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The Huntress

A delicately sweet breeze cradles her face as she stands out in this night, alone. She faces the east because though she knows she’ll never see another sunrise, she can’t bear to face the definite nature of the west. The depthless midnight skies soar over her and the knuckles pressed against her lips don’t matter when she sees this open land in front of her that used to be so beautiful. She has a choice to make, and now—when she is alone and with only herself to consult—is the best time to make it. This winter wonderland is sprinkled with ash and spattered with blood, the same blood that is still oozing from the deep slash in the person's pale neck at her feet. The rest of the clan move on without her, tramping slowly through the snow past fallen chimneys and burnt trees into the remains of the village, checking to be sure there are no survivors to tell the tale of horror from this starry night.
Her love approaches, the catalyst to all of this, or was it her all along? That night, the first night she looked into his eyes, as an immortal, she cried and cried and cried. Her delicate heart shaped face, cracked into the very picture of brokenness, and she wept, her hands groping at her face and at her shoulders and at her ribs, her fingers curled and not knowing what to do, her forehead creased and contorted and her eyes slashes of red tears that trickled through soaked and matted eyelashes. Her stomach shook and quivered as she curled herself around it, the shame of tonight’s acts coming down upon her in one fell swoop.
These rolling, gray clouds above me pound…and my heart pounds with them. Rhythmically, now, the memories come—voices scream and spirits roar in rejoicing fire. Blood spills and sterling passion rises. Hearts cry out and sacrifice is offered joyfully and love arrived before hate ever did and tears slip, and hearts break for all they’ve ever known and wanted and hearts give when there is nothing left to give. Only the thunder that threatens to rain down from the heavens commands her every heartbeat. Her knees collapse to the ground and a ragged sob escapes her throat as her lips meet the timeless, rich, precious blood oozing from her victim’s throat. The blood consumes the man’s spirit, and as his body lays here, her heart is flying to unknown heights.
Later, long after the hunt when all evidence had been eradicated from the small village, they returned to their current haunt, a crumbling castle on the crumbling cliffs of a precipice. Though the walls were in much disrepair, the cellars were usable enough, and kept out the burning sunlight that threatened our existence. We had transformed what remained of the dark, damp cellars into practically an underground labyrinth. Tunnels led to individual rooms, which offered the best of the circumstances. How did this happen? When did her life become a cycle of hunt, kill, feed, and flee? She turned slowly as she felt her attention being drawn to the dresser in the corner of her room, where sat a journal that held the memories of a different girl, a different time…



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