Atonement. At the moment it is all I wish for as I lay beneath the mire; under the weeping Moon. It is most likely karma that will not allow my life to pass into the frost of wintermaybe it is better to suffer this serenity painted death than to endure the rest of my burden of a life through isolation years. Perhaps a prologue of the grand conjuration that labeled me as the demon of the fall shall help make sense of it
Blackwater Park; the institute located in Harlequin Forest in which I had spent over 4 years as one of the many Master's apprentices. Hours of wealth wasted slaving before the godhead's lament, surrounded by windowpanes of advent. Deliverance from Harvest, goes the credence of this hessian peel. Madrigal, almost. Epilogue of the happily-ever-after clich. Yet I had never been a religious man. It was the craft that drew me into reverie. For absent friends mattered not as long as I was soaked in drapery falls of magic.
Generally, circumstances were better than adequate. I had my studies, I had my free time in solitude. Despite being constantly enveloped in wreaths of God, I was able to enjoy myself. However, life, as satisfactory as it had been, was a far cry from anything close to perfection. I had my weakness, her heir apparent. The offspring of one of the high mages, beauty resonating more vibrantly than that of a black rose, immortal. Patterns of the ivy along the western office walls failed to mirror the intricacy of her bewitching hair. We shared one class together; the actual title of this course revolts and repels me due to its nature in combining sorcery and theoretical theology. A mandatory class, otherwise I would have avoided it. I have personally called it The Amen Corner during my stay. She sat on my right throughout my (and I would assume, our) fourth year at Blackwater. We conversed quite copiously, to my benefit and pleasure. Often are the two of us paired together to work on assignments; the closure brings a reinforcement to my porcelain heart. Quite obviously, I had felt immoderate feelings for her.
So when? When to rid the disease of heartache? To maybe, quite possibly have the chance to press the face of Melinda against my own?
Hope leaves my ambient, white cluster of a soul the more I ponder upon this impossibility. The daughter of the head of Rhetoric Augury would never be permitted to be together with this soon-to-be ghost of perdition. So I accepted what I originally contemplated to be inevitable futility. To have the sweet nectar lying unknowingly in front of you, but to never experience its tempting, luscious morsel. Not in my time of need, not in any time.
Eventually, my funeral portrait had soon begun to be painted. Her father, also widely known across the campus as The Lotus Eater (due to the fact that he literally consumed these flowers during class, as he believed it healed and heated the body, among many other nonsensical beliefs), was our instructor. It was simple for me to appear friendly, and as a result bleak, during our co-operative duties as it was vital to not appear interested in her. As a soldier of fortune (I imagine that would make me a victim of faith), he was a strong believer in chance, or naturally unexplained occurrences, and this forced passion I felt would have been discernibly unacceptable. But he knew. Somehow, as if possible to remember tomorrow, he had known.
I was exposed. Not only my prurience, but my abhorrence for their religion. It was practically considered a crime in their eyes, their abominable, freezing eyes. Nothing could be legally or officially done about it however. It was not a requirement to be religious to attend Blackwater. But I had known what certain students, and professors especially, would think of me if they knew. And now they did. The baying of the hounds I had dreamt in numerous nightmares was much more accurate than I could have ever guessed. By the pain I see in others, it seemed like I was a coil in a once immaculately straight segment, as fragile and tenuous as hair.
Her bewitching hair..
By Freudian fashion he called me out as if I were taboo, meant, designed to be void. A fair judgement, I'm sure that's what they still call it. I still do not know what specific spell he used to discover me out, and if I haven't by now I suppose I never shall. They all looked at him, the apostle in triumph as he pointed that putrid mass of wrinkled skin at me. The memory of it nearly spawns that aroma of digested lotuses. Everyone in the class had simply stared at me. Her as well. This was the the closest thing to a requiem I had ever received. That had then altered my life, or what was left of it at that point. I wanted to yell enough, stop, please, help, anything would have sufficed. But perhaps, ironically in Freudian fashion as well, I raised both my hands in his direction and accidentally (though perhaps it really wasn't) combusted him into flames.
Normally, having been set on fire, a human has enough time to destroy the flames before fatal damage has been done. Fire usually burns on skin at about 700C. Judging by the way his forearms and abdomen had melted so quickly (smell of digested lotuses) not to mention the heat I had felt myself, it was probably anywhere from 1500-2200C. He died in less than 40 seconds.
That was 60 years ago. I was 26 years old. I am still 26, at least physically. And now I lay here benighted in the moor. Sentenced for murder (though some had passionately argued for manslaughter) to undergo moonlapse vertigo for eternity. Bestowed upon infinite life, and the inability to starve, blink or fall asleep, I lay immobile, unable to age. Unable to die. Unable to escape the night and the silent water. Hex Omega, the curse is called. Never can I experience daytime again, even when it is still day beneath the Sun under normal circumstances in our human dimension. And for all of ever, am I to stare at the blinding light of the moon never to be literally seen again. It shines so brilliantly, it must cast a silhouette of myself, if only I could move to validate so. I lay here in this desolate isolation of a swamp naked. The twilight is my robe now.
It's so quiet. So horribly quiet that my ears beg for the moment when death whispers a lullaby. I am truly blessed when I am able to manage a scream at nighttime (though here, it is never not nighttime). At least I could never have one of those nightmares ever again.
These were my ending credits, I had thought. No, I had known. And yet somehow, during April ethereal, she appeared from the forest of October. In the mist she was standing, at over 80 years old. The leper affinity she must be infected with somehow lived on with her for all these years. She had illegally broke dimensional barriers just to set her eyes on me. Oh, how those otherworldly strands of ivy upon her crown only changed in colour after half a dozen decades. How fitting they should match the colour of that dreadful bastard of a moon. It was almost deafening when she spoke, I had nearly forgotten the aspects of verbal communication when she bent down and said to me with her breath, the dirge of November:
To bid you farewell and she pressed her face against my own.
And then, for the first time in 60 years, my eyes began to close. She had hexed me. To death. Splendid, everlasting sleep was finally mine, and without the hindrance of nightmares. She had cared for me. Even after killing her father, she managed to forgive me. And ironically, it was because of her religion, the same faith that I still despise and had put me here. It took some time, but finally, after such an eternity, my eyelids kissed just as we did. I was allowed to bask in tenebrous nothingness for a few precious seconds before I myself became nothing as well.
Roses... Her breath smelled like roses.