08-05-2016, 02:54 PM
Every fairy tale has a bloody lining. Everyone has teeth and claws.
Of all the things in creation she could be running from, she runs from ghosts. It is their eyes she feels on her back when she disappears over the horizon, it is their presence that sends a tingle down her spine when the chill in the air doesn’t feel quite right for the season; she runs until she is almost frothing at the mouth, until she’s coated in a layer of sweat from her neck down to her shoulders. Until one fine morning, she finally leaves them behind; the hidden spectres are stopped at the threshold of Beqanna, perhaps left looking on while she disappears into the jagged slopes of dark mountains with pretty snow white tops.
It takes her nearly three days and nights to find her way down to the foot of the mountains and from then on, she follows the coast northward—past an isle of ice, over and across a plateau of wildflowers. She ambles along slowly for the rest of the trip, tired and sore; a sudden snowstorm makes the trip a little harder, a little longer, but she makes it. She makes it to the opening of a wall so great that it stretches on and on in both directions as far as the eye can see, the top of it reaching past the clouds; he’d been telling the truth, that wise old son of a bitch.
Szene grins, lifting her head and swiveling her ears forwards; she stares into the opening fearlessly, expecting something—anyone—to happen, someone to appear would be quite nice, actually. But nothing happens. The wind whistles through the gap, snowflakes drift down from the clouds—they live and then die by the heat of her flesh. She waits, however; waits and waits until the silent starts creeping in and the ghosts of ghosts long gone begin to circle around her like prowling hungry lions.
When the silence becomes too much, she does the only thing she can think of that’s ever helped. That has ever chased the ghosts away. “Suppose no one comes,” she begins, starting to pace. “Suppose whoever lived on the other side of that wall abandoned the place and now there’s no one here.” She pauses, looking at the wall again—this time with her dark gray eyes narrowed. “I might have to find Micaiah after this—“ she frowns at the memory of the old man “—after I freeze to death, of course, and give him a swift kick in the arse.”
It takes her nearly three days and nights to find her way down to the foot of the mountains and from then on, she follows the coast northward—past an isle of ice, over and across a plateau of wildflowers. She ambles along slowly for the rest of the trip, tired and sore; a sudden snowstorm makes the trip a little harder, a little longer, but she makes it. She makes it to the opening of a wall so great that it stretches on and on in both directions as far as the eye can see, the top of it reaching past the clouds; he’d been telling the truth, that wise old son of a bitch.
Szene grins, lifting her head and swiveling her ears forwards; she stares into the opening fearlessly, expecting something—anyone—to happen, someone to appear would be quite nice, actually. But nothing happens. The wind whistles through the gap, snowflakes drift down from the clouds—they live and then die by the heat of her flesh. She waits, however; waits and waits until the silent starts creeping in and the ghosts of ghosts long gone begin to circle around her like prowling hungry lions.
When the silence becomes too much, she does the only thing she can think of that’s ever helped. That has ever chased the ghosts away. “Suppose no one comes,” she begins, starting to pace. “Suppose whoever lived on the other side of that wall abandoned the place and now there’s no one here.” She pauses, looking at the wall again—this time with her dark gray eyes narrowed. “I might have to find Micaiah after this—“ she frowns at the memory of the old man “—after I freeze to death, of course, and give him a swift kick in the arse.”
Szene
[I accidentally lost the original post. :| I'm so sorry.]
