The Crimson Hollow
In the shadowed realms of an ancient land, where secrets whisper and darkness reigns, a tale of intrigue unfolds.
Delilah Fennessy, beguiling and enigmatic, her existence, a tapestry woven with threads of forbidden blood, casts her as an outcast in a world divided by power and lineage. A solitary soul, she treads the path of isolation, her heart weighed by the burden of her heritage.
Amidst the currents of blood, burdens, and ancestral legacies, there ever existed times when Delilah could perceive the murmurs of the populace, weaving prophecies. Murmurs fed by religion and despair.
It whispered of a figure, sometimes a name could be heard, a lot of names were born by the time Delilah grew up. The name of the one who would bring light by misery, the one who by blood would ease pain. The Harbinger of doom. A being of absolute light and pureness, a creation of God.
Yet Delilah remained resolute in her skepticism toward these hollow fables and narratives devoid of clemency. Verily, this world stood bereft of the capacity to birth forth such resplendent light.
In this opus of passion and darkness, where echoes of forgotten times reverberate through the corridors of the soul, only the shadows hold the answers, between dances of love and anguish shall unveil the truth that lies dormant in the depths of tortured souls.
♱
Curiosity mastering her, Delilah inquired; "Who are you ?", certainly, he replied; "What I might be cannot be defined."
Bewildered, she surveyed him from head to toe, her mouth agape, her cheeks and lips rosied from weeping. The painting seemed as one of the most uncanny embroilments, depicting a tragic twist, Delilah’s tear-stained and bloodied fingers delicately still arranging her disheveled tresses, betraying a self-consciousness and awareness of her own appearance. Her soft voice daring to inquire the identity of the enigmatic man, even as she maintained her grip on the pistol, its aim unwavering. The irony unfolded as mere moments ago, she had been tearing at her own flesh, beseeching the divine to bring an end to her torment.
She slowly swallowed her saliva, shame inundating her soul, she replied; "Your name alone suffices to define you, sir." He slowly ascended from his seat, he traversed, his back now towards her. And she knew better than to request names, but this being present here was no man, his scent was redolent of death and his hands were adorned with blood.
"Names hold little meaning. But perhaps, I shall give it to you some other time."
jezestbelle · Fantaisie
