Status: Finito.



Burning hands clutch their throat. They can’t breathe. A song pours from the red of his fingers; a sweet melody that whispers into their ears stories of death and fear. Yet, they feel calm.

They whimper; their hands tear flesh from the hands of red, struggling to breathe. “Stop.” They fight back tears. They see him smiling, satisfaction in his eyes; they are sure he is laughing at their pain, but they can’t hear a thing, just a muffled laughter far away. The song of red takes over their head.

“Mortal,” he laughs as they’re tossed to the ground. They lie on stains of blood of those who died by fire and at the hands of the color red. They are desperate to get back air into their lungs; legs refuse to stand up; hands clutch at the place where they first felt the red seeping into their head.

The song is gone and they fear again. They pray for its return.

He approaches them with a spear of red on his hand. “Here you die.” They welcome it, the song now inside of them, red soaked in their own liquid crimson. They now hear voices whispering their name. Release, this is what they have always wished for, ever since the skies were torn open. The red lets them finally see what they had always wanted.

“Stop. Wake up. This is not what you want,” a soft voice roars in their ears, quieting down the song of red.

They feel like drowning. Red pours out but more red comes in. They can’t breathe, but this time they don’t fight.

“No, please.” Their eyes are open but they see nothing but the red and the threads of the song it spins on their insides.

On the distance they hear their name again; they see a bright flash of light touching their skin, opening the key on their hand. The skies rumble. “You can’t let go.”

Eyes dart wide open, this time seeing the immortal one, the ghoul aspiring to godhood. They see the red spire twisting on their insides, and they pull. “No. Not yet.” Blood pours but they stand, legs weak, eyes teared up, but they look directly at the make-shift god and its pet. A dragon breathes threats of fire at them. They reach for a sword, so foreign on their hands but yet they wield it.

Everything hurts. Cold, empty, and afraid but they’re still alive. The journey stretches before them and they can’t give up. “Not now,” they say as they cast a last look at their nightmares. “We’ll see this through later.”
Ice and cold covers their body, but they’re alive. The red is gone and now they’re left with the consequences of deciding to remain. Everything hurts as they dismiss the sweet melody of red to continue the journey they were never prepared to take.
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Con/crit greatly appreciated.