The End

Prologue



         “In the beginning of our earth, there were two great families who ruled from above the very clouds in the skies, who lived in harmony for many years until came a fierce battle between them. They could not decide on a leader to guide their two clans, and the battle grew so great and evil that they retreated from one another, isolating themselves in their arrogance. The clan who stayed in the clouds became the Aalya Clan, and the family who rested in the stones of the earth became the In’an. They lived separated from one another for a thousand years, when one fateful day, and woman and man from the two separate clans went riding their golden steeds to a mountain. The man, riding on his gold-plumed phoenixes, came to hunt. The woman, on her shining horses, came to gather flowers. They met by fate and fell in love, overcoming the hate that was fostered by their ancestors, and reuniting the two clans as their leaders. Their bloods mixed, and came forth with twelve children, who created bloodlines after themselves to create what are now the twelve clans. After such creation, the gods rested happily in their clouds and gardens, keeping watchful eyes over the twelve clans, bestowing greatness to all. And this year, they are smiling upon the Ona clan, the first of the twelve, as the year of the dragon comes once more.”

         The sleepy town was loud and eager as nearby people bustled up and down the brick roads, carrying decorations and costumes on their flaring horses, chattering excitedly about the night to come. Behind their house and resting in the private garden, Ahra craned her neck at the stiff man on their bench, pulling at his pant leg while the sounds of jubilant townspeople energized her even more.

         “Tell me the story of the gods once more!” She begged, shifting in her restless position and stirring bugs from the long grass. Her red robes glistened in the muggy sun, catching a gleam in her ebony hair. The man shifted painfully in his own position on the wrought iron bench, rubbing his chin as if to ease the ache of his strict, hoary ponytail. “Once more, uncle, I promise it’ll be the last time!” She whined. The back doors of their vine-eaten house slid open, letting a stocky man creep outside, ambling over to the little girl and the weary man. Picked up with a squeal, Ahra hugged her father’s sunburned shoulders. “Aru, papa!”

         “Leave your uncle alone, he’s had enough of your begging.” Aru swung her high in the air, grinning at the shrieks and giggles it produced.  “Come on, Aya, we need you to help with new year’s decorations.” He patted the stiff man’s back, chuckling.

         Once barren and sandy, the streets were completely lined with lanterns, and spiny trees covered in ribbons tied to their branches and horses’ manes braided and polished to look their very best in golden reigns and harnesses. Preparation for the beginning of the clan’s year was the most arduous and special time every twelve years.  This was the first of many new year’s celebrations for Ahra, who was but six years old. Since she could walk, her mother and father filled her head with the wonders of the Ona clan’s celebration; her red robes were as exquisite as every other woman’s, and she held a banner of their symbol to wave that night.

Inside, her face was pressed up to the glass of their kitchen windows, waving to the other locals outside when they placed flowers at the end of their house’s steps, a casual custom to show wishes for a good new year. A sudden tug at her wide sleeve pulled Ahra away, back to the dingy table.

         “Help me with these combs, Ahra.” Her mother mumbled. She was a beautiful woman with hair as black as her father’s, feathery and light around her sculpted face. Her straight line of a mouth quivered to give a smile as Ahra reached for a needle and thread to bind flowers to a fine string, which would eventually be fastened to a comb for their hair. Her mother’s smile soon faded, and she watched her daughter thread the needle, hands trembling as she bound her own blossoms. Dark skin lined her eyes like an ever-present shadow, a striking contrast to her clammy skin. Ahra smiled at her mother, confused when it was not returned.   

         “Uncle told me the story of the gods!” Ahra blurted out happily, grinning at Aya as he eased stiffly into a chair at the table. His frown did not waver. Ahra’s mother nodded rigidly, smiling awkwardly at him, her eyes dropped to the table.

         “Yes, thank you, Aya.” She breathed. Ahra got down from her chair, holding the string of flowers up to her hair in front of Aya, who sighed tiredly.

         “See how it will look? It’s look like this, but with a comb…”

         “Scat, stop bothering him!” Her father came bouncing in, swiping her away once more. “He already knows how much you love him; give him some space, now!” Aru chuckled, shooing Ahra upstairs with her flowers. Her mother sat quietly, threading the flowers together as she clenched her teeth.     

         Ahra’s small feet clomped on the stairs as she marched proudly with her red banner, stopping at her brother’s bedroom door. Before she had the chance to knock, he flung open the door and scooped her up in his arms. Ahra screamed in delight as he tickled her, kicking her legs to break free. He dropped her on his comfy bed, letting her catch her breath. She slid down to run at him, but her arms were too short to exact revenge, for he took her by the arms and pinned her against his bed.

         “Shahrokh, stop!” She screamed in glee. He put his hands up in the air, grinning to show his milky teeth. Almost six feet tall, Shahrokh loomed over her, as tall as their father.

         “What’s going on up there?” Aru called up the stairs.

         “I was attacked!” Ahra yelled back down. She could hear their father laugh as his footsteps went back to the kitchen. Her brother closed his door, going to his closet to rummage for something. He undid his black ponytail, letting it fall around his face. Ahra bounced eagerly on his bed, anxious to see the robes that Shahrokh would be wearing for the celebration. Heaving a moldy-green trunk out from a top shelf, he lugged it onto his bed next to Ahra, and began to fumble with the rusted locks. His face was thin like Ahra’s, but bruised and tough at his shallow cheeks and sharp jaw. The black hair that stopped at his collarbones barely covered the scars he had already collected from ten years of sword training. Shahrokh was almost seventeen now. His eyes were golden, like hers, and they shared the pale skin that made them stand out from their tanned neighbors. As he opened the trunk, he wiped his eyes on his hands; Ahra had always wondered why he cried so much. Caked in layers of dried tears, his eyelids and cheeks were clammy and covered by new, thick ones. When he opened the trunk, there were some of his own red robes laying neatly within, with his own banner folded into a triangle in the corner. “Are you excited for the celebration, brother?” Ahra implored. Shahrokh squinted at her, nodding as he smeared his eyes from what looked like more viscid tears.

         “Yes… I’ve been waiting for a long time.” He grinned, wiping his wet hands on his pant leg. Ahra peered at his eyes; they looked cloudier than yesterday. “Go on, you have to finish your comb.” He told, kissing her forehead and picking her up off the tall bed. Before she ran out, she touched the hilt of a black-sheathed sword that hung on his wall, feeling the braided cord around its scabbard. “Hurry, now, or I’ll catch you again!” He jumped off the bed, chasing her downstairs. They ran down the house, through the doors and into the streets, where he again captured her into his arms. A passing flock of girls smiled coquettishly at him as he held Ahra; he spun around to start back towards the house.

         “You’re not going to get married like the other people who are as old as you, are you, Shahrokh?” Ahra frowned, looking over his muscular shoulder to the eager girls. 

         “No, I’d never leave you.” He told, slighting them

.

         The sun was almost set against the purple and red skies as the village people all gathered before their temple, holding their banners silently. The priest, swaddled in his red robes, carried a single candle down the long street to his white dais, stepping slowly onto the platform and raising the candle to the masses of people.

         “This candle is an example of the gifts given to us by the gracious god and goddess in the beginning of our clan, for without it we would go cold, hungry, and blind.” Off to the side of the crowds, by a tea shop, Ahra and her mother stood to listen to the priest. Ahra’s arms ached to throw up her banner, but she knew she had to wait. “This year comes only every twelve years, and it is a gift to us, so we must cherish it as we do flames. Do not take it for granted, for our Emperor, the god, and his wife, our Empress and goddess, have been good to us! And we, the first of twelve clans, shall be good for them!” A sudden roar of cheers and screams of pride shook the village, banners flinging everywhere in pleasure. The priest held up his hands, and the crowds quieted instantly. In the next seconds, the sun darkened and sank in the sky, and there was no light or noise. Ahra clutched blindly onto her mother’s legs, whimpering. “And here is our gift of the Ona clan’s year!” The entire village burst in applause and dancing as a line of cascading candles lit above the rooftops, in lines that ignited each other to reveal intricate spider webs of lanterns over the village, which in turn lighted fireworks that spun and cracked in the clouds, dancing in Ahra’s eyes. From the temple steps, came musicians with their stringed instruments and drums, setting the whole village into a celebration unlike any other, everyone a swirl of red silk and golden ribbons beneath the heavenly glows. Ahra looked around her, only to see her mother.

         “Momma, Where is Shahrokh?” Her mother looked down at her with a quivering grin, shrugging. Her father and Aya were at the tea shop’s counter stools, her father chatting boisterously with the owner, a close friend. Aya was staring at his cup sourly. Ahra pulled at his sleeves. “Uncle, where is Shahrokh?” Aya swallowed back a bad taste in his mouth.

         “He is at the house, I believe.” He sighed, rubbing his chin. Ahra’s pink lips turned to a frown.

         “He’s going to miss the paper dragons!” She protested. “I’m going to get him.” She turned on her heel, running through the dancing villagers back to their neighborhood as fast as she could. Aya leaned one hand against the counter of the shop, staring blankly at Ahra’s father.

         “You realize you can’t keep running like this.” Aya muttered to him. “They know where you are, and someday you will have no choice but give Ahra to them.” Ahra’s father’s smile vanished, along with the color in his face. He stared into the depths of his own cup, troubled and upset.

         “I’m not giving her up.” He uttered. Aya patted his back.

         “That is why I am here.” He whispered. “To make sure you do.”



         Ahra pushed open the sliding doors, scampering into the dark house. The music from the center of the village could be heard all the way, even as she closed the door. Wandering from room to room, it seemed like no one was home. Even the fish they kept in their dining room were still and noiseless. Ahra walked into the living room; suddenly, her foot caught on something, and she fell face-first to the hard floor, scratching her teeth along her lower lip to break blood onto her chin. Scrambling to stand, she saw that a floorboard had been removed, tossed to the side. Peering into the hole beneath, there was nothing but a piece of paper. Reaching in cautiously, she pulled the scrap out from the twisted maze of nails and dead spider webs. It had nothing on it. Holding her lip, Ahra headed to the stairway, running to her brother’s room.

         “Shahrokh?” She pounded on the door for the first time in her life, surprised when it opened several seconds later, by itself. Shahrokh was sitting on the floor, surrounded by papers from a ratty, gossamer-covered trunk on its side. Swathed around his bent body were black robes that cast over him like a shadow, instead of the brilliant red robes their clan treasured. They had no symbols on them, no detail, no red colors, a completely foreign dress for such a celebration. His red robes lay untouched in the trunk on his bed, as well as the banner. Ahra crept up behind him, in awe at the papers that surrounded him. “Shahrokh… what are you… why are you wearing those robes?” Ahra touched his shoulder. His arm instinctively wrapped around Ahra’s small shoulders, and he kissed her forehead. There was something different about him; his face had no emotion, and his eyes strayed from hers, locked onto the papers, now turned over so Ahra could not see them. Shahrokh wiped his eyes from the clear fluid that never ceased to leak, squinting as he looked dead-on into Ahra’s clear eyes. It was now that Ahra noticed scabs over his left eyelids, and dried blood beneath his fingernails. His hands grasped her shoulders tightly, and he stared on. She touched his eye, whimpering. “Brother, your eye is hurt…” she huffed, “you need to bandage it.” His pale lips turned slightly at the corners to a faint grin.

         “I’m not in pain all at… and soon neither shall you be.” He uttered under his breath. Touching her lip, Ahra wondered if he spoke about her bleeding. “They shall pay back for what they have done… and no longer will you live these lies.” His teeth bared sharply beneath his smile, gleaming in such a way Ahra had never seen before. Though cloudy and dead in his sockets, Shahrokh’s eyes were alive with a fire that seared Ahra’s own eyes. She wriggled free from his strong hands, backing away to the door.

         “I’m getting some bandages…” Ahra whimpered, confused, “stay there!” She rushed down the creaky stairs, jumping over the missing floorboard to run back into the

streets.



         The dancing whirlpools of red robes and banners sucked Ahra in, pulling and pushing her in circles as she struggled to swim to her father and mother at the shop; breaking away from the festive and squealing circle of women who took her hands, she darted between legs and robes to her mother, who stood nervously to the side of all the dancing. Ahra pulled frantically at her mother’s hanging sleeve.

         “Momma,” she whined, “momma, my lip…” From behind, her father picked her up and sat her on the shop counter, patting her lip with a napkin.

         “Did you trip on your robes, Ahra? I warned you about that earlier today.” He laughed. Ahra bit down on the napkin, shaking her head.

         “I tripped on the floorboard in the living room, it was taken out of the floor and there was a hole…” she blubbered, holding the napkin to her mouth. Her father’s smile turned into a frown; his eyes were filled with alarm. Her mother began to run toward the house, the same expression as her father’s on her face.

         “You stay here with Aya, Ahra.” Her father patted her shoulder, following her.

         “Are they going to bandage Shahrokh’s eye?” Ahra asked Aya. Though he did not know what she was talking about, he nodded. A moment later, he pushed her aside to the other children of the village, and went into the crowds.



         After dancing and running around with other children for so long, Ahra grew restless to see her father. Neither he or her mother had come back from the house, and Shahrokh was still not at the celebration. Even in the masses of red, he would have stood out clear. Peering back at the shop down the street, Aya was also nowhere to be seen near there. Suddenly, Ahra could recognize no faces in her village. They waved at her, beckoned her and swirled around her, but their faces lost their names as Ahra began to feel alone. Perhaps Aya was dancing with the other people? Taking one more glance around the swaying streets, Ahra slid into a back alleyway and began to head home, where she knew she would feel secure.



         The lanterns that canopied the village cast elongated shadows with the trees, leaving the pathway to their house to seem longer than it ever had been, and music still echoed in her ears as her shoes tapped along the tile. Feeling the dark walls for the handle to the front door, Ahra pushed it open, slamming it to escape the noise. She kicked off her stiff shoes, shaking the dirt from between her toes.

         “Momma? Papa?” She called. Her voice bounced through the house, to which there was no answer. Looking into the living room, she saw the floorboard had been placed back. Her mother had to have been there. Stumbling through the dark house, she tip-toed to the kitchen for a lamp, feeling the furniture as she went. Table, chair, countertop; with the next step, her foot slid from beneath her, leaving Ahra half-standing as she grasped the counter’s edge fearfully. Squinting at the floor; it was a black smear that she had stepped in. Wriggling her toes, she could not discern what it was. Another black smear after that one caught her eye; this one larger. Stepping carefully around them, she followed it as it careened about the floor, swerving around the doorway to their hall. The hall was just as dark as the rest of the house, and she had to squint harder at the trail as she went deeper into the hallway. Suddenly her toes felt a matted clump, and picking it up, it looked almost like hair. A tight squeeze constricted Ahra’s heart while her fingers felt the clump, seeing the same black smears blot her palm. She could feel her veins throbbing with hot blood; following the snaking smears as they went up against baseboards, grew larger or smaller as the trail continued, cutting across the hallway and parting into thin lines; the closer she stared at the trail, the more clumps lay caught between floorboards, and what looked like the scratches of a dog’s claws against the wood began to appear alongside them. Every door of the hallway was closed, and the smears continued on, down to the door at the very end, disappearing beneath the threshold into Ahra’s mother’s and father’s bedroom. Dropping the clump as she reached the closed, dark door, Ahra’s hands trembled as she reached up for the handle, wiping her eyes, pushing the door open to the blackness of the room. 

         Unable to see even her hands, Ahra swept the floor with her foot, catching the smears once again. The silence of the room rung shrilly in her ears, striking her deaf and blind. She followed the wet trail with her toes, waving her arms around her to feel for furniture. An abrupt halt stopped her foot; it was soft and still. Fearful of what it might be, Ahra lowered herself, hands before her, to feel the still lump. Her fingers touched a silky cloth, and leading her hands to the right, a warm mass. Feeling farther to the side, her fingertips brushed a coarse tangle that was wet and heavy, the same feeling of the clumps from before; Ahra gasped, frightened and unable to breathe. With quivering fingers, she turned the tangled mass in her hands, searching for the trail once more.

         Suddenly, without warning, dim light flowed into the room, giving light to what Ahra held in her hands; her mother. Shrieking in pure terror, Ahra flung her mother away from her, crying at the red smears that covered her hands and feet, backing away from her mother’s still body, or what seemed to all of it. All that was there was a head and torso, covered in two kinds of red, broken and torn like a smashed doll on the blackened floor. Ahra screamed as she tried to wipe her hands free of the blood, choking on her own tears and ululating in ghostly wails, pushing herself farther and farther away from the torn head of hair; her back hit an unexpected stop. Moaning fearfully, she whipped her head around to gaze up at a towering man, who held a lamp below his chin to give her light. His black robes hung dead around him, and the sword gripped in his right hand gleamed black beyond the glow. Ahra cowered in panic, wailing and screaming for her life as the man stood without sound. She shrieked, blubbering into her knees, eyes fixed tearfully on the sword.

            Looking out from her arms, Ahra staggered back in sheer horror, her screams ceasing as Shahrokh rubbed his face from their mother’s blood off his cheek. His eyes were blank as he stared at her, surrounded by streams of black blood; with one look at her brother, Ahra knew what he had done. “Shahrokh,” she blubbered, her chest tightening with numbing fear, “what did you do to momma?” She began to wail; Shahrokh tasted his bloodied fingers silently, then wiping his eyes, only to smear the blackness. Ahra coughed on her breaths, moaning painfully. “Shahrokh?” She cried. 

              "Don't you cry," he breathed, reaching into his wet robes; Ahra shrieked and covered her head as he pulled out a dagger. He raised it above his head, both hands gripped neatly around the hilt, “ hell awaits.”





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This can be continued in another document in my portfolio- under "The End; chapter one". Thanks for reading!