Summary: One-shot. Reflections upon a swansong as the insignificance of life is marveled at after a near death brush with the apocalypse. Dark and gothic and possibly narcissist.
Rating: Teen
Authoress's Notes: The last sentence is a quote from the book Sophie's World by Josteiin Gaarder. The idea for this fic hit me ever so randomly, after I'd spent some time reading other dark short stories and poetry from the Net. Maybe be weird, but bear in mind I wrote this at 11pm last night.
♫ Swansong ♫
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by
Sakina the Fallen Angel
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The swansong echoes eerily across the lonesome waters, as the dark tides of time lap gently on ageless shores. The swell of the muted notes mirror the ebb and flow of the lake, and as the swan spreads his wings, notes rising into grand crescendos that sing of pain and loss, love and tender hearts, emotions that were bottled for life shatter the still night air. The swan has come to die, and he knows it, as he inclines his head one last time towards the shore. A flutter of wings as delicate as the rustling of leaves, and he is gone, as if he never was, a ghost of a memory, an imprint that will sing on through time. Perhaps his song will reverberate throughout the universes, touch the hearts of those others who despair, comfort them.
It certainly comforted me that night, the night I sang my own swansong, the night I came to die. I was marked, had been for two years now. They were coming, and there was no place left to run. Escaping the ritual two years ago, they couldn't use anybody else for I'd already been marked. So I was the hunted. Oh, they could wait. They had two years, until the sixth of the sixth. And they had spells and magic that could control my mind, make me come to them. But I chose to come willingly, to sing my own song and dance to my own words. I would make them pay, but at what price?
When you look at a swan, you see the delicate sensual curve of the muted bird's neck, the soft, textured feathers, the tender white wings. No one could see the icy fire that flowed through my veins though; the potent concoction of poisons and potions that I'd mixed. The fire wouldn't kill the Beast, but even if it could counteract some of the toxins in my body it couldn't fight them all. I was a walking chemical bomb, staggering sluggishly through the ancient forest, wings corrupted with the taint of the marked. No one can see the blood dripping from the swan's pure white wings, or the silver fire. And yet…all this, but at what price?
I was the last victim, number six hundred and sixty-sixth. They'd planned this since the mid 1700s, a select few members of a deep dark cult that spanned centuries of patience. They wouldn't have another chance like this. The magic was strongest tonight, on the sixth of the sixth and damned were they if they thought they could do the Summoning any other day. Blood and fire and apocalyptic bloodbath. The most fouled Beast to be called from a dimension so damned and yet so close. All that separated us was a membrane of magic and human sacrifice.
Vision blurry, swimming, I staggered into the clearing where they stood, robed in shadows and hoods.
"I have come to die." At this they all laughed, whether it was at my slurred words or the fact that I stumbled and went sprawling didn't matter. They had me and were drunk in their own intoxications.
One of them grabbed me and ripped off my top, leaving my skin naked as he threw me onto the giant stone table, and without further ado the chanting began. Hairs prickled on my back as their menacing hoods swam and slid from my vision like pictures from a slideshow. I reflected that it was my life that should have been flashing, my insignificant pieces of youth and happiness, terror and peace disturbed, running, always running. No wings to fly, only legs to run. The anticipation was garish, nightmares made in the breath of a second escaped from the circle and circled us like vultures, black smoke taking shape and snatching at the hoods in glee to feed. But they weren't the ones the hooded figures wanted.
I remember a gleaming knife being raised, then everything appeared telescopic and I was flying, spreading my wings as I gazed on at the figure sprawled across that cold stone table and shuddered, glad it wasn't me. The knife plunged in and the tip came out of the back. The figure below gasped, eyes convulsing. The knife had pierced into the frantically pumping heart, yet it wasn't removed. The intention was to let the heart pump itself to death with the knife still in place as part of the ritual, and the droplets of blood collect at the natural stone basin underneath the figure's back.
I saw the fear in the figure's eyes, and reflected in them, the brimstone and fires tremble as the Beast awoke, tearing its chains, set free from the power of centuries of deaths- six hundred and sixty-six. The blood was feeding it, feeding it with power. But once the swan is cut open everyone can see the colour ofthe blood inside.
The Beast screamed, knives slicing through the air as the blood in it's veins smoked and bubbled, silver streaks of fire racing up and down it's limbs. It was still made of flesh, and what couldn't corrode magic would certainly corrode flesh. But at what price?
The concoction of drugs and poisons that flowed through the figure's body flowed through the Beast's, and together they danced a duet that would end in both fires extinguished. The ground shook, and the nightmares screamed, clawing at the hooded faces, taking them with the nightmares as they disappeared, sucked back into whatever hell they came from. The clearing was left empty, save for a few tattered cloaks and the unconscious drugged up figure sprawled on the stone table, as the distant wail of empty sirens sped closer and closer.
When I opened my eyes I was hooked up and enclosed by four walls, with a clean plain table and vase of flowers by my side. She'd found my bedside note, and after hours of screaming to an empty nameless telephone they'd responded when she read the note out, especially when she mentioned the name of the faceless cult. The Summoning wasn't acknowledged, but they were well aware of the murders the cult had committed. So I was saved. The pumps worked twenty-four seven to remove all the junk from my system, and they always wondered why I hadn't died from toxic shock within minutes. But I know better.
Sometimes, when my mind is clear and the nightmares have stopped I look back and wonder if any of this actually happened, if the Beast really was there with the hooded figures, whether or not this was all just a dream. But I know better.
That day, I came into the woods to die; to either sacrifice myself for the greater good or to become part of the apocalyptic bloodbath that I no doubt was intended for. The skies would burn with crimson pitch, and fires more intense than the pits of hell would kindle.
And still I was but a wounded swan, lithe and graceful, wings beating furiously yet fruitlessly against the greater forces, just an insignificant pawn to wager in the cards of fate, the roll of the die. I wonder if they heard my swansong.
I came to die, yet I was saved by Death. It seems that He at least didn't want the job of clearing up after the massacre. To collect each liable soul would've taken an eternity and a half. An eternity whilst the black, sparkling sands trickle as they click against the giant hourglass of time, piling up against the polished surface as stars far, far above explode, die and are reborn.
Death works in many mysterious ways, I guess. He owes me a big favour, and I know that my mother will be dying to speak with me again, to say goodbye properly. And yet what are we, but entrepreneurs of our fragile race, desperately seeking for answers yet clinging to our anchors? Our lives are more than mere cyclic fifths; we are one as we are in tune with the cosmos. For we too, are stardust.
I haven't used any description of the narrator at all, but I hope that the reader can gain a big enough impression through all the comparisons I made with the swans. Comments appreciated.