..
She is free.
The wind ebbs along her as she falls.
She is free.
Her limbs flail in the maddening air as she falls.
In the blurs, she sees the cathedral beside her rise up to the heavens.
Clare is a fallen angel of the heavens, coming down through the clouds to meet the ground.