She stands within the night. Deep blue shadows wrapping around her in a velvet cloak. She tries to close off her mind to the voice that is calling. Whispering for her to come. She wants it to go away, for she hates him and loves him. All in the same breath.
Flapping of leathery wings causes a momentary break in the spell. A hundred bats with gnashing teeth and screeching cries, fly overhead. She has to follow. For the master of her missing soul tolerates nothing less.
And so upon her heels, she takes flight. Becoming part of silvery moonbeams. She arrives to hide outside his window. Beckoning glass arms draped in white lace, open slightly. Just enough for her to hear and see.
The whore he has within his bed. Spice scented skin and seductive strawberry breath. These are the things that reach her as she waits.
‘Master. Master. Why must I always be the last you dream of?’ herself cries quietly. She grips scythe extra tight, as anguish overcomes her. Its blade gleams and flashes, reminding her of duty. So above the moans, below beloved Luna, her silent image does not move.
Until his deep resonant voice reaches her, “Hannah. My beloved one, time to enter.”
And so she does. Slipping through glass pane as liquid air. Reforming once more within her Master’s lair. His hive of bees, all desiring to be Queen. But he can never love, it is not in him to do so.
For he is blood and death and rage. Born to a grave that refuses him. Mortals and immortals alike, are the same within his wild red sight. King of the castle waves his arm, in sweeping motion, to show her the bodies littering his floor. Some still live, though just barely. He has had his supper, their essence his wine. Time, oh yes it’s time for her to clean. Weapon of her trade, will be the broom.
This is where she shuts off emotion. And where he watches her, with an adoration she mustn’t know of. Her arms lift deadly blade, it arcs, then slashes down quite wickedly.
There is no set rhythm nor reasonable rhyme, she just kills them one at a time. She must admit that some great pleasure, writhes through her veins as she severs and maims. Painted red, she and the walls merge as macabric portraits. Soon, scarlet wetness begins to sugar, then become sticky. Her feet dance upon it and it begins a rain, in spatter patterns of the deranged.
Heads flip, heads roll. Under her blade their souls grow cold. This is the only freedom she’s allowed. The only time she’s more than he is.
He laughs darkly, claps his hands, “Leave me at least one Hannah!” He teases.
When she has finished and her masacre is over, the only sound left is her breathing.
“So my guardian what shall we do now? Have some wine till the dawn begins to arrive?”
Adrenaline still screams through her, he doesn’t see her eyes. For they have paled with a wrath that’s unheard of. She didn’t think she could bring herself to this, but it’s who she is. Has always been and always will be.
Hannah turns, smiles faintly at the Master. Walks elegantly towards him. Then swiftly cuts his vampyric form in half. She kneels down as his lifeless body crumples in surprise. Reaches into the gaping mouth, snaps out his fanged eye teeth. They are put into a silken pouch, as proof for her hire to be paid.
“ I did leave one alive Master.” she murmurs soft, “But unfortunately it was you.”
Assassin arises hastily, for the sky will soon change to a morning orange. Then without a single, remorseful glance back, Hannah leaves the house that will never again awaken.
“The Guardian” Written by ©®™ Atusha Avarus, Serial Writer
Flapping of leathery wings causes a momentary break in the spell. A hundred bats with gnashing teeth and screeching cries, fly overhead. She has to follow. For the master of her missing soul tolerates nothing less.
And so upon her heels, she takes flight. Becoming part of silvery moonbeams. She arrives to hide outside his window. Beckoning glass arms draped in white lace, open slightly. Just enough for her to hear and see.
The whore he has within his bed. Spice scented skin and seductive strawberry breath. These are the things that reach her as she waits.
‘Master. Master. Why must I always be the last you dream of?’ herself cries quietly. She grips scythe extra tight, as anguish overcomes her. Its blade gleams and flashes, reminding her of duty. So above the moans, below beloved Luna, her silent image does not move.
Until his deep resonant voice reaches her, “Hannah. My beloved one, time to enter.”
And so she does. Slipping through glass pane as liquid air. Reforming once more within her Master’s lair. His hive of bees, all desiring to be Queen. But he can never love, it is not in him to do so.
For he is blood and death and rage. Born to a grave that refuses him. Mortals and immortals alike, are the same within his wild red sight. King of the castle waves his arm, in sweeping motion, to show her the bodies littering his floor. Some still live, though just barely. He has had his supper, their essence his wine. Time, oh yes it’s time for her to clean. Weapon of her trade, will be the broom.
This is where she shuts off emotion. And where he watches her, with an adoration she mustn’t know of. Her arms lift deadly blade, it arcs, then slashes down quite wickedly.
There is no set rhythm nor reasonable rhyme, she just kills them one at a time. She must admit that some great pleasure, writhes through her veins as she severs and maims. Painted red, she and the walls merge as macabric portraits. Soon, scarlet wetness begins to sugar, then become sticky. Her feet dance upon it and it begins a rain, in spatter patterns of the deranged.
Heads flip, heads roll. Under her blade their souls grow cold. This is the only freedom she’s allowed. The only time she’s more than he is.
He laughs darkly, claps his hands, “Leave me at least one Hannah!” He teases.
When she has finished and her masacre is over, the only sound left is her breathing.
“So my guardian what shall we do now? Have some wine till the dawn begins to arrive?”
Adrenaline still screams through her, he doesn’t see her eyes. For they have paled with a wrath that’s unheard of. She didn’t think she could bring herself to this, but it’s who she is. Has always been and always will be.
Hannah turns, smiles faintly at the Master. Walks elegantly towards him. Then swiftly cuts his vampyric form in half. She kneels down as his lifeless body crumples in surprise. Reaches into the gaping mouth, snaps out his fanged eye teeth. They are put into a silken pouch, as proof for her hire to be paid.
“ I did leave one alive Master.” she murmurs soft, “But unfortunately it was you.”
Assassin arises hastily, for the sky will soon change to a morning orange. Then without a single, remorseful glance back, Hannah leaves the house that will never again awaken.
“The Guardian” Written by ©®™ Atusha Avarus, Serial Writer
