sons of sons and the stories they tell

so the pinacolada and i were discussing some of my old blog entries, and i, again, got sucked into re-reading the archives.

from old blog,

Friday, Nov. 18, 2005;12:38 p.m.
:sons of sons and the stories they tell:

startled, she awoke with a scream. something was brewing in the air and it cloaked itself around her, its menacing claws and gleaming white hot fangs. the night was sticky, and a sheen of perspiration built up along her face. the night sky glowed a glaring red, starless and windless, even the moon with Diana turned her back. this was not a night of love and merriment, and the goddess of love in purity and peace would not cast her bleeding eyes upon the ravage of the land.
disoriented, groggy, frustrated without knowing why, she huffed out of her bed, and moved to stand at her window. she had seen this scene in dreams. the wanton destruction of man. swords lying waste beside their champions, its edges sprinkled with dirtied blood already congealing with the dirt. proud colourful flags ripped and torn, tossed carelessly upon mounts which could only be wasted soldiers. they would leave no wounded this time, no one to bear grudges and seek vengeance, no sons to avenge their slain fathers, no wives to mourn, no daughters to weep. this time, they did not come to instill fear and make the village yield to tyranny. they came to make a statement the world. they came, and made themselves immortal–their names would go down in the ages, sons of sons of sons will burst with pride at their lineage, their forefathers–the greatest warriors, with hearts of stone.

Massacre would be too mild a term for what was done tonight. Genocide, too sterile. Tonight was more than a bloodlust. Tonight was butchery.

A laugh bubbled in her throat, hysterics have gotten hold of her. She reached for her tinted silver case of tobacco by the window, only to realize she’s given up the habit years ago. He was coming to get her, finally after years of separation. His brave men did the damage, as payback for the damage done to her and her own. For years she dreamed of the day, her knight would finally release her from her captive holdings. The years of silence never once cast doubt that one day he would return for her. Shaking, she felt her way to the candle stand, and watched as the flame from the match in her hand licked at the burnt wick. It took one, two seconds to catch.

It was then, by the candlelight that she looked down at her hands. They were Caked with dried blood and dirt. Her dressing gown, splattered with blood, torn at more places that she could count. Disbelief, confused- just as suddenly as she awoke, she felt the blood gush forth from her veins, out of open wounds and the excruciating pain ripped at her battered body. The sounds she made didn’t even sound human, feral animal sounds that chilled one’s senses.

She knew it before she saw him. The glinting silver sheath in his hand, dripping with blood. In a moment, her mind’s eye took it all in—the dirty blond on his hair, sprayed with fresh blood, the lean lines of his arms, his chest with the gash below his right shoulder blade. Her one true love, her champion, her savior, her lover, her joy. And as she ran to envelop him, pain forgotten, bleeding disregarded, all was right again. She felt love bloom in her, fed from years of absenses. she felt the cold sliver of the knife press up and slip into the soft flesh above the navel. Understanding dawned upon her, as she flung her arms out around his neck. And as she wept, silent tears only a broken heart can hear, she whispered close to his ear “why save me only to kill me?”

He leaned over, tears glistening in his eyes and as he kissed her full on her rapidly cooling mouth, he said “because you’d never love me more than you do now.”


Author: c

my world, out of your reach

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