Lost

Captain Colossal's Prompt:

"Series # 2
Main Prompt: The genre must be Thriller/Suspense.
Additional Prompts: Something is lost.
A promise is kept.
A bottle, a notebook, and a pair of glasses are included in an entry"

Limit: 300 words.
Word Count: 642 words. (Forgive me, but I was inspired)>

LOST




This is not her church.

The faded, gilt-edged letters above the altar read ‘Deploro Defluo’. Latin is not her tongue, but in this place and in this time, the meanings come to her, unbidden.

We lament-

-the loss, the descent.

“We have fallen and lost the gifts of Heaven,” A voice whispers, rasping, in her ear and she starts, her antique glasses slipping from her nose and crashing to the flagstone floor with a muted chorus of shattering glass.

Cool, dry fingers clutch at her bare shoulders and she is spun to face her captor and interloper. “A priest?” She manages, her fingers gripping the ring-bound notebook in her hands until her knuckles turn white and the cheap rings dig into her palms.

The man, who is indeed clad in ornate, yet priestly robes, watches her in silence, waiting for the frightened young woman to collect herself. Her heart is thudding painfully, as if railing against the once-comfortable cage of her ribs.

The death-grip on her notebook relaxes and the priest releases her shoulders, spidery fingers reaching out to uncurl her fingers further and take the notebook from her sweat-soaked hands. Nervously, she watches the blur of his form as he backs away, flicking through the well-worn pages of her notebook.

His lips move, as if in prayer, but such small details are lost to her damaged eyes. While he reads, silently, she wonders. ‘Where am I? Was I always this blind? Of what import is this notebook I kept so close to my heart?’

She remembers the words above the altar: ‘Deploro Defluo’.

Something is, indeed, lost…

…and that something is she.

The priest, cursing bitterly in an alien tongue, throws the notebook down and rushes forward, blurring past her like an impressionistic adder, stopping to stand behind her, just before the altar. She tries to turn, a moment too late-

-something sharp is already pricking the flesh at the small of her back.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks, timorously.

The priest does not reply, but reaches to take up a dusty bottle that sits on a low table at their side. She hears the indignant pop of a cork and the sound of careful pouring, and is curious, but the pricking is still at her back. She never understood the meaning of being ‘paralysed by fear’ before, but now the expression proves apt, as she cannot even tremble any more.

“You do not belong here. You used stolen arts to reach this place and for that you must be punished.” The priest’s voice is soft, sibilant and with his words the memories rush back.

“But I promised I would get here…I promised to save him.” She manages, her words broken and barely whispered. Her mind fills with the beauty of the bound angel in her dreams, who pleads with her and whispers seductively to her soul of the light and beauty of fallen things.

The pricking at her back ceases and she turns to see the priest sheathing a dagger even as he holds a goblet out to her, frowning solemnly. She cannot bring herself to look at his eyes, for fear of what she might find in their depths.

“He is beyond all help, child.” The priest murmurs tonelessly, pressing the goblet into her unsteady hands. “Drink of this, and forget this fool’s mission.”

She looks up then, blind eyes flashing defiance. She raises them to meet his gaze and…

Oh, God.

…he has no eyes. He has no eyes but he watches her all the same. The words of protest die in her throat and she chokes.

He smiles.

“This is not your church.”

She nods and drinks, the blood-red liquid bitter on her tongue and dripping from her lips as she coughs and chokes and-

-awakes, looking down at her naked breast where words have been freshly branded and still burn.

“Adamo Lucifer, Desidero Culpa (1).”

They mean nothing to her.




Adamo is to fall in love. Lucifer means light bringer, more or less. Desidero is to desire and culpa is to find blame; to have guilt. Pardon my rusty Latin. ^_^