Dark Castle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
All have loved and lost, some by tragedy, some by self inflictions, and some by love itself. And then there are others...

Submitted: December 22, 2011

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Submitted: December 22, 2011



Jagged black peaks of unstructured stone rose into the stormy sky from craggy bases of matte darkness. Lightning hissed through ebony clouds in neon scars illuminating in stark relief flashes of aged destruction, skeletal death, overlaid by an ominous aura. The air choked with the tension of cold hard rain imminent accompanied by the white heat of the moon.
And then the thunder rolled. It roared with the power of every heart beat in every nation, pounding the rhythm of adrenaline and fear heady with desire. Snarling with the temperament of the elements unleashed in purest rage, the very bowels of the earth could feel the might in every pulse of energy.
Dark sorrow fell from the skies in unforgiving wet misery. Amid the pummeling drops of bitter rain, the remnants of a castle’s shadows winked across the precipice’s ebony stones. A faded memory forever enriched by the pitch emotions of neglect and empty promise.
Far below the forgotten ruins, rain fell in large plops against a leather hat that was limp with wear and wet. Cold-blemished cheeks told the tale of a long outdoor walk among the elements. Dirt and rust colored stains were set in the ragged garments that barely resembled cloth on the thin scarecrow frame and riveted dismal color to puddle around naked feet. Tangled hair hung in knotted locks, a shade between dirt and sweat, true color slaved to abandonment.
The slim figure looked to the angry heavens and found resolve in the depths of the despair that screamed its pain from the mountainside. He had not come this far just to be beaten by hate and devastation. Scarred hands gripped the blue-black surface of bitterness and sinewy arms pulled the rest of his form, toes digging into the acid bite of regret.
And so he climbed the back of the vicious beast, sweat trickling itchiness down his limbs. He fought the teeth of depression, battled the sensory rape of hopelessness, ribbons of blood streaming from raw fingers and torn feet Tears of frustration and repulsion stung his eyes but he soldiered onward, not giving into the demons shrieking from his past to let go and let the fall take him.
Even when he slipped and the cloth was ravaged from his body by razor winds, bulleting rain, and the electric temper of the storm singed the hair from his head, he continued. As the onyx rock face stripped flesh from his body and humiliated his pride, his soul beat in cadence to his heart and did not falter. With every yard he gained, the pressure erupted with renewed force to push him into the awaiting embrace of death.
Except he had awakened to a well inside of himself that he did not understand and knew not from which it came, but its punishing fervor was more terrorizing than the castle’s fury. The horror of nine hells could not compare to the hidden monster residing inside.
So he endured the wrath of the mountain and the uncontrolled elements and soon the sweat from his pores and the tears from his eyes had turned crimson in a garish mask of raw will.

 She saw her face and rage boiled like a mad beast rabid on blood and fear and power. Energy coursed through her in torrent gusts of hate and she flashed like lightning, moving with raw agility and lethal precision. Even as the first spurt of hot blood slashed across her body, she never hesitated and struck again and again.
Dead. She was dead, he was dead, they all were dead. By her hand they had suffered an eternity of agony in overwhelming speed, their souls ravished moments before their heart exploded with regret and their minds dissolved in gray tears. Then the bodies fell with fleshy thuds to the crimson carpet that lapped at her boots leaving sticky claws of finality.
She took in the view for another minute before she turned her back on her carnage painting. Every slow drop of blood and every ashen inch of skin was imprinted on her mind. The peaks and globes of limp limbs a horrific horizon to behold but cherished none the less. Even with the still warm blood coating her like second skin, she did not bat a lash in remorse. She stood tall and proud of her reaper tenacity, nary a half of tear to dim her sight.
A little chuckle bubbled in her chest as it heaved from dwindling cool adrenaline. She had won. None of them remained. They were completely wiped out and not a speck of their dust would ever rise in arms against her. There was but one smidgeon of tainted feeling in her long since dead soul.
He was her first love. Her first everything and he had torn the very heart from her chest and cast it aside like sewage, like something less than pure that couldn’t even be troubled with as if he wasn’t dirtied himself. He had chosen them over her time and time again.
She had fought hard and long for him, giving him everything she was, everything she had, everything she could’ve been. All the sacrifices she made for him, to him, over him, all for him, wasn’t enough to hold him. And she had believed his words of love, his song of devotion even while he was stabbing her in the back, being sneaky and dishonest. She sweated out the lies and the unfaithfulness and she had cried tears of blood of forgiveness when he broke her heart. Then embraced him with open arms and a shaky smile and a second chance.
She was a fool. He chipped away little by little her trust and her love, slowly poisoning her life until she was weak and malleable. And when her heart shattered and he crushed the shards beneath his foot, she had nothing left to salvage. She was entirely inexistent.
She was nothing. There wasn’t even a beat to her pulse or a letter to her name. What she had become, what he had made her to be, was lower than nine hells’ outhouse and from his lofty position, he didn’t even smile over her plight. He simply turned his back to her and stepped away.
But she was not dead. Her being was broken, her insides numb from exile, but she was alive and as long as she breathed, she would not let this rape go. She would find him, she would kill them and then she would kill him. He would see her might and her wrath for what it truly was. She would see he had not sacrificed an angel, but spawned a demon and it would be the fire of her hell in her eyes that would be the last thing he ever saw.
And now, as the final wave of long suppressed emotion purged from her very essence, she turned her back  to him, and stepped away.

His head snapped back with a vicious crack and he screamed her ancient rage and pain. It was her mountain he was climbing. It was her suffering and hatred that tested him bloody and refused him entrance her domain. It was her fury that stripped the very flesh from his bones, her tears that pelted his body like razor bullets and drove deep to his marrow. It was all her and he had no doubt he would die.
But he a driving force that urged him onward, something that pressed him to continue. And when his very soul was being wrenched from him, his eyes cleared the precipice and for a wink, he saw her in all her glory. He saw neither righteous angel nor monstrous demon.
Her long hair gleamed brilliance, from gold to brown to hidden reds, her hair wafted in a gentle breeze, showcasing a slim pale neck of aristocratic lines. She was average in body form, just enough curve to be woman, not slight enough to be very young. She wore simples clothes, a gray long sleeved tunic, and drab green pants, brown boots on her feet. And then she turned, eyes downcast.
It was a plain face, not ugly but not pretty. An average face that had arched brows, a nose that was not quite slender, and lips that were unpainted and pale pink, the top a bit thinner than the bottom. There was nothing to catch attention.
And then she opened her eyes, an undistinguished blue whereas he figured they would be spellbinding or hypnotic. But these were the eyes of great sorrow, pooled with unshed tears of agony, and for a split second, her face reddened blotchy with emotion. Then her face died and there was nothing.
Until the rage took hold and suddenly her eyes were flame red and white pointed teeth of vampiric hideousness appeared and all the powers of hell were in her grin. In that moment, he could feel every mark of her will upon his heart, mind, soul, and body and a feral wind whipped him off the cliff and blew him down.
Down, down, down, he was hauled, pushed, the pressure immense until his body was smashed into the valley below. A single blink was left of his life and he looked up and saw her. Angel wings of shimmering silver flowed liquid from her shoulder blades. Sorrow returned to fluid in her eyes, body back lit by a soft golden glow then the darkness of death consumed him.

 She mourned the life she had forced into death but it was short lived regret. For ever since her reign of vengeance, she was exiled to this cursed existence, alone, forever out of touch of the ones truly loved. She had done this, imprisoned herself, and even though she yearned to be released from her own hell, the few who scaled the cliff were always killed. A glimpse of refuge was only a poison dart to a frozen heart despite the acute desperation for freedom.
The lady of the mountain, she was, and eternally would be. Soul after soul would be consumed by her fury and anguish. She would not let go of the nightmarish existence she lived. She could not. This was her fate, her Dark Castle.
None would ever conquer her private penance.

© Copyright 2018 AnaV. All rights reserved.

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