Post by Pandora LeAmour on Aug 3, 2009 20:48:25 GMT -5
Pandora heard the sound of footsteps and the clang of metal, and knew the guards were on their way to her cell. Her time had come.
Desite knowing since the beginning that she was doomed, despite her determination to die defiant, scornful and with dignity, she felt her attitude tremble. Easy to be brave before the time, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, she was terrified.
She closed her eyes, seeking strength.
At least she could stand on her own two feet. She would not have to be dragged out to the pyre like so many pathetic souls who had been 'led' into confession. She had given her interrogators what they had wanted from the beginning, standing tall and, she hoped, making a mockery of her judges through her sarcastic confession. She had saved the Crown a great deal of money, since the monsters who tortured prisoners to draw out the truth had to be paid for their heinous work.
And she had saved herself the ignominy of being dragged - broken, bleeding and disfigured - to the stake.
Another clank of metal, and footsteps drawing closer.
Calm, she commanded herself. She could and would die with dignity. She was whole, and she had to be greatful that she could walk to her execution, having seen what they were capable of doing. But the terror...
She stood as straight as a ramrod, as if she were made of ice, unable to bend. Not for long, though, she mocked herself. The flames would quickly thaw her with their deep and deadly caress. Instead of adding to the agony of the punishment, further torturing the doomed and broken souls delivered to their kiss, the flames were meant to see that such damned creatures were destoryed completely, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
She had made enemies. She had spoken up for others; she had fought for herself, had tried to tell the world what she really was, in hopes of being accepted, not feared. Her death was unlikely to be quick.
She'd made too many enemies, and that had led to her conviction and impending death. It had been easy to put the pieces together - after her arrest.
There were many who believed in the devil, believed that vampirism was the source of all evil in the world - including the Queen that Pandora had served with such loyalty. They believed that mankind was weak, that Satan came in the night, that pacts were signed in blood, and vampirism would be the end to innocence. They thought confession would save the eternal soul, that excruciating torture and death were the only way back into the arms of the Almighty. In fact, they were in the majority, for now, that being one of the undead was a capital crime.
She was not guilty of the charges laid upon her, and her judges knew it. Her grime was one of loyalty, of love for a queen who, with her reckless passion, had damned them all.
Not that the cause mattered, nor the sham of a trial and the cruelty of the judgment against her. She was about to die. That was the only thing that mattered now.
Would she falther? What would happen when she felt the scorching touch of the first flames? Would she scream? Or course she would; she would be in agony.
She had been right and righteous.
Little good that did now.
Beyond the fear of death and pain, she was sorry. She hadn't realized how much she had traded away in adhering to her ideals. The pain of what she was leaving behind had become a ragged, bleeding wound in her heart, burning as if salt had been poured on the tender flesh. Nothing they were about to do to her body could be as heinous as the agony tearing at her soul. For once she was gone, they would win.
The footsteps came closer, stopped just outside her cell. For a moment she was blinded by the light of the lantern they had brought with them into the darkness of the dungeon. She could tell there were three of them, but nothing more. Then her vision cleared and for a moment her heart took flight.
He was there.
Surely he could not mean for her life to end this way. Despite his anger, his warnings, his threats, he couldn't have intended this. He had told her often enough - accurately, she had to admit, that she was far too like the queen she had served, rashly speaking her mind and blind to the dangers inherent in such honesty. But still, could he really be a part of this charade? He had held her in his arms, given her a brief, shimmering glimpse of how the heart could rule the mind, how passion could destroy sanity, how love could sweep away all sense. How eternity was longer then any mortal ever knew.
They had shared so much. Too much.
And yet...
Was he indeed a part of this travesty? For she had not been mistaken.
He was here in all his grandeur. He stood before her now, flanked by her judge and her executioner, chiseled features frim and condemning, eyes as dark as coal, cold and disdainful. Long fingers of ice reached up and gripped her heart. How foolish she had been to believe he had come to her rescue.
She stared at him without moving, the other men invisible to her. She had forced herself to ignore her own filthy and disheveled state - clothing torn and damp, crusted with the dirt and mold of her dungeon cell. She had refused to allow herself to slater beneath his stare. Desite the rags that cling to her now, she remained still and regal, determined to end her life with grace. He watched her, his scorching blue eyes so dark with dendemnation that they appeared to her like pits, a glimpse into the hell into which she would find herself cast once she had endured the final agony of the fire.
She met his look with scorn, barely aware that the judge was reading the accusation and the sentence, informing her that the time had come.
"Burned at the stake until dead... ashes cast to the wind..."
She didn't move, didn't blink, simply stood quite still, her head held high.
"Lady Pandora LeAmour, you must confess before the crowds, and your death will go easy,"
the judge said. "Confess and pray now, for with your deepest repentance, our Father in Heaven may well see if to keep you from an eternity in the very bowels of hell.""I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a life before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent. It is you, I fear, who will long rot in hell."
The barred door of her cell was flung wide with terrible violence. Before she knew it, she had been seized into a hold, the fingers of one hand threaded cruelly through her hair, forcing her to stare up into her makers eyes, powerless to escape the touch of his other hand against her cheek.
"She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan's rancid hole along with her," her maker said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. "Trust me, for I know too well the power of her enchantment."
How could such words fall from his lips? Once he had sworn to love her forever. Her heart shattered at the thought that he had come not only to bear witness to her agony, but to be a part of it.
As he stared at her, held her defenseless with those eyes, a silent messaged passed. And in the briefest of moments, the dream shattered and Pandora woke instantly from her rested DayDeath.
The memory of her end of faith. Her end of belief that those of her kind could be accepted and life equally among the living. It snuck forth in the daydeath state in such detail that even now, Pandora need glance around to ensure she was not surrounded by musk and darkness of the dungeons. Her cold dead hands came up to rake through unrulely hair. It was the 14th Century, it was a new time and era. It was Tranquility. She was not back in the 11th century. She was here. She was alive as the term could allow one of the undead. Pandora sprang from the bed in which she had just spent the past three nights and days. A long daydeath, one that should have left her stronger and well rested, infact left her shaky and unstable. She would not burn. She would not be staked. She would not be executed. She had escaped. She had lived. And she had built a world in which the mortals would NEVER know of her existance, or of anyone else of her kind.
Pandora felt deep within her heart, if indeed the organ was still there, that what lies ahead for the Hidden Realm of Tranquility would always prosper. The laws could not, and would not be broken. DayBreak would never learn of NightWorld's existance. Ever.
Hunger raked through her as if she had not fed in a lifetime. A hunger that even the nector blood of a mortal could not quench. Hunger to ensure that history would never repeat itself.
Slowly, Pandora crossed the private quarters of the Master of the City, and decended to the ground floor of the Tower. She shaped her body to accomodate the drop, her knees bending, spine arching, and she landed soundlessly on the cold stone floor in a crouched position. Her eye's a darkened red, scanned the Meeting Room in which she dropped into quite litterly. It was empty. She rose slowly, allowing the fabrics of her clothes to settle naturally to her shape and form. She had a job to do, and the memory which surfaced during her DayDeath reminded her exactly what that job was. DayBreak and NightWorld would never coexist. Mortals would never learn who or what NightWorld consisted of. She would never be betrayed again.
Silently, Pandora summoned Mathas. The night had offically begun, and there was much the Master of the City must attend to.
