Iiruvo

Drifting storm clouds an opening sky and sunlight falling down like petals from a flower in lavishing waves that cover the grass granting it color. A grey world illuminating slowly behind the fragmented outline of a man as he climbs stone stairs.
Hanging loosely on the stairs his shadow appearing in many pieces, uniting and bursting into thread-like branches-his long hair and beard. Staggering he pauses, but never turns back to t he blossoming world around him, set on the upcoming hallow doorway, an open mouth in the center of the stone temple. Slowly the doorway devours his figure, lapping up the final step.

His limping steps land like distant fireworks echoing round in the dark.. Raspy half drawn breaths shifting in and out with an occasional pause and deep swallow; lips hung open, held up only by hidden wrinkles like a heavy drawbridge. His long hair sways up and down, rolling in the rising gusts of dusty air.

Thin strands of light fall from the ceiling like billowing cloth. Enters the man, slowly into the light, showing his tattered body. Rust blotted armor clings loosely to one shoulder holding the corner of a torn cape-which flaps up in the wind a dull crimson. It slows and rests on an obscure handle that reaches out from his side connecting to its opposite end through his back a curved steel blade still dripping with navy blood.
The lighting traces him up and down, tan clothing buffed in mud and grass stains, dark leather guards on his wrists and forearms. On his chest a silver breast plate embroidered with ancient symbols and a line of text written and read only by cultures long since forgotten by man.

He passes statues on either side. Rows of idols left to moss and weed. Doors, some open others closed. Under heavy archways. In the ceiling a hole where weather or war had pierced and entered, there the sun shone brightly through to dress three lavender flowers.
Up more stairs, through hallway and hallway, down step, step, step. Before him now an amber doorway.
Inside he steps over the had been door to the center of the room. There a light hangs over a round table. Shaking his fingers find the rim of the stone table, his eyes shine like stars behind clouds down at a small pale body that lay motionless.
His thick raven hair drapes over the stone. He licks his lips, although hidden under heavy coverage. The shadow dense eyes grow bright as he passes between reality and somewhere else, somewhere far away. Suddenly his sheath quakes with live and he hurries to the handle.

Silver. A silver reflection of the body rests in his blade as he holds it over the table. A girl, young, still a child. He lays it beside her and turns again, this time to the protruding handle. He tugs, bones chafing and cracking; he grabs again with both hands and pulls it crooked out of his body.

His open wound cries out in dark tears as a small blue river channels down the blade falling onto the girls chest.



“Finally we find rest with one another...”



He looks forth onto the sword beside her with hesitation and then down the twisted one in his hands.

A mournful sigh escapes him as he forces down the tip of the sword, down into the soft flesh of the maiden.
No blood.
Just the sliding sound of steel through skin and bone. Letting go he falls at the knees, catching the rim once more. Through the hair and blood and falling eyelids he smiles slightly and falls to the cold floor.




Fin

For now...