Ahz'Real Rising13:06 Feb 24 2009
Times Read: 588
In the beginning, there was nothing. No motion. No sound. No pulse, no breath, no light.
No life.
They say the Universe was born in such a Moment, in such a state. That all life sprang from a Moment such as this one, that all things great and small exploded outword with a bang that still resonates in the heartbeat of all creation.
But this...this is not such a Moment. This is, in fact, an antithesis of such a thing, an inversion of all things brought to life...a slow, creaking echo in the shadows of Life That Should Not Be...the Explosion Imploded.
A spark. A single neuron fires. Then two. Then four. Double exponentially, triple, quadruple, and life begins to stir.
Then, there was a twitch. A rustle. One hideously scarred eyelid twitches, then another, sliding over dry blue orbs. Gloved hands slowly open and close, leather creaking in the emptiness of the Mausoleum that the creature finds himself in. With a SNAP, he bends at the waist, sitting up so quickly and ramrod straight it appears as though he is drawn up by an invisible puppetmaster...and perhaps he is.
His leather clad hand comes up to grasp his chin, and with a quick motion, a crackSNAP resounds throughout the marble chamber as the bones under the flesh of his neck, scarred and destroyed in a manner similar to his eyelids, pop almost violently. He rolls his head on his neck, then runs a hand through his short cropped shock of blond hair, before coming to the full realization he is, once more, conscious.
He inhales, then, his chest rising and falling under the simple black t-shirt he wore, in a manner almost comical in its normalacy, as he tastes the dry, dusty air with every inhalation, feeling it pass over cracked and dry lips and tongue, into his ruin of a nose and down his throat, filling lungs that did not require such sustenence as this...but relishing it for the simple closeness it brings him to what he once was.
A flash of memory, scattered sounds of laughter, happy, joyous, mixed in the same tone as screams of horror, his own...he shakes his head to clear his mind as his heart begins to beat...once, twice...then stops...and almost as an after thought, he slams his hand against his chest, once, twice, until the damnable organ begins to beat on it's own, pumping blood that is precious little more than a lifeless fluid, which does nothing to help his color, merely making some of the thousands of scars that comprise the surface of his skin almost glow, with an angry red color.
Then, he feels the Pull. The sensation is not unlike a deep seated, painful tug, and even after all this time, Ahz'real cries out in pain. The sensation is not unlike having a meat-hook driven through your soul, and then YANKED, hard, over and over, like a dog owner with a disobedient pup. His hand comes up to his chest, still grasping for a chain that doesn't exist, one of his few still purely human reactions, and he See's, and he Knows, where the Reason for his return is. The one who must be punished, and made example of. The one who has caused so much suffering to so many that the Universe itself cries out for his destruction. In the infinite gulf between one heartbeat and the next, he knows what this man has done, is doing, and will do...and he also knows that he must be destroyed. Not simply killed or maimed...but dissasembled in such a fashion that no one, ever, will seek to follow in his footsteps.
But Ahz'real is untouched by the rage that any normal person would feel. All he knows, all he cares about, is that this man is so heinous, he has ressurected from oblivion a thing that really wishes he were still alseep. Still wrapped in midnights gentle embrace, that he were still dead. But the Universe has no use for a dead instrument, no need for something that cannot play its part. And so, one vile thing has given rise to something much, much worse.
Black boots swing off the coverstone he calls his bed, landing in the dust that has gathered about the tomb while he slept. In a gesture that is almost human, he brushes the remnents of dirt from his person, and gathers the ripped, burnt, shot up tatters of his black leather duster, and the simple, viciously curved tachi that sits next to it. Wearing one and shouldering the other, he turns to face the wrought iron gate of his home/prison with a very human sigh...
COMMENTS
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TalithaTensai
03:24 Sep 28 2009
Again, very well written. I like the aspect of the creature being raised seeming to feel a sort of reluctance at being raised, and yet moving forward anyway to do what the Universe requires him to do.