Posted: May 22, 2016 in Fiction

You pass through the darkened hallway, ignoring the cold  that leaches feeling from your fingers and toes.  You’ve been here before, but it’s difficult to remember your last visit.  The ancient double doors loom in front of you, draped in dust and cobweb.  The brass rings are black with corrosion.  You grasp one and pull.  Both doors swing toward you, and the great hall beyond is revealed.  You step inside, and the doors close behind you. 

The great hall is absolutely, oppressively dark.  You look around with blind eyes, yet you can see every detail as clear as day.  The table is still set for a feast.  The serving tray sits empty.  It has always been your responsibility to bring sustenance.  You’ve failed again, but there is no one there to notice.  The walls are still covered in swords and spears, armor, shields, all manner of tools of war.  You run your hand along the wall, and the armaments crumble into dust.  You make your way to the head of the table. 

A frozen prism sits at the head.  You hear a whisper in your mind.  You leave me here to rot, the whisper accuses.  You only come here when you have a need, and then you lock me away to starve.  You feel shame.  The whisper is right.  What favor do you need this time, it asks.  You stop in front of the mass of ice.  You pass  your hand across the surface, brushing away dust and frost.  The motion reveals a figure, all wings and claws.  An angel of destruction.  The whisper grows louder, becoming your voice.  Ask your favor, and then leave me alone. 

No favors this time, you promise the angel.  Then why have you come here?  You came to apologize.  Your voice cracks as you say the words aloud.  “I’m sorry.”  You press your hand to the ice.  Water trickles from the point of contact.  You speak again, louder this time.  Stronger.  Forcefully.  “I’m sorry.”  You pull back your hand.  Ball it into a fist.  Smash the fist into the ice.  A spiderweb of cracks blossoms.  You punch the ice again.  Your skin splits, your knuckles bleed.  The cracks grow.  “I’m sorry, and I came here to set you free.”
You strike again.


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