Challenge Twenty Three: Ms Koya

by Vunderkind


Mastermind: Ms Koya

Domain:

**Ah, right here we have Ms Koya. KoyaTheHermit. Take note. Hermit. Not KoyaTheHelmet, although I think KoyaTheSpearmint has a nice ring to it. Okay. I’ll stop there. She titles this one “Kaleidoscopes”, and true to type, this is a rich mix of colourful verbiage. Aha. Ewo tu wa ni verbiage? LOL. I will be leaving now (>_>)**

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Collages

Kaleidoscopes

I wake up.

Naked.

Cold.

Another gust of wind envelopes my marrows.

Cold, definitely. I must be alive.

‘Father’, I scream, at the top of my voice.

Scream until the lilt of honey engendered by bees that is entrapped in my vocal chords comes out hoarse.

A stifled sob escapes my throat, as a lone tear pushes itself down my fair skin.

My hair, caught in my face.

The cold or this empty, empty feeling – I do not know which is worse.

I look up.

I am in some sort of garden, surrounded by lush vegetation and ripe trees.

The moon has always scared me, and it scars me now.

It reminds me of too much.

Memories flash as I try to piece up the puzzle.

It keeps coming back to me…

Cyrus advanced.

Again.

He was ever ready to annihilate my virtue.

Taking my sacred chastity from me, just as surely as he had taken my mother’s life and my father’s throne.

He had just heard the news of the victory in the war against Zlatan, and he had to celebrate.

By way of celebration, he had to have his most prized jewel.

Me.

He broke my body, but I would never allow him to touch my mind.

As he fumbles with my regal clothing of fine silk and velvet, I allow my mind indulge its wanderlust.

Father’s weary hands as he showed me his large…and little treasures.

Cyrus, his brother, had poisoned him.

My father, my hero, was dying slowly.

We spent his last days together.

I learnt about the heart of men at his feet.

I wove tales of fallen angels and disguised demons on the floor every other night.

There were nights when the whispers in my window exuded nothing but the unified screeches of widowed ghouls.

There were nights when I was visited by ethereal females, damned angels with darkened chariots.

Those were my allies.

They taught me strength, trained me for battles. For the aftermath of Father’s demise.

“King Caesarius the Third has passed on”, the royal messenger said after emerging from Father’s chambers.

There were few words; his death was inevitable.

That was the beginning of the end.

Ares visited that night, as I ran through a darkened forest, content to let the rush wash over my feverish mind.

“Who are you, o ye angel with clipped wings?” she taunted.

The tears flowed.

“Daddy’s gone now. We have to, too.” she said.

I had no retort, so I let the tears flow freely.

I wanted her to stay. I wanted them to lurk.

I didn’t know who I was; I never had a clue, not in the smallest sliver of mind.

Deluded little me, in this huge world, filled with phantasmagorias of sorrows, myriads of misplaced emotions along with drunken bouts of happiness and kaleidoscopes of lies.

The wind whistled and howled sweet nothings and bitter everythings, reminding me, soothing my lost and hidden colossal pouch of memories.

I walked into the palace, and into a new life.

A life that knew no love, no music, no light and no peace.

I was a servant in my own fortress.

Cyrus claimed me as his, after threats of exile upon my disagreement.

I was too weak, too racked with grief to fight back.

I curse the first day he took my virtue.

I was placed in a cell; solitarily confined, and guarded closely.

My allies neither visited nor helped no more.

The harmonies of my peace were gone, only Sorrow and Solitude were left to weep in my mind’s eye.

Father had said that the heart of man was desperately wicked…I saw what he spoke of.

Cyrus was insatiable… and yet drenched in impotence. This angered him and he lashed out his wrath at me, cuffing me, rendering me helpless and him free to consummate our forced union as penance for his incapability.

Day after day, I cossetted Sorrow, trusting, even as she clawed at my heart, as she measured it, searching for the finest threads to intricately weave my heartstrings together with.

She clothed me with the finest velvet robes, giving me knowing looks as she did so.

…After all, she was my only friend left.

Sorrow’s cadaver of eyes were filled with this nothingness that engulfed me, the sex-slave princess, and yet she owned the depth that was like that of a retired potter’s hands; wary and weary… darting around, but unable to disguise the wisdom stored up in secret corners and cupboards.

I embraced Nothingness and had him reject me; even shyly asked for a dance, a simple waltz to the melodious tunes of charred harps to awaken my soul… and he said no, crossing his cold arms.

I knew I had to break free.

I had to murder Cyrus, and embark on a self-imposed exile.

I asked to be donned in a blood red robe that night. I consumed silence, I devoured solitude; planning the ultimate revenge. My already-sturdy conviction became set in stone.

The feeling of quietus with no need to perk up my ears or sleep with an eye open for fear of imminent doom seemed like a sweet savory meal. But I couldn’t eat. Not yet, at least.

“Valeria!” Bacauda, the cell warden’s voice boomed.

I was being summoned.

The ritual began.

Cyrus advanced. It was time. As he thrust into me, I left my haven, my happy place and grabbed the dagger, the tool of my redemption.

I raised my arms high and poised over his back. I wanted him to see me, to see his murderess. I wanted him to see who was loaning him his last breath.

His eyes were closed, caught in the throes of solely his own passion and pleasure, oblivious to the pungent smell of Death in all her Golgothean glory.

I stabbed him in his back, and whispered to him what he had done. What he had rendered me.

His eyes widened with shock; the astonishment, mixed with the pain that he felt made him numb…and dumb.

He managed to whisper in shallow breaths: “Valeria, I am sorry.”

To his death, he spake not another word.

His warm life’s essence was sprinkled on his crimson walls, melding to become scarlet perfection.

As he took his last breaths, I dressed and sneaked out hastily, and ran out the big, brass doors.

I whistled to Leon, my faithful steed. He answered me, as he always has.

I climbed and rode astride him into oblivion.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I wake up.

Naked.

Cold.

Another gust of wind envelopes my marrows.

Cold, definitely. I must be alive.

It’s cold. Too cold. I reduce the blast of the air conditioner.

… I pull the red satin covers over my head, musing over another of my long other-worldly trances as a troubled princess. I really do hope this is the last. I am weary of Cyrus and his shenanigans.

I drift into another almost-comatose state.

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