Aurel

         Vultures, the swooping lot of them preying upon me as I lay there, over and over, tearing into my pale skin, the corpses around me, their rising, putrid stench made worse 'neath the relentless sun. My face unchanged, my voice silent, for I dare not make a sound, even as they picked and pecked, again and again, prying warm flesh from ivory bone, my entire body internally screaming from pain, the red rivers of my blood, of my family and friends’ blood staining my cheeks and the sand below me like tears, a pool of tears below me, and I lay in it, helpless as I look above me in terror, fear of the man, the lone standing figure here, as he stands above me, a smile more terrifying and beautiful, so sadistically sweet that my heartbeat sped despite lack of blood, the only visible thing beneath the midnight hood of his cloak. Distantly, I hear a corpse, along with the other corpses, as she gives into her pain, screaming and trashing in agony, her hoarse voice cursing God, and begging him for mercy. The vultures turn from me to continue their attack on the ones that continue to move and cry out, and I am in peace for a moment, my head swimming drunkenly from the loss of blood. Their hoarse cries and laughter echo across my eardrums, and I curse the God I loved, which I trusted. The corpses who are still alive, though none have life any longer within them, pure fear keeping them from crossing into death as their sobs and yelling turns into a chorus of demonic screams, our beautiful home now a horrific bloodbath, all that I ever knew burning around me.
         Yet, I continue to lie still. Even as the man raises his hands, the screams dying out, the vultures lining up on either side of him side by side, a row of grotesque creatures with their master in the middle staring down at me, or so I thought, I forced myself to remain silent, determined not to share the same, tortuous fate as the others. Each of the vultures watched me, unmoving, as if waiting for him to speak. I tensed, squeezing my eyes shut as I prepared myself for the worst, awaiting the return of the birds picking me apart piece by piece.
         A sudden burst of melodious laughter, which I now remember as being quite like the twinkling of rainfall upon a metal sheet, interrupted my thoughts, my inner pleas for mercy, followed by the rough, husky guffaw of a logger man’s laughter and a soft trickle of giggles, the voice ambiguously male and female. The sounds of their hilarity filled my ruptured drums, mixing in with even more various cackles, the loud and crystalline sounds like thunder roaring through my head.
         A cracked, heavily accented voice broke through the apparent merriment, the hard accent seeming to pierce each pore of my skin (or rather, what was left of it) like a thousand needles. “Ay! Te lad be’ves himse’f to die by us, I dare say!” the voice cried, halting the peals of laughter. I cracked open one eye nervously, then the other, a soft whimper attempting to escape my throat, but it was forced away as I took in the scene before me, my eyes wide with amazement.

         What I remember of it now, I truly see no mystic cause or magic of any kind taking place that day, though to any mortal, it would in fact be astounding. The lone figure was no longer alone at all, but stood in the midst of a line of figures, men and women alike, all staring at me as if I were some strange creature they’d never seen before. It seemed quite as if they were deciding amongst themselves if I should be thrown into a pot of oil and served for dinner. It took a moment for my brain to process this mysterious drove of humans among the now desolate landscape, and I let out a frightened gasp as I realized the truth. These were the vultures that had attacked me, now all human beings and staring down at me, each with an amused look upon their face. If I had been able to speak, I venture that I would have said something entirely rude and fueled of anger and pain such as “Do not look at me like some caged animal when you all are the actual zoo.” In fact, I said that often then. My apparently permanent pale skin, despite the nearly constant desert sun, caused many rumors to be spread about me, a nameless orphan really.
         I stared up at them; engrossed by their clothing and the diverse set of masquerade masks each one wore to shield their face. They were each clad in a ragged yet beautiful feathered frock of various shades of brown, gold, and red, like the leaves of trees I saw in books but never here in the wasteland.
         Their faces haunted, and still haunt, me, the macabre look of them, with mine and my neighbors’ blood spattering across them. The whole look of it spike a chill throughout my bones, and I felt myself gasp again at the terrifying radiance of it all, my bare, bloodied chest rising slightly, my spine tingling erotically and arching as if a wave of pleasure had coursed its way through me. The figure beneath the cloak placed a mask of his own over his face before allowing the hood to fall back to rest upon his shoulders. The mask covered his entire face, a soft lavender hue decorated by an intricate silver thread. I found myself quite entranced by him, his regal mask and snowy white hair a stark contrast against his dark clothes and the bold colors of his companions. He bore an aura of high authority, clearly the leader of this band of creatures, his pale blue eyes boring into me, and I swore that he was peering into my very soul.
         He opened his mouth to speak, his voice slicing through me like a velvet blade, sharp but painless, almost pleasant in fact, and never would I have been so willing to have died other than right then, each word reverberating through my body with a pleasure I had never felt before, let alone know existed. I was sure I had cried out because of it and embarrassed myself with a moan of pure animalistic lust, but no sound other than his words penetrated my hearing.
         “You are a strong-willed and stunning creature, my dearest,” he crooned, his exotic voice filling me with a torrent of emotions and I swear I would ignite from the heat rising through my core. The pain I had previously felt no longer registered within me and I listened fervently to the smooth purr of his eloquent words, the rest of the world fading ‘til I heard only his voice, saw only his eyes behind the mask which marred his surely beautiful face from me. Each word echoed through me, embracing every inch of me as if he was caressing my body, but he stood away, and I blushed with a sudden uneasiness, feeling terribly exposed. What surprised me more was that I no longer minded, rather I was anxious that he would not approve, would see me as less than a human, not worthy of him.
         Never had I felt this kind of want, nay, a need, before. My entire self writhed and quaked, begging to be kissed, touched, and held by him, to be pressed against his body and burrow against him deeper and deeper, to have him penetrate me until we were one.
         Another voice, the woman from before, interrupted my dark fantasy, the throbbing pain of my injuries returning with a violent pulse of agony and I finally released a scream, tears pouring over my cheeks and mixing with the blood to stain themselves a delicate pink.
         “Daaare I say et, Ma’ter. Te lad done fe’ in love wit’ you, he did!” the female, which I now registered was the one directly on his right, cackled, peals of laughter resounding like sleigh bells, much unlike her rough voice. She was tall for a woman (and unfortunately, taller than me), perhaps 5’7, though still shrunken compared to him, barely reaching his shoulder. Her dress was a vibrant red, splashed with various wood browns and gold, the feathers sparse, only dotting the hems. The fabric fell low across her breasts, obviously meant to tease, and it appeared that her dark skin was tinted a faerie green, making her appear even more ethereal, almost a wraith, yet by no doubt, more beautiful.
         Unexpectedly, I found myself drawn to her as well, my dry and cracked lips parting slightly as I lifted my eyes to her face. Her hair was a shade nestled perfectly between brown and blonde, the black, glittery half-mask over her face highlighting her stunning grey-green eyes. Her mouth was small and round, her lips pursed in a graceful pout despite the appearance of a smirk upon her lips, dried blood over her chin and the area around her mouth. Her pale tongue darted out to take some and I watched her, unable to move or speak. It felt as though they were stealthily pulling me toward an abyss, yet I did not resist. In fact, I would have given anything at that moment for them to steal me away.
         “Come, stand with me, my child,” the man once again spoke, holding out his hand to me. I gingerly lifted myself to my feet, taking his hand and staring up into his resplendent eyes, leaning close and pressing myself against his chest. I did not know it then, but as I look back now I remember. That day, which was both the worst day, and the most wonderful day of my life, was also the last day of my life as a poor, sheltered boy and the first as a feral, powerful young man.