08-04-2016, 01:20 PM
Just the memory of hope was nearly overwhelming and he paused, froze the images in his mind, letting it wash through him, a flood scouring the canyon of his mind, ripping away detritus and brush, unstoppable.
It its place was left emptiness, a breeze in the now deathly quiet of his mind. He saw his daughter now, rapturously fierce joy on her face, green eyed goddess looking down on the carnage she had wrought. And he remembered her, saw himself in her. He even saw Jova- his heart clenched at the memory of her, the pain of her leaving still so raw- in her, though that was not possible.
And for the next few months, they hunted throughout Italy. Wolfkin, Drainaka, Harpies. It did not matter. They were happy. When she hunted, it was as if she were unleashed. There was no fear, no trepidation. She was an Atharim such as had not been seen since...since him. It was fitting. If anyone were to surpass him, it should be his seed.
He did not begrudge her the occasional slip. A life such as hers was not easy, the daughter of a prostitute who had died when she was young, a young girl surviving on the streets. He suspected. No. Deep down he knew. But it was her right. Those deaths were justified. Men like that did not deserve any mercy.
He saw peace in her eyes. Peace and pride and confidence. And her hunting skills continued to improve. She was not a scholar and for once, Armande was content with that. She didn't need to be. The hunt was what she lived for. It was enough that she was what she was.
And he felt pride and love.
So it continued until events at the Vatican called him away and he left her for a short time. Just a month. A month was all it took.
He returned to their home in Syracuse. And gradually he realized it was a demon that looked out at him through those eyes. Oh it had tried to hide, tried to pretend. And for a while, he had been fooled. But those eyes, they showed him the truth.
They are hunting a sentient among a Roma encampment. He feels the ancient contempt for these traveling people, these thieves and lay-abouts who litter the streets of Europe with their presence, begging and pick-pocketing. He remembers the struggles with them as a child, taking what should have been his, being down upon with the same contempt and disgust that belonged to them.
The man is drunk and walks away from the fires of the camp unsteadily, large belly protruding and stretching his red shirt so that the coarse black hairs on his stomach are visible in the moonlight between the strained fabric and buttons. The sour stench of sweat and wine and unwashed flesh fills his nostrils as he and Lissandra grab the man from behind and drag him to a secluded location. Lissandra wipes her hands as if they are soiled, doubles over dry retching and breathing hard. When she looks at him through tight eyes, he does not see the usual joy of the hunt. He sees fear. Why does he see fear? He sees rage and a mouth twisted down, a glare for the man before them.
The man talks. The green fire in Lissandra's eyes burn hot and Armande doesn't know what this means. Armande looks at his daughter, concerned, but they know who their quarry is now. The take will be easy, a simple shot from a distance. The man is of no consequence. So why is she looking down at him with such hatred and rage?
"Come, Lissandra. Leave him. He is nothing."
She says nothing but continues to stare down, shaking. And then she kneels over him hesitantly, the man propped against the tree, and sniffs. And in that moment she spins her head to him, eyes wide with rage and glassy with tears, he sees the mouth twisted into a rictus of agony. Involuntarily he steps back. He sees demon looks out those eyes and back at the man and suddenly she is hacking at the man. When did she get her blades out? In a rage she strikes again and again and he is frozen in confusion, unable to fathom what he is seeing.
And suddenly she is done and the blades are flung to the ground and she sinks to her knees, sobbing. He rushes to her side whispering fiercly, "Lissandra! Lissandra! What are you doing?" She says nothing. He tries to get hold her by her shoulders, arms around her to pull her back, but she pushes him away, looking at him with such hatred and rage and fear.
And then he is blown back by nothing. He is on his back, the muscles of his chest and shoulders sore, his head ringing at striking the ground. Suddenly he sees Lissandra looking over him, tears and concern filling her eyes, apologies spilling from her lips.
But all he can see is that face, that twisted face moments ago, the demon face. And hope dies. His daughter is gone. She has been taken, replaced by this creature before him. As if she had touched something and it had stolen her soul, replacing it with this thing.
He knows what she has touched. The power of the gods. He had felt it on him moments ago An infection, a contagion. Even his own daughter. Inside, he is dying, railing against God and the universe that would take his last chance from him, that consigns him to solitude for all time.
But outside, on the outside, he wears his mask. As his heart breaks, he shows none of that to her. He cannot. He dare not for fear he let the creature know he sees the truth. She stares at him, letting him see fear and uncertainty. A trick, to steal his heart.
It is not his daughter. It is not his daughter. He says this to himself over and over again, a litany, a chant, a prayer, to protect his heart, to steel himself, to resist the succubus before him. He cannot help clenching his teeth at the face gazing up at him. So sweet, so pure. His daughter. No!! Not his daughter. The litany fills his mind. Not his daughter...
After a moment, it gives up, showing sadness, and turns to pick the knives. And Armande knows that this is his only chance. He cannot be around it. He will surely break under her spell. He must. He is only a man. It has stolen his daughter, taken her form. It will win.
It is only a moment, but so slow. So very slow. His heart clenches at what he is doing, the spirit pleading with him, her power infecting him, fighting him. But he.must.do.this!! Without at word his sword whips out and buries itself in her back.
Why does he feel like he has been stabbed? The sword is in her heart, not his. Her cry is nearly silent and then she is on the ground. With her last bit of power she calls him to her, feels it pulling him on strings of love, playing him in one last attempt. And despite himself he is at her side, rolling her over, looking down into those eyes.
Eyes filled with confusion and fear. Eyes accusing and betrayed. It plays him like an instrument. He can feel her doing it, feels her tearing at him with her look. The tears she brings to his eyes makes her blurry and he blinks them away, dropping to her face. And then, finally- O merciful God, please, I cannot last any longer!- finally, the light goes out.
But the bewitching remains and he bows his head over and weeps at what he has done, howls silently into the bowels of the earth. And his pain and torment becomes rage, a volcano of fury. Cheeks wet with tears, her blood tacky against his skin, he burns with fire, tries to burn away all remnant of her. But even then, she is too strong. What she has wrought before she died is permanent. A wound to his soul, an injury to his core. His heart has been cut out and this shell remains. This empty shell.
She will be avenged. The resolve builds in his mind, hardening into walls that hold him up. He will avenge her, he will make them pay. The power. The call of the ancient gods...that was what stole his daughter. He bows his head over her, forehead to forehead and makes his vow. To avenge what must be avenged. To wipe all users of the power from the earth. The tears fall onto her face, into her unblinking eyes.
Finally, he stands, legs stiff from kneeling for so long. He looks down at the body, at what had once been his daughter. Move. He cannot. The residual hold of her power is still there. Move! Nothing. Finally, with effort, as if trying to shift a mountain, he takes a step. Another. Another.
And he walks away.
Each step builds the wall, a brick, layer by layer, row by row, walling off this image, this place. Until, finally, mercifully, her power is closed in, trapped. He locks the door. Behind the door, the light of her power glows, trapped. Safe.
Armande stood outside the room again, door locked. Memory safe. Contained. But in his heart, determination has been renewed. And something new. Something he hadn't let himself remember until now. The hunger for vengeance. Lissandra.
Vengeance for his Lissandra against all.
His eyes opened. It was time.
Edited by Regus, Oct 20 2016, 08:01 PM.
It its place was left emptiness, a breeze in the now deathly quiet of his mind. He saw his daughter now, rapturously fierce joy on her face, green eyed goddess looking down on the carnage she had wrought. And he remembered her, saw himself in her. He even saw Jova- his heart clenched at the memory of her, the pain of her leaving still so raw- in her, though that was not possible.
And for the next few months, they hunted throughout Italy. Wolfkin, Drainaka, Harpies. It did not matter. They were happy. When she hunted, it was as if she were unleashed. There was no fear, no trepidation. She was an Atharim such as had not been seen since...since him. It was fitting. If anyone were to surpass him, it should be his seed.
He did not begrudge her the occasional slip. A life such as hers was not easy, the daughter of a prostitute who had died when she was young, a young girl surviving on the streets. He suspected. No. Deep down he knew. But it was her right. Those deaths were justified. Men like that did not deserve any mercy.
He saw peace in her eyes. Peace and pride and confidence. And her hunting skills continued to improve. She was not a scholar and for once, Armande was content with that. She didn't need to be. The hunt was what she lived for. It was enough that she was what she was.
And he felt pride and love.
So it continued until events at the Vatican called him away and he left her for a short time. Just a month. A month was all it took.
He returned to their home in Syracuse. And gradually he realized it was a demon that looked out at him through those eyes. Oh it had tried to hide, tried to pretend. And for a while, he had been fooled. But those eyes, they showed him the truth.
They are hunting a sentient among a Roma encampment. He feels the ancient contempt for these traveling people, these thieves and lay-abouts who litter the streets of Europe with their presence, begging and pick-pocketing. He remembers the struggles with them as a child, taking what should have been his, being down upon with the same contempt and disgust that belonged to them.
The man is drunk and walks away from the fires of the camp unsteadily, large belly protruding and stretching his red shirt so that the coarse black hairs on his stomach are visible in the moonlight between the strained fabric and buttons. The sour stench of sweat and wine and unwashed flesh fills his nostrils as he and Lissandra grab the man from behind and drag him to a secluded location. Lissandra wipes her hands as if they are soiled, doubles over dry retching and breathing hard. When she looks at him through tight eyes, he does not see the usual joy of the hunt. He sees fear. Why does he see fear? He sees rage and a mouth twisted down, a glare for the man before them.
The man talks. The green fire in Lissandra's eyes burn hot and Armande doesn't know what this means. Armande looks at his daughter, concerned, but they know who their quarry is now. The take will be easy, a simple shot from a distance. The man is of no consequence. So why is she looking down at him with such hatred and rage?
"Come, Lissandra. Leave him. He is nothing."
She says nothing but continues to stare down, shaking. And then she kneels over him hesitantly, the man propped against the tree, and sniffs. And in that moment she spins her head to him, eyes wide with rage and glassy with tears, he sees the mouth twisted into a rictus of agony. Involuntarily he steps back. He sees demon looks out those eyes and back at the man and suddenly she is hacking at the man. When did she get her blades out? In a rage she strikes again and again and he is frozen in confusion, unable to fathom what he is seeing.
And suddenly she is done and the blades are flung to the ground and she sinks to her knees, sobbing. He rushes to her side whispering fiercly, "Lissandra! Lissandra! What are you doing?" She says nothing. He tries to get hold her by her shoulders, arms around her to pull her back, but she pushes him away, looking at him with such hatred and rage and fear.
And then he is blown back by nothing. He is on his back, the muscles of his chest and shoulders sore, his head ringing at striking the ground. Suddenly he sees Lissandra looking over him, tears and concern filling her eyes, apologies spilling from her lips.
But all he can see is that face, that twisted face moments ago, the demon face. And hope dies. His daughter is gone. She has been taken, replaced by this creature before him. As if she had touched something and it had stolen her soul, replacing it with this thing.
He knows what she has touched. The power of the gods. He had felt it on him moments ago An infection, a contagion. Even his own daughter. Inside, he is dying, railing against God and the universe that would take his last chance from him, that consigns him to solitude for all time.
But outside, on the outside, he wears his mask. As his heart breaks, he shows none of that to her. He cannot. He dare not for fear he let the creature know he sees the truth. She stares at him, letting him see fear and uncertainty. A trick, to steal his heart.
It is not his daughter. It is not his daughter. He says this to himself over and over again, a litany, a chant, a prayer, to protect his heart, to steel himself, to resist the succubus before him. He cannot help clenching his teeth at the face gazing up at him. So sweet, so pure. His daughter. No!! Not his daughter. The litany fills his mind. Not his daughter...
After a moment, it gives up, showing sadness, and turns to pick the knives. And Armande knows that this is his only chance. He cannot be around it. He will surely break under her spell. He must. He is only a man. It has stolen his daughter, taken her form. It will win.
It is only a moment, but so slow. So very slow. His heart clenches at what he is doing, the spirit pleading with him, her power infecting him, fighting him. But he.must.do.this!! Without at word his sword whips out and buries itself in her back.
Why does he feel like he has been stabbed? The sword is in her heart, not his. Her cry is nearly silent and then she is on the ground. With her last bit of power she calls him to her, feels it pulling him on strings of love, playing him in one last attempt. And despite himself he is at her side, rolling her over, looking down into those eyes.
Eyes filled with confusion and fear. Eyes accusing and betrayed. It plays him like an instrument. He can feel her doing it, feels her tearing at him with her look. The tears she brings to his eyes makes her blurry and he blinks them away, dropping to her face. And then, finally- O merciful God, please, I cannot last any longer!- finally, the light goes out.
But the bewitching remains and he bows his head over and weeps at what he has done, howls silently into the bowels of the earth. And his pain and torment becomes rage, a volcano of fury. Cheeks wet with tears, her blood tacky against his skin, he burns with fire, tries to burn away all remnant of her. But even then, she is too strong. What she has wrought before she died is permanent. A wound to his soul, an injury to his core. His heart has been cut out and this shell remains. This empty shell.
She will be avenged. The resolve builds in his mind, hardening into walls that hold him up. He will avenge her, he will make them pay. The power. The call of the ancient gods...that was what stole his daughter. He bows his head over her, forehead to forehead and makes his vow. To avenge what must be avenged. To wipe all users of the power from the earth. The tears fall onto her face, into her unblinking eyes.
Finally, he stands, legs stiff from kneeling for so long. He looks down at the body, at what had once been his daughter. Move. He cannot. The residual hold of her power is still there. Move! Nothing. Finally, with effort, as if trying to shift a mountain, he takes a step. Another. Another.
And he walks away.
Each step builds the wall, a brick, layer by layer, row by row, walling off this image, this place. Until, finally, mercifully, her power is closed in, trapped. He locks the door. Behind the door, the light of her power glows, trapped. Safe.
Armande stood outside the room again, door locked. Memory safe. Contained. But in his heart, determination has been renewed. And something new. Something he hadn't let himself remember until now. The hunger for vengeance. Lissandra.
Vengeance for his Lissandra against all.
His eyes opened. It was time.
Edited by Regus, Oct 20 2016, 08:01 PM.