Countess
12-26-2006, 09:51 AM
Please, critique.
CHAPER XIII
The bloody victim hung like a listless doll from a crudely constructed cross at the edge of a wheat field. The head, disfigured beyond recognition, was partially decapitated, drooping down to the right shoulder by what remained of the neck. Likewise the body was also deformed, the epidermis having been burned away and the bones snapped from their sockets. But perhaps most disturbing at all was the heart. As the first rays of daylight shot over the horizon, imbuing the twisted figure with an eerie glow, I discerned a long, slender object protruding out of it. And as the sun rose higher I realized the object was a wooden stake, and that the victim was none other than Tristan.
Appalled and disgusted by the sight, I reeled backwards and was suddenly struck by a blinding light, which rendered me instantly immobile and I collapsed to the ground. Then within this luminosity I saw myself fleeing the castle after Tristan’s confession, followed by Tristan wrestling against several guards and then finally him being dragged across a field. The snap and crackle of a raging fire filled my ears and the ungodly sound of tortured screams, as if hell itself had opened its mouth to let loose the spirits of the damned. Then I smelled the distinct odor of burning flesh, and at last observed Tristan – with bubbling black skin that oozed and fell from his limbs, being hauled from the fire and then nailed to the cross and hung in the air to die.
When I came to I was lying on my back in the field with the sun glaring just over the edge of the earth and Tristan still dangling from the cross, smoke pouring from his back. Petrified, I dislodged the nails that pinned him, and throwing a blanket over my friend, ran pell-mell for the closest entrance to the underground tunnels, praying all the while that when we got there, no one would be waiting for us.
Once we were safely inside my room, I pulled the blanket back and beheld my friend, whose lifeless body sent tears of anger and regret streaming down my cheeks. Placing my hand over his heart and closing my eyes, I concentrated on detecting any particle energy that might indicate time of death but was dumb-founded to discover he had not yet passed. Yes, death was imminent, but despite all the horrors he had endured, he had not expired.
Retrieving a knife from my pocket, I sliced open his chest, and after stabbing my left hand, gently massaged his heart, ensuring I did not touch or otherwise accidentally dislodge the stake that penetrated it.
Three days later I awoke to find the stake on the floor, and knew his body was beginning to heal.
Tristan did not recover as Dorian had, perhaps because he had been a vampire previous to his new incarnation. For three weeks I kept a constant vigil, pacing the floors at strange hours with a candle in my hand, scrutinizing his face for moments of consciousness, and sadly disappointed when his peacefully reposed form did not show them. Yet, the improvement I had seen in his disfigurement clearly indicated he was recuperating, and in moments of torment I consoled myself with this knowledge.
Towards the end of the third week he finally opened his eyes to stare at me with a blank expression.
“How do you feel?”
A rustle issued forth from the bed as he attempted to rise to no avail. “Weak. How long have I been here?”
“About three weeks. You aren’t completely well yet, which is why you have no energy but I expect in the next several days you’ll recover,” I answered, then moseying over to his bed, sat down and began stroking his cheek with the back of my hand. “Who did this to you? I had a premonition...”
“Drones, though they can hardly be blamed; they have no will of their own but simply obey the master,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead painfully, but when I gave no reply, he stared at me curiously. “You don’t know what they are, do you?”
“No,” I blushed. “I’m the byproduct of a misadventure; hence my inability to know who or what I am.”
Studying the candle flame that burned brightly on his bedside table, Tristan cleared his throat and then smothered the fire between his thumb and forefinger, relinquishing us to the darkness.
“Why…”
“We see better at night,” he interrupted. “By the way, I never thanked you for saving my life – I’m grateful for it, and I’m also very sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, sorry, for all the pain you’ve endured, and you continue to endure, because of what you are.”
“I’m not in pain,” I countered. Still, his words burrowed deep through my consciousness until, at last, like a miner that has struck gold, they found their nugget of truth, and wrapping it in light and warmth, exposed it to my mind, where it exploded and scattered an array of emotion – love and fear, yearning and repulsion – all at once. “I…” I sucked in as I struggled to speak through my sentimental suffocation. “How did you know?”
“”I feel you, Regina,” he whispered gently, “I feel you flowing through me, coursing through my veins, transforming me into a new being.”
“But Dorian,” I whimpered, “he doesn’t…”
“He was human. I’ve lived a hundred different lives in hundreds of places – all over the world, so it was not a giant leap of faith for me to progress to this next level of existence.
I will tell you this: you must find yourself, and quickly. Love is your greatest strength, Regina, and fear your greatest weakness. You do not fear those outside of you, but rather yourself and greatest of all, that the love you possess will one day provide the means to your end. Your fear is that love will destroy you, and it will, if you don’t know who you are.”
Too shocked to reply, I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth in concert with the tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock, the warped wooden beams beneath me singing in harmony. The entire time I could feel Tristan’s eyes watching, as if he were fearful that the ensuing moment would harbinger some cataclysmic apocalypse from my internal combustion.
“Is it daylight?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” I answered, gazing at the illuminated aura around the curtains and the striped light patterns on the floor. “It’s dawn.”
Much to my astonishment, Tristan sat up in the bed and rubbed his sleepy blue eyes, his honeyed scent wafting from beneath his arms. “Good. I have something to show you.”
As we passed through town I noted that the shady, clandestine activity which plagued the evening streets had been replaced by the more respectable and legitimate industry of agriculture. Carts brimming with wheat and corn lined the roadsides while peasants darted to and fro and herds of sheep bayed and neighed fretfully after their owners. The abandoned shops that opened at the approach of eve and shut down in the matutinal hours gaped like dark cavities amidst the town now bustling with life, and I wondered how many of the denizens knew the exact nature of their community’s most fruitful labor.
On the outskirts of town we once again resumed our climb towards the peak of the mountain, but about 300 yards up, we abruptly departed from the path, crossing through some dense underbrush before reaching another path that had evidentially been forsaken for some time. Despite the overgrowth, we followed the trail to a clearing that appeared to be somewhat parallel to the castle, but at a fair distance to the right.
the outskirts of the town.
CHAPER XIII
The bloody victim hung like a listless doll from a crudely constructed cross at the edge of a wheat field. The head, disfigured beyond recognition, was partially decapitated, drooping down to the right shoulder by what remained of the neck. Likewise the body was also deformed, the epidermis having been burned away and the bones snapped from their sockets. But perhaps most disturbing at all was the heart. As the first rays of daylight shot over the horizon, imbuing the twisted figure with an eerie glow, I discerned a long, slender object protruding out of it. And as the sun rose higher I realized the object was a wooden stake, and that the victim was none other than Tristan.
Appalled and disgusted by the sight, I reeled backwards and was suddenly struck by a blinding light, which rendered me instantly immobile and I collapsed to the ground. Then within this luminosity I saw myself fleeing the castle after Tristan’s confession, followed by Tristan wrestling against several guards and then finally him being dragged across a field. The snap and crackle of a raging fire filled my ears and the ungodly sound of tortured screams, as if hell itself had opened its mouth to let loose the spirits of the damned. Then I smelled the distinct odor of burning flesh, and at last observed Tristan – with bubbling black skin that oozed and fell from his limbs, being hauled from the fire and then nailed to the cross and hung in the air to die.
When I came to I was lying on my back in the field with the sun glaring just over the edge of the earth and Tristan still dangling from the cross, smoke pouring from his back. Petrified, I dislodged the nails that pinned him, and throwing a blanket over my friend, ran pell-mell for the closest entrance to the underground tunnels, praying all the while that when we got there, no one would be waiting for us.
Once we were safely inside my room, I pulled the blanket back and beheld my friend, whose lifeless body sent tears of anger and regret streaming down my cheeks. Placing my hand over his heart and closing my eyes, I concentrated on detecting any particle energy that might indicate time of death but was dumb-founded to discover he had not yet passed. Yes, death was imminent, but despite all the horrors he had endured, he had not expired.
Retrieving a knife from my pocket, I sliced open his chest, and after stabbing my left hand, gently massaged his heart, ensuring I did not touch or otherwise accidentally dislodge the stake that penetrated it.
Three days later I awoke to find the stake on the floor, and knew his body was beginning to heal.
Tristan did not recover as Dorian had, perhaps because he had been a vampire previous to his new incarnation. For three weeks I kept a constant vigil, pacing the floors at strange hours with a candle in my hand, scrutinizing his face for moments of consciousness, and sadly disappointed when his peacefully reposed form did not show them. Yet, the improvement I had seen in his disfigurement clearly indicated he was recuperating, and in moments of torment I consoled myself with this knowledge.
Towards the end of the third week he finally opened his eyes to stare at me with a blank expression.
“How do you feel?”
A rustle issued forth from the bed as he attempted to rise to no avail. “Weak. How long have I been here?”
“About three weeks. You aren’t completely well yet, which is why you have no energy but I expect in the next several days you’ll recover,” I answered, then moseying over to his bed, sat down and began stroking his cheek with the back of my hand. “Who did this to you? I had a premonition...”
“Drones, though they can hardly be blamed; they have no will of their own but simply obey the master,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead painfully, but when I gave no reply, he stared at me curiously. “You don’t know what they are, do you?”
“No,” I blushed. “I’m the byproduct of a misadventure; hence my inability to know who or what I am.”
Studying the candle flame that burned brightly on his bedside table, Tristan cleared his throat and then smothered the fire between his thumb and forefinger, relinquishing us to the darkness.
“Why…”
“We see better at night,” he interrupted. “By the way, I never thanked you for saving my life – I’m grateful for it, and I’m also very sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, sorry, for all the pain you’ve endured, and you continue to endure, because of what you are.”
“I’m not in pain,” I countered. Still, his words burrowed deep through my consciousness until, at last, like a miner that has struck gold, they found their nugget of truth, and wrapping it in light and warmth, exposed it to my mind, where it exploded and scattered an array of emotion – love and fear, yearning and repulsion – all at once. “I…” I sucked in as I struggled to speak through my sentimental suffocation. “How did you know?”
“”I feel you, Regina,” he whispered gently, “I feel you flowing through me, coursing through my veins, transforming me into a new being.”
“But Dorian,” I whimpered, “he doesn’t…”
“He was human. I’ve lived a hundred different lives in hundreds of places – all over the world, so it was not a giant leap of faith for me to progress to this next level of existence.
I will tell you this: you must find yourself, and quickly. Love is your greatest strength, Regina, and fear your greatest weakness. You do not fear those outside of you, but rather yourself and greatest of all, that the love you possess will one day provide the means to your end. Your fear is that love will destroy you, and it will, if you don’t know who you are.”
Too shocked to reply, I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth in concert with the tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock, the warped wooden beams beneath me singing in harmony. The entire time I could feel Tristan’s eyes watching, as if he were fearful that the ensuing moment would harbinger some cataclysmic apocalypse from my internal combustion.
“Is it daylight?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” I answered, gazing at the illuminated aura around the curtains and the striped light patterns on the floor. “It’s dawn.”
Much to my astonishment, Tristan sat up in the bed and rubbed his sleepy blue eyes, his honeyed scent wafting from beneath his arms. “Good. I have something to show you.”
As we passed through town I noted that the shady, clandestine activity which plagued the evening streets had been replaced by the more respectable and legitimate industry of agriculture. Carts brimming with wheat and corn lined the roadsides while peasants darted to and fro and herds of sheep bayed and neighed fretfully after their owners. The abandoned shops that opened at the approach of eve and shut down in the matutinal hours gaped like dark cavities amidst the town now bustling with life, and I wondered how many of the denizens knew the exact nature of their community’s most fruitful labor.
On the outskirts of town we once again resumed our climb towards the peak of the mountain, but about 300 yards up, we abruptly departed from the path, crossing through some dense underbrush before reaching another path that had evidentially been forsaken for some time. Despite the overgrowth, we followed the trail to a clearing that appeared to be somewhat parallel to the castle, but at a fair distance to the right.
the outskirts of the town.