Story The Fires Which Rain Down

[Melpomene]

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Spoiler: Plot blurb

There is a great Empire, one that appeared and began to rise high in world, conquering those around it and increasing its borders with every passing decade, each Emperor coming to rule over a larger Empire than the last. It was a nation that was to be feared, for they were ruthless, not afraid to spill blood, making the sands and dirt turn red with the blood of their enemies. There was a promise made by the last emperor. A promise that the sun would never set on their empire. However, there is unrest, not only within, but as well as around. Corruption pervaded the empire and those that opposed it seemed to grow in number by the day. It was a great empire. But all empires fall. It is all just a matter of time. And the time has come for the empire to face it's largest challenge to date. Internal intrigue has led to there being fragility in the legal system and the delicate dance of power is causing man to fall and die. On the horizon there is a new, promising enemy that refuses to be smiled and as unrest grows and festers, so does the support to see the toppling of the new empire. Blood no longer means anything. All men are looking out for themselves and only themselves. The most cunning rules and warm hearts have died. The end of an era is upon the horizon and soon all shall know what true bleak and blackness is when the sunsets on the empire and someone else comes to reign over them in it's stead.

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I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

The Fires Which Rain Down ​

 

[Melpomene]

Prologue​

He stood there, unmoving and still as the sword was thrust through his bosom. Blood bloomed where it had pierced, right beneath his left breast. It was buried in him to the hilt, he coughed, grabbing at the shoulder nearest before him and attempted to lean on it, but the Faceless Woman simply stepped back, her veil secured in place. He could still see the way her head tilted to the side inquisitively. Full lips would be parted in a partial grin as eyes sparked with an unbridled interest in the way the blood fell forth, coating her tanned hands and fingers, she took those hands beneath her veil. She licked it, tasted it, he already knew. A curse on men. One which would always remain as long as the palace stood.


Silios stumbled back, hands grappling at the sword. It was growing harder for him to breath. He yanked hard, feeling skin tear and his body jerk along with it. The pain grew to be nearly unbearable. He let his hands fall as his knees collapsed. He grabbed at the floor for some unknown handle. It was slick, though his vision had begun to blur as he coughed roughly and felt the blood run down his chin and lips.


“Does teasing him in such a way please you?” He groaned, unable and unwilling to look upon that who proposed such a question to the faceless woman.


“No.” The answer was clipped. Simple. Even as the world around him seemed to blur to nil he could hear her better than anything else. The way the silver and gold chains clinked against one another as she walked. The way her bare feet padded against the marble floor. She wore nothing, only the veil which covered her face in a shroud of red. Her body jerked into an odd pose as she took a chalice into her hands. The weight of the sword was beginning to become too much.


It seemed to slice down through him, run through his very soul as it settled. He was one with the sword and the sword was one with him. Did it run warm or did his blood run cold?


You were born for this. Born to die.


He was born for nothing. By no one. Into nowhere. What had even been the face of his mother other than pale gloom of the future of nothingness which awaited him? What had been the seed of his father other than the shroud of contentness to hide the contempt? The past had been made a mystery with the simple flick of her finger, yet the future was certain.


He coughed again. The blackness of his soul spilled forth with every ragged breath. His eyes screwed shut as he let his head slump forward farther.


Death.


It was coming, the sweet touches of her nimble fingers were promising upon his flesh. He let out a wheezing breath, soft fingers touched beneath his chin to lift it yet again. To let him look into the eyeless face set before him. He looked up, weary as his lips formed into soft words. So soft, even he wondered if he spoke them. But as the Faceless Woman tossed back her head and let out a shrill laugh, he knew they fell from his tongue. And surely, she understood.


Her fingers traced along the lines which had been etched on his throat, then she lowered the golden chalice to catch the blood which fell forth from his bosom. Black ink was beginning to swim before his vision, he spoke still, softly yet surely as he felt a certain warmth begin to take his body from the cold which it had become locked in.


“Stop wasting our time and bring his end!” Silken shoes came into his vision, silk cloth brushed against it, benath that he could see a peek of trousers. But the man stood just short of the pool of blood which spilled. Unlike the faceless woman that seemed to take pleasure in bathing in it. She let out another laugh as her grip on his chin turned to one of vice.


“I thought he was the one you wished to see die, my Lord.” she took the chalice away and lifted it up so the Lord would take it. His hands were pristine and manicured. So unlike Silios’s own which had dirt and blood already embedded deep within the nails before he had even stepped foot into this room.


A strangled cry escaped his lips as he felt the sword twist within him. Darkness was on the horizon. Her face hovered before his, for a moment he thought he could see past her veil and into the eyes which mocked. His hands lifted once more, weakly landing on her throat, running across the elegant shape of it as his nails scratched at the smooth flesh. He held it tight, his breath becoming ragged as he attempted to press on. She laughed yet again. That tantalizing yet melodic laugh.


“Not yet, my darling. Not yet for me,” she whispered as she gently pushed his hands away. “Go on. You’ve served your purpose to the Empire.”


He murmured again. She laughed yet again, taking a hold of the back of his head and pressing him firmly against her warm shoulder as though he was but a babe. Her fingers ran through his hair with a surprising gentility, her lips pressed against this temple with a softness he had forgotten she possessed.


“Your wish shall be got,” she whispered. He could hear the sound of the Lord drinking from the chalice. He could see as his own knees buckled and he was forced to let his silks touch upon the filthy blood of the dying commoner before him. The Lord’s hand reached forward, gripping on to the Faceless Woman for balance. She did not waver. And after he got his balance, neither did he.


“It tasted foul.”


“I am sure.” She continued to brush her fingers through the hair of Silios. She hummed for a few moments more. He could see darkness. He could not bring himself to open his eyes anylonger. He could feel the vibrations in her chest as she spoke, as she hummed, but he understood none of it. He could not bear to. His lips trembled as his body shook with an unknown fear. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He felt the life which he had clung to for so long leave him with every stroke of her hand.


What had he done to be deserving of such a fate? Was it truly only death which he had been destined for? Her hands curled deep into his hair, and he let out one final breath as he allowed his body to finally rest.


And the moment it happened, she let him drop to the ground. Lord Helian stood again, grimacing at the blood which had soaked into the cloth upon his knees. He stood fully, throwing his head back and pulling back his pale hair into a low-hanging tail. The Faceless Woman turned to face him, her head tilted to side once again.


“Do you not feel invigorated, Lord?” she asked.


He said nothing. He simply stepped to the curtain which separated them from the outside world.


“The Empire must live on, no? You should feel invigorated by this. Is it not your only chance?”


“Hush,” he said as he looked over his shoulder. But he could not bear to look upon the eyeless veil which stared back at him. She had risen again, seeming to be uninterested in the blood which covered her body. She walked with all the confidence of an Emperor. She threw her head back yet again, letting her dark hair jump with the movement, her hair acting like a curtain which shielded her from his eyes.


“Shall the Empire live on, my Lord?” He said nothing. Without a second thought, he stepped from the torchlit room and into the crisp night air. He could smell the burning of flesh and hay in the distance. As his eyes lifted, he saw the outline of the walls which wrapped around the city. He pressed his hand to his stomach now filled with the blood and herbs of another man.


Then he let out a breath as he stepped back towards his home with only the smell of burning flesh to accompany him.