Death Eight

Night by night the Immortal Lord traces paper. He uses the excuse of Desolation's illness to copy the marques on her hands and feet.

Lord Jerrath is cursed himself, spending the majority of his life purchasing scrolls based on breaking hexes.

Destruction mentioned the spell upon her skin is a result of a being attempting to reign in her lousrife and control her. As a result, she is split in half.

While tracing the marques upon Desolation's arms, sparkes of epiphany roar into his mind. Lord Jerrath can stare into Destruction's eyes without the pull of death.

Destruction mentions she is the side which Desolation is forced to hide. Her spelled skin doesn't prevent the joining of personalities of her sensual, fiery spirit; but until Desolation recognized her split personality, they would never be joined properly.

Destruction revealed herself with death and Lord Jerrath was too distracted with the ample form of

Desolation/Destruction molding against his skin; the questions lodged in his esophagus like Freewill.

Questions rumble, who is this woman? Speaking to Destruction requires he kill Desolation.

I've murdered her twice; I cannot do so again.

Desolation's other side he knows, she doesn't know herself.

How can I tell her?

For centuries Lord Jerrath has dealt with abused flighty souls, like Desolation. Because of the curse upon her skin, Desolation is different. Being the bane of the village, she is a nervous Prelancha with wings heartbreakingly panicked.

Her heart leaps and lashes flutter against her high cheekbones; the panic he feels keenly across his skin.

"Be calm dear one; there is no danger here."

She shivers and her fever sets.

Lord Jerrath wrings a clean cloth and pats it against Desolation's brow.

"I'm sorry you are suffering. Destruction, you said you can hear me in your deep slumber. Hear me now.

Refuse Hedia's call. Mother Ira gave me a clue to my curse, she gave me you."

"In Desolation, you'll find hope.

In Destruction, you'll find love.

You are the curse giving me hope."

Desolation rolls to her right hip and like a Feyan suffering through winter, she trembles.

Rhinnlas and Rhikklas wink beneath the Chimera Sea three times before Desolation rolls around like a Feelinia's tail caught in a cog.

Unlike most men encumbered by Aranthyna's Sleep, Desolation spoke of the mundane. No secrets did she tell.

For three moons, Lord Jerrath sketches like a whirlwind.

Desolation's fingertips are ink-dipped. Master script traces along her knuckles. Curling calligraphy dances down Desolations appendages and half-finger bands encircle her wrists. Her toes mimicked her fingers in the manner of style, though the script differed.

Lord Jerrath copies the script, most he can decipher, other marques he cannot. He draws hands, feet, palms and plantar surfaces.

Desolation's heart stutters like her speech. Hedia is calling and true to her nature speaks a sentence or two per a quarter candle; unlike most men under the influence of Aranthyna's Sleep who babbled like the mentally infirm.

Through the seldom speech he learns she's an expert in ceramics, has committed suicide more than one could fathom, she adored kittens and disliked dogs because they were smelly. Perhaps she is unaware that dogs can be bathed just like any other creature. She is unafraid of insects, but the unnaturally large ones she gave large berth. Weren't most women afraid of such creatures? Desolation was not most women.

He also learns of her diet. She would not eat living animals of any kind, no bird, deer, stag, cow, boar, or fish. Her main diet consisted of fruits, vegetables, and the byproduct of animals such as cheese, eggs, and honey. These bits of information would greatly contribute to her comfort and gain a bit of her trust.

Desolation groans, throwing her pillows and twisting her covers, a sure sign her mind is being pulled from poisoned slumber into the waking world.

Suddenly, she jerks straight up, like someone had attached a rope to her neck, and gave a hard yank. Veiled head props for a candle flicker, then slumps back upon the pillow she hadn't tossed across the room.

"Muuuuupuuuu, wwhhyyyy diiid yyouuu leeettt meee ssslleeepp innnn?"

Desolation

I slowly wake to a faint, unfamiliar scratching. It's not the sound of the chickens scratching the ground. It's more akin to mupu as she etches designs and marques into leather hard clay.

My heart leaps. Had I slept in and left mupu to the morning chores? I leap up like I had preenkas in my bed. The world spins like a child's top, my stomach performs amazing feats of acrobatics and attempts to jump up my throat. After a few deep breaths, it calms and I lay down and grasp the comforter as the bed rolls like a barrel.

The sensation is a familiar one. I poisoned myself but must not have died. When I die from poisoning, I wake with a clean etching surface never feeling the aftermath. Why had I poisoned myself this time? What method did I use? My hand stretches to the sheaves of waxed paper I keep beside my bed, they contain the notes of all my deaths, including the very first one; the death where the village found it prudent to hand my eight moons turn self. I always place the most recent death on top so I may read and understand the nature of my death, or attempted death.

Instead, my fingers grasp air. The scratching stops. My eyes are clay-heavy, it takes several flickers to open. I peer through familiar veils yet stare at an unfamiliar canopy. Memories from the night before flood like a broken dam. I slowly raise myself on my elbows, my eyes throbbing with the motion. I shut them preferring darkness.

"Easy now, you've had many difficult nights," a soft and deeply musical voice intones near the vicinity of my feet. A voice I recognize and no longer carrying the tint of ire, a voice I've heard in my dreams. A vision of a man flickers against my lids, a flash of midnight eyes and flame against a blurred mien.

Think Desolation, think. What happened? I was preparing to bathe and drinking wine, no, overindulging. Then came the overwhelming need to sleep but many facets come to play, the warmth of the water and every sip of wine would set a small flame relaxing me further. The after-effects told me differently, I had been poisoned. Why? What had I done that warranted my death, again?

I peer through the veils once again, towards the voice. A man, no, the Immortal Lord sits on a stool with a sketchbook in hand. A flame-colored coil of hair tumbles over one shoulder to the floor. It wasn't simply red or orange associated with fire but streaked with cold blue, bright yellow, ash grey, and black coinciding with the death of wood. A pair of bright sapphire eyes peer over his sketch and says, "I am glad you are awake Desolation, you have been out for many moons, we feared you might now survive."

Placing my palms against the mattress, I push myself to a sitting position, taking time to observe my surroundings. The room is twin to my newly appointed one, except the colours are opposite. Whereas the canopy and covers in my room are burgundy, these are deep forest green. I'm not in my bed. My heart leaps against my ribs. I come to the sudden realization that it's only the veils I wear and the customary hood is nowhere to be seen. My fingers feel the fabric beneath them, they're un-gloved. I run my hands against my torso and arms, I am without my usual dresses.

"There is a towel beside you should you insist on covering your head. I have dried you, dressed you, and cared for you these past nights anything you wish to hide can no longer be hidden from me."

He had seen me, not solely my face, but all of me. Overwhelming anger consumes me like a coiled perenkas made of fire. My hair raises with power, my vision darkens, and I scream as the wave consumes me and let the fire take me as it will.