010: Dark Crescent
864 Words
[Faye]
A woman sits before me on a simple bench of dark wood, polished mirror bright, gleaming in the moonlight. Her long nails, tapered to points, tap against the hilt of the sword that lay across her lap. It is a grand sword, a ruby the size of a robin’s egg set into a steel pommel. A blue glow emanates from the sword blade, reflecting the moonlight into her face, casting it in a sharp, ghostly relief. She is draped in black leather armor, molded to her form as a second skin. Her hair is an inky red, like cut gemstones, or congealed, dried blood. She is watching me, and as I look up, her eyes rest on mine. She has eyes the color of lavender and crushed violets, ringed in amethyst. Her ears, pierced in a constellation of gems and golden hoops, end in a high, tapered point. In some ways, we share a resemblance, only her skin glows from an inner fire in a way that is otherworldly. Where her arms are bare, I see the edges of elaborate tattoos--serpents twisting up each arm and bands of knot work. On her forehead is one more tattoo, that of a dark crescent. As the moon rises behind her, dark and black, our eyes break contact as she sits up taller.
“So you are the one?” Her fingers rap a steady beat: Ba, da, ba, da, ba…Ba, da, ba, da, ba… “I have been waiting for you. What are you called, child?”
“Faye,” I stammer, my tongue as heavy as a stone. “My name is Faye.”
The edges of her lips curl. “Interesting choice…. Faye.”
The silence stretches between us as the conversation.
“Who are you?” I dare to ask.
As her back straightens, her bench melts like a liquid shadow, swirling around her as it extends along her back, becoming a tall throne. From its back, a corona of smoky quartz grows into long, smooth, spikes. As she sits up taller, the dark moon, centered above her head, is highlighted around its circumference with a radiating light of neon violet, casting her sharp, proud features in a violet shadow. In her hair, raven feathers shine at the edges of braids that end in perfect ringlets. On her brow sits a simple crown of crystal and obsidian.
I take a step forward, fighting the urge to throw myself at her feet.
“Are you a god?” my voice shakes with the trembling of my muscles, still fighting her pull.
At that, she laughs, its tone rich as freshly turned soil, dark and seductive. “No, I am not a god.”
“Well then, what are you?”
“Who.”
“Who…who are you?”
The woman smiles, a sadness in her gaze. “I am the one who was. The one who never got to be. I am the denied one, the dark queen who did not rise. But you…” Her gaze captures mine once more, “You, if you still need a way to know me, you may call me Morgana.”
“Why have you been waiting for me, M..Morgana?”
Her gaze turns serious as she rises from her throne and approaches me. I start to back away.
“Stop. You need not fear me. You need not fear the darkness.”
I shiver. “Are you the one who sent the darkness?”
“No child,” she shakes her head, “It was you”
She stands before me now. Reaching down, she takes my hand in hers. Her nails grip the insides of my wrists. I try to pull away, but she digs in. From where her nails enter my flesh, I feel a slow burn. Looking down at my arms, I see serpents glowing along my arms, burning their way into my flesh, settling in like living things of blue ink, until my arms look like hers, marked identically. A part of me knows this is right, that this is what should be, while another part of me is terrified by the change. It is me, but it is not me, it is something different, something foreign. I feel invaded, infected, by her. I fight against it, but she digs in harder.
Her mouth doesn’t open. As I think about it, her mouth didn’t do anything but smile and laugh this entire time. Not once did I hear her voice. And yet, she still spoke and still speaks to me.
She stands before me now. Pressing her cold forehead against my own, she whispers. “It is time for you to remember.”
Morgana’s head pulls away, her eyes just inches from my own. I still feel the press of her crown into my forehead, the crescent moon at its center having cut me, leaving its mark. A trail of warm blood runs down my face.
“It is time for you to wake up.”
She presses the mark on my brow and I feel it burning, branding me.
I stumble backward and scream as I fall through the darkness.
- Writer
