Green Labyrinth
08-07-2017, 12:29 AM
The plumes of ghosts, fog, and vitriol clawed its way down her throat as she stared into the eyes of a monster. Her fear, something she’d always managed to push down into her soul, came knotted and tethered, wrapped around her form until she was merely a trembling mess – no bravery at all in the sheen of ghouls and poltergeists, beloved family turned to wraiths and tormenters. “This isn’t you,” she whispered, begging, pleading, uncertain of how to conquer this wretched enemy when it wore her mother’s face, her eyes, her essence, but not her gentleness, her warmth, her guidance. It neared, closer and closer until it seemed to touch over her cheek, light and acidic, like venom, like ice, like barbarity, nestling its mouth towards her ear. Where is your sister? Where is my darling Clementine? The girl swallowed down the biting menace suddenly spiking across her tongue, tasting vehemence where she stood, backed into hedges and vines, incapable of doing anything else, shaking her head while the murmurs still beckoned, still chased, still taunted. Tell me where she is. I must have both of you. Melita tried to ignore each and every word slashing its way through her, tried to rid herself of the horrendous beast plaguing her, of the chill curling, coiling, nestling its way down into her gut. The boiling, incensed rancor twisted over her mind, her senses, her being – Sila bristled once more, but they were out of room, with no means to escape, nowhere to run except further darkness. “You’re not real,” she proclaimed, murmured, struggling to become unchained, to defy, to simmer on the edges of sedition and wait for the world to burn down. The rest of the void seemed trapped in the same manner, but the child wasn’t about to cry out, to distract them from battling their own demons and perils. She attempted to cease trembling, to be more than a tiny child made of smiles and laughter, of exuberance and whimsy, furrowing her brows as she gazed back into the void of beasts and treachery. She’d fight, fight, and fight, even if it brought her to slaughter, to death, to damnation. “You can’t have her,” was her last stand, protective and unrelenting to the end, carved out of an unsung ferocity gathering in her veins, potent and unruly, savage, wild, untamed.
But the girl didn’t learn of the fiend’s response, because no sooner had she given her final campaign oath (the building of embers, the stoking of fires), did she hear a familiar shout driven into the bedlam. Iskra? was her first inclination of confusion, responding to his proclamations by bending further and further back into the barriers, clustered amidst the leaves and brambles, driven towards thorns – but anything was better than the chains of terror and panic. She stood in the cold, brutal silence as his powers snapped, sparked, and whipped through the air – it would’ve been mesmerizing all on its own, even without cutting, slashing, and rippling its way through her mother’s mirage. The final image, the swan song of the chimera, was a beckoning outcry from the ivory dragon clutching her shoulder, before they disappeared into a puff of smoke, ash, and dust.
All at once, she was breathless, quaking and shuddering with relief, with apprehension, boldness leaving only the layers of rebellion to hold her upright. She came forward, closer to the older boy, a cluster of upheaval, bramble-blemished skin, and sweat, inhaling, sides heaving, seeking to stare at the floor (because she was ashamed, so brutally ashamed that she’d been tricked and deceived – had they learned nothing from the perils of before?). But her eyes came up, impulsively staring into his as her lower lip threatened to tremble (then, almost a don’t you dare cry plea arrived unbidden into her mind), and she shook her skull again, let the mist toss her back into the vicious reality. “Thank you, Iskra.” She meant it, with a soft smile, a heavy sigh, sorry he had to see her as less than what she should’ve been (weak, inept, stupid), reaching out to touch his shoulder, to embrace tangibility instead of being snared back into the folds of calamity and ruin.
But she couldn’t even rejoice in the warmth of his presence, in the sanctity of his liberation. Concern stole over her again, quickly, as she dared to glance at the rest of the world around them – because more and more souls were becoming tattered, ruptured, ravaged by the claim of specters and bewitching, blistering, bestial foes. Towards the center, however, there appeared to be a catalyst, a source, for the debauchery and decadence, and her gaze narrowed, speculating, wondering, pondering if they could claim victory and vanquish foes again. But as she turned back towards her savior, she knew all too well that he’d have demons of his own plaguing him (she could remember Ampere, his beautiful, mighty mother, flying into the storm, promising savagery, then going up in smoke), and she couldn’t allow it. “There’s someone in the middle of this ruckus,” she indicated, whispering and pointing towards the sanction of bustling, bristling legions, brave, stalwart shadows risking a chance, an opportunity, to fight back. “But there are ghosts here too. You must close your eyes.” Melita proffered her decree with a stalwart smile, a mercurial, conspiring veneer, all the more willing to place herself in the forefront of danger again to ensure no one else had to be haunted. She wouldn’t have him preyed upon, visited by fiends – he didn’t deserve the cruelty, the maliciousness, he’d already had to endure. “If you want to come with me, you can follow my scent.” The waves of honey, the fields of promised gold, nectar, and ambrosia should’ve been enough – but she lifted one wing too, stretching it out (despite Sila’s protest, nest upended) so it brushed against his chest. “Because I’m going to do something about this.” The determination fueled her voice, and she marched on, into the cluster of chaos, unwilling to be a bystander, a victim, any longer. Even as the wraiths pressed, crawled, at the edge of her vision again, she walked, fury ignited.
But the girl didn’t learn of the fiend’s response, because no sooner had she given her final campaign oath (the building of embers, the stoking of fires), did she hear a familiar shout driven into the bedlam. Iskra? was her first inclination of confusion, responding to his proclamations by bending further and further back into the barriers, clustered amidst the leaves and brambles, driven towards thorns – but anything was better than the chains of terror and panic. She stood in the cold, brutal silence as his powers snapped, sparked, and whipped through the air – it would’ve been mesmerizing all on its own, even without cutting, slashing, and rippling its way through her mother’s mirage. The final image, the swan song of the chimera, was a beckoning outcry from the ivory dragon clutching her shoulder, before they disappeared into a puff of smoke, ash, and dust.
All at once, she was breathless, quaking and shuddering with relief, with apprehension, boldness leaving only the layers of rebellion to hold her upright. She came forward, closer to the older boy, a cluster of upheaval, bramble-blemished skin, and sweat, inhaling, sides heaving, seeking to stare at the floor (because she was ashamed, so brutally ashamed that she’d been tricked and deceived – had they learned nothing from the perils of before?). But her eyes came up, impulsively staring into his as her lower lip threatened to tremble (then, almost a don’t you dare cry plea arrived unbidden into her mind), and she shook her skull again, let the mist toss her back into the vicious reality. “Thank you, Iskra.” She meant it, with a soft smile, a heavy sigh, sorry he had to see her as less than what she should’ve been (weak, inept, stupid), reaching out to touch his shoulder, to embrace tangibility instead of being snared back into the folds of calamity and ruin.
But she couldn’t even rejoice in the warmth of his presence, in the sanctity of his liberation. Concern stole over her again, quickly, as she dared to glance at the rest of the world around them – because more and more souls were becoming tattered, ruptured, ravaged by the claim of specters and bewitching, blistering, bestial foes. Towards the center, however, there appeared to be a catalyst, a source, for the debauchery and decadence, and her gaze narrowed, speculating, wondering, pondering if they could claim victory and vanquish foes again. But as she turned back towards her savior, she knew all too well that he’d have demons of his own plaguing him (she could remember Ampere, his beautiful, mighty mother, flying into the storm, promising savagery, then going up in smoke), and she couldn’t allow it. “There’s someone in the middle of this ruckus,” she indicated, whispering and pointing towards the sanction of bustling, bristling legions, brave, stalwart shadows risking a chance, an opportunity, to fight back. “But there are ghosts here too. You must close your eyes.” Melita proffered her decree with a stalwart smile, a mercurial, conspiring veneer, all the more willing to place herself in the forefront of danger again to ensure no one else had to be haunted. She wouldn’t have him preyed upon, visited by fiends – he didn’t deserve the cruelty, the maliciousness, he’d already had to endure. “If you want to come with me, you can follow my scent.” The waves of honey, the fields of promised gold, nectar, and ambrosia should’ve been enough – but she lifted one wing too, stretching it out (despite Sila’s protest, nest upended) so it brushed against his chest. “Because I’m going to do something about this.” The determination fueled her voice, and she marched on, into the cluster of chaos, unwilling to be a bystander, a victim, any longer. Even as the wraiths pressed, crawled, at the edge of her vision again, she walked, fury ignited.
Melita
diamond in the flesh
@Iskra
