PRELUDE TO

-by: Lira-chan-

AUTHOR’S NOTE: First and foremost, the long and the short of the thing. The title is almost completely unrelated to the story. This is because this “story” is… Sort of a pick-me-up exercise. I’m not in the correct mindframe to continue any of my current original stories, and I’ve only just begun to write fanfiction- which sort of stresses me out, somehow. This is intended to be stand-alone, but you never know- I’m starting to write this with more or less no plan, just a vague feel for a new character. No plot, no purpose, just an attempt at something short and interesting. Dedicated to the people I love, who will know I mean them when they read this. Dedicated to the lovely Karasu-sama most of all, for a single chapter story that bore a feeling of melancholy beauty. “Wish” indeed. Prepare for a dizzying ride, for the train is just now pulling out of the station.

            A single, sad figure, picked out from the dark by silver light, covered in an invisible blanket of nowhere and nothing and no one. A girl guarded over by pale melancholy, shrouded in dark despite the cold, harsh light of silver that tried to invade her sanctuary, her fantasy land. A person contented with ice, comforted by the feeling of being alone, of being vulnerable, of being frail and weak and sickly. Her face tilted up, smooth skin translucent white in the not-moonlight, mismatched eyes glazed over and dreamlike.

            Closer to the girl, a soft sound could be made out, breath catching in a constricted throat and desperately escaping pale, pale pink lips in shallow, shuddering sighs. Her glazed eyes rolled back, lips parted just slightly, sticklike arms as silver as the not-light supporting her not-weight where she sat in the nothingness. The left eye, bright gold illuminated by silver, dilated then contracted, envisioning morbid scenes no sane soul could imagine, conjuring up sights that would scare mortals other than her. The left eye had a sheen to it, a false glow provided by the undesired icy light. The right eye did not. Even the invasive, pervasive quicksilver ice could not touch the nothingness of the black. The right eye was dark, empty as infinity and lonely as the girl’s not-soul.

            The empty eye stared onward as the golden one glowed, cold silver and warm gold swirling in a dizzy flurry, tortured by the visions a broken mind was designing for its perusal. Indigo blue swirled around the girl, soft wavy hair that flowed like water or silk cloaking her like the darkness, tangling as a forbidden breeze snuck into the sanctuary of the insanity. The wind whipped up, cold and chafing and harsh on the girl’s soft skin- although the girl did not flinch, did not reveal whether pain was past her. Perhaps she could no longer feel, perhaps she could no longer hurt, and perhaps she could no longer care. The wind tore at her dress, dragging on ebony, lacy, tatters- pseudo-ravens straining their not-wings against the mooring that was a frail, faintly feminine form.

            With a gasp and a long, low, moaning wail, a wail that was crackled-calling crows and tortured death, the girl’s trance broke, and her nightmare resumed. The wind had stolen her trance from her gossamer grasp, the wind that whispered of cold blessings and slow, seductive ice-edged deaths. The empty eye twirled dizzyingly, straining for the visions that had been lost to its golden not-twin. Spider-hands clutched at tortured black fabric, ripping and rending and tearing the material away from girl-flesh, as if the cloth of the dress would choke her, otherwise. Indigo hair slid across newly-bared silver shoulders, forming a feeble protection against the chill of the wind and the various secretive death-songs of the not-night. The spider-hands stilled in their worrying at the abused black dress, strips of ebony falling from white flesh like graceless dead birds.

            The girl moaned again, clutching at her shoulders and hugging herself close, staring into the night with the strange unseeing eyes she had obtained- one light, one dark, both dead. The moan started out low, but escalated higher, shrieking its victory to the piteous not-night. The silver melancholy stared down still, singing sorrow for the girl with its false moonbeams, illuminating the malnourished being, the shredded black dress, and the tangled, snarled, indigo hair in harsh unfeeling light. The melancholy sang to her pain with its silence, providing her with solace she did not realize she was receiving. She was provided with solace she did not realize she needed.

            Exhausted by unimaginable mental masochism, the girl sank to her knees, spider-hands pressing against not-ground that was as cold as the not-air she breathed. Mewling softly, she pressed her face to the not-grass, breathing in its not-scent and somehow not worrying. The forgotten black ribbons of the destroyed dress stirred as her breath brushed them, dancing lazily and catching in her mass of indigo hair. Squeaking and yawning, she blinked the golden eye closed- but the dark eye remained open, remained empty, remained as unchanging as ever.

            The girl twitched uneasily in her half-sleep, but for her, that was peace. The broken mind had fled to a safer place, where gentle dreams became possible and golden eyes wore no dark twins. However, the empty eye was still open, revolving slowly in its socket, dried painfully by the wind that sucked at its moisture, capable of moving independently, with no thought from the girl. The shattered girl did not control the eye. Her broken mind would never be able to establish a hold over so fickle a thing. Her broken mind had never been able to hold the girl’s own gaze on something. Whole, unbroken, the mind had confronted painful visions, chaotic scenes, desperate desires and not-desires seen only by the empty eye. The visions had broken the mind, thrown it aside like an old toy, allowed its desires to chill, to stagnate, to be forgotten.

            Now the visions plagued the girl always, tortured her already destroyed mind, haunted her sleep, and caused her to dream of cold deaths and unlikely escapes. The wind teased her, the melancholy pitied her, and the silver watched her. Through it all, the empty eye stared into the shadows that it could show no one, not even its human host. Some things were darker than death, more tragic than the tears torn from the soul and bleeding from the eyes, more precious than the lifeblood that wasn’t red, but gold. The girl would never die; never abandon the parasite that lodged in her eye and damned her soul, destroying her mind repeatedly. The only escape was in the paradox. There was the sane insanity and the constructive destruction, the salvation that could be achieved only when all was lost. The girl would never achieve the perfect balance of chaos that would free her from herself.

The girl was Isilia.

The girl was sleeping on, as the melancholy resumed its sorrow-song, as the wind resumed its gentle teasing, as the silver resumed its sensuous tracing of her body, its dancing across her form. Isilia’s broken mind continued to sleep and dream fitfully, as one half of her soul continued to contemplate ways of destroying the other.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, what can I say? I don’t know if I’m necessarily happy with it, but it was definitely interesting- dark? But it was also interesting. I really did jump into this with more or less no plan, and as a result the story went in a direction a bit different from what I had intended. What do you think? And yes, her name is Isilia. Yes, I need to work on my concept of imagery, and yes, I am not a poetic person. I knew before I began that Isilia was twisted, and that I would like her. I may keep her. Perhaps I can use her for something later.