Drip, drop... drip, drop. The rain is falling down. Drip, drop... drip, drop. Splashing all around...
----------
Blank. Empty. White. So beautiful... So perfect... His mind stirred into action. The dripping and the splashing pulsated within his conscience; time was there, spurring on the weary gears of his thoughts with eerie, rhythmic glee.
One eye opened, hesitantly. Its pupils, dilated and unmoving, adjusted themselves to the unexpected influx of light. Encircling the pupil was an iris of a subdued, misty blue, so dense that one could almost fall into it, and not expect to come out again. It, like the neighbouring pupil, was unmoving. Soon to follow in its opening was the other eye. Unlike it's left-hand counterpart, it was of a viridian green — like a shimmering pond, housing murky and undefined depths. And of course, it too was unmoving.
Pleasure, pain — both were obsolete and indiscriminate in the limbo. If it were not for this one simple fact, both of Malice's already faltering eyes would be burning under the bright, incandescent light. A source of light could not be determined, as light seemed to surround and connect the indefinite plain; but an aureole of unwavering, burning authority crowned Malice's floating corpse. The body bounced buoyantly, as if suspended by some unseen force. It's depth, colour and shape contrasted the bleak perfection of the reality it was in. The now open eyes were framed by a rigid, grazed face of fossil grey complexion. Locks of fine, wavy, ash brown hair drooped loosely behind the head and below the neck. The blush red lips were drawn tightly shut, as if resisting some unseen force, and the complimenting nose and cedar brows made for a stone, disingenuous and impassive look. One that seemed to have had once tried to show a strong feeling of grief or joy, but hated it. Aside from the porcelain mask of the face, the body was of unremarkable stature or shape. It was clothed in bloodied, singed linen that hung loosely around the arms and legs. The right hand seemed to be groping for some unseen object, and the left was clenching its fists. Scratches and other cut marks permeated the skin. It was a true imperfection.
Eeeeeeeee
A clear and sharp monotone sounded. It broke the silence, which never seemed to exist in the first place. It suddenly brought meaning to the word sound, and voice to the colourless abyss. Patently simple, and yet utterly unfeasible, it resonated palpably through all space and conscience. Until, following an indiscernible amount of time, it condensed into a single point and vanished. However, its departure was not untimely, and in fact served to introduce a new, more recognisable sound. That of a voice:
"Thy will has failed. What have you to say, now that you have been ushered by me? You are insignificant, broken and without purpose. Lacking in direction or singularity, I have no reason to allow for your continuation..."
The voice appeared to emanate from the singe point created by the previous sound. It was rich and deep, with a sense of power and purpose unparalleled in any other being. Its allure was magnetic and coercive. Yet beneath the superficial, decorated layers, it was as bleak and empty and perfect as the place it came from; when a voice speaks it makes only silence.
Decidedly, the lips of the corpse parted to form a small hole. The eyes still unmoving, the corners of the mouth raised themselves to form a crookedly misshapen grin. A face of Malice. Then came the laughter. The embodiment of hatred, fury and malice. Of disdain and miserable triumph. So potent was it that it could not only be heard, but be seen and felt and thought. And as its wretched stench seeped out of the corpse and poured into the endless white, the humming began. The humming was the culmination of all the discordances of a despising truth.
What a wonder it is...
Under the ancient cave,
He who sits and watches,
Watches upon a darkling plain.
Age does not weary him,
All conception of time is lost,
Seasons are seconds, years
Rapid rivers of time,
He does not fight the current.
Only he, it seems, understands life,
Then again who does?
We are all pawns to the playing,
What to what and whose game?
Wars and battles are won and lost,
They shape and change the world,
But to him, they are milestones upon the road,
What a winding and curious path.
Those who have forgotten he is soon to remind,
He has lost and gained all,
Watched as time takes its toll,
Watched as life reaches its begging.
An endless circle he sees,
But focus not does he,
For he is time and life,
He was built to last.
What a wonder it is...
Under the ancient cave,
He who sits and watches,
Watches upon a darkling plain.
And so comes the silence after the rain.
----------
One eye opened, hesitantly. Its pupils, dilated and unmoving, adjusted themselves to the unexpected influx of light. Encircling the pupil was an iris of a subdued, misty blue, so dense that one could almost fall into it, and not expect to come out again. It, like the neighbouring pupil, was unmoving. Soon to follow in its opening was the other eye. Unlike it's left-hand counterpart, it was of a viridian green — like a shimmering pond, housing murky and undefined depths. And of course, it too was unmoving.
Pleasure, pain — both were obsolete and indiscriminate in the limbo. If it were not for this one simple fact, both of Malice's already faltering eyes would be burning under the bright, incandescent light. A source of light could not be determined, as light seemed to surround and connect the indefinite plain; but an aureole of unwavering, burning authority crowned Malice's floating corpse. The body bounced buoyantly, as if suspended by some unseen force. It's depth, colour and shape contrasted the bleak perfection of the reality it was in. The now open eyes were framed by a rigid, grazed face of fossil grey complexion. Locks of fine, wavy, ash brown hair drooped loosely behind the head and below the neck. The blush red lips were drawn tightly shut, as if resisting some unseen force, and the complimenting nose and cedar brows made for a stone, disingenuous and impassive look. One that seemed to have had once tried to show a strong feeling of grief or joy, but hated it. Aside from the porcelain mask of the face, the body was of unremarkable stature or shape. It was clothed in bloodied, singed linen that hung loosely around the arms and legs. The right hand seemed to be groping for some unseen object, and the left was clenching its fists. Scratches and other cut marks permeated the skin. It was a true imperfection.
Eeeeeeeee
A clear and sharp monotone sounded. It broke the silence, which never seemed to exist in the first place. It suddenly brought meaning to the word sound, and voice to the colourless abyss. Patently simple, and yet utterly unfeasible, it resonated palpably through all space and conscience. Until, following an indiscernible amount of time, it condensed into a single point and vanished. However, its departure was not untimely, and in fact served to introduce a new, more recognisable sound. That of a voice:
"Thy will has failed. What have you to say, now that you have been ushered by me? You are insignificant, broken and without purpose. Lacking in direction or singularity, I have no reason to allow for your continuation..."
The voice appeared to emanate from the singe point created by the previous sound. It was rich and deep, with a sense of power and purpose unparalleled in any other being. Its allure was magnetic and coercive. Yet beneath the superficial, decorated layers, it was as bleak and empty and perfect as the place it came from; when a voice speaks it makes only silence.
Decidedly, the lips of the corpse parted to form a small hole. The eyes still unmoving, the corners of the mouth raised themselves to form a crookedly misshapen grin. A face of Malice. Then came the laughter. The embodiment of hatred, fury and malice. Of disdain and miserable triumph. So potent was it that it could not only be heard, but be seen and felt and thought. And as its wretched stench seeped out of the corpse and poured into the endless white, the humming began. The humming was the culmination of all the discordances of a despising truth.
What a wonder it is...
Under the ancient cave,
He who sits and watches,
Watches upon a darkling plain.
Age does not weary him,
All conception of time is lost,
Seasons are seconds, years
Rapid rivers of time,
He does not fight the current.
Only he, it seems, understands life,
Then again who does?
We are all pawns to the playing,
What to what and whose game?
Wars and battles are won and lost,
They shape and change the world,
But to him, they are milestones upon the road,
What a winding and curious path.
Those who have forgotten he is soon to remind,
He has lost and gained all,
Watched as time takes its toll,
Watched as life reaches its begging.
An endless circle he sees,
But focus not does he,
For he is time and life,
He was built to last.
What a wonder it is...
Under the ancient cave,
He who sits and watches,
Watches upon a darkling plain.
And so comes the silence after the rain.
