The dark hallway echoed the stomps of unsettling footsteps. No moonlight to shine down on his shrouded figure, no stars to guide through the arcing windows and no sound but only the thudding leather boots scrapping across a floor of white tiles threaded with golden weaves of mosaic pebbles. For him, it was a long walk-every step he took reminded him of a face he wanted to forget. A face that had not faded from his memories. And every breath he took through the steel face mask burned his lungs for which he could not shout her name.
Emilia.
A name that once he had adored for all his life, a face that melted his heart whenever the lips carved into a smile. And how he would not forget the soft voice that he was longing to hear every time he stood in front of her villa. Or was it all just another created memory to make him suffer? To make him insane?
As his dreadful journey across the lavish hallway came to an end, he finally stumbled upon a golden door battered with carvings of an ancient language. He only knew little of the language but was familiar enough to asure himself that he came to the right place again.
Again. The grandiose architecture of gold and greed accompanied him every night he wandered to this door. Every night, the same shimmering golden statue of a flying phoenix floatimg beside him as if ready to thunder down and set him to ablaze. Or the portrait of a long lost legendary warrior who always stared at him as if he was guilty of all his doings.
Was he guilty all this time? Was he wrong of leaving her behind? He did not have the luxury of time to answer all the questions that beginning to shroud his head. Not after he remembered what happened back then, a memory that he should not had kept in his mind. But the helpless voice, the miserable face and the plead that she asked.
And the next thing he knew, dark red blood were already trickling down from his fingers, smearing the white tiles with small pools of red spots. He did not remembered whose blood it was.
Was it his? Or was it her?
His dark cladded hands were trembling now. His muscles could not already control the wrath that his mind were tormented to. His knees finally submitted to the cold soaked tile. The golden door, the phoenix and the faded portrait looked down on him, laughing as if they could at the kneeling hunter. Or so he called himself.
The face mask may have muted his words but his lungs were already throttling his throat to let out a scream of pain and anger. And just as he was about to swallow the last gasp of air, her face striked through his vision again-only this time he clearly remembered now of what he had done to her, of whose blood that was playing through his callous fingers. Of who he was before all the heartless memories scarred his mind.
And there was the muffled scream, a raging howl, a burning rage coming from the top of his lungs, spewing out sparks of dark magic from his hands which shattered the tiles, mosaics, windows and every other fragile victims that became witnesses to the wrath of the shadow hunter.
-Aventadoodlez-
Copyright © 2018 by Aventadoodlez
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Rise: First Blood
Fantasy"For the memories of my loved ones, I will seek vengeance upon those who stenched their hands with the blood of the innocents. . ." First. She hoped it was never happened. All the horrors and the pain of watching her loved ones perished under the fl...
