The air is growing thick/A fear he cannot hide/The Dreaming Tree has died
He crouched in the shadows, inhuman gray eyes glinting with tears. His pale face was
framed with long black dreads, coated with blood and water. His thin white shirt was plastered to his chest, the stench of copper and salt invading his senses. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to push the memories back with pain, but the images of just moments ago played again through his tortured mind.
He saw Martin walking up the stairs, into the room. He followed behind, like a dog to his master. He heard the click of the door locking behind him. The curtain before them was closed, muffling the sounds of cheering. The scent of salt water filled their nostrils.
He saw again, the look of horror on Martin’s face as he realized his fate. His words played again in his ears, “Daimon, hide in that hole. Hurry. And don’t come out. No matter what.”
Daimon did as he was told. His hands felt the wet blood of the execution before. As he opened his mouth to speak, the curtain slowly opened. He crouched lower in the hole as a loud roar filled the room, over powering the jubilations of the crowd.
He saw Martin’s bat-like wings break through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. They stretched out, their shadow hiding Daimon from view. He gasped in terror as the creature emerged from below the ledge. Its huge claws sunk into the floor, and its gaping jaws dripped blood and water. Martin closed his eyes and opened his arms to his certain, painful death.
The creature was not slow in its killing. It grasped him in its deadly claws and preceded to tear him apart. For the joyous screams of the crowd, the creature sloppily ate the halves of Martin.
Daimon let out a howl of pain, and ripped the drenched shirt from his body. He pushed away from the wall and ran. He had no idea what his destination was, just as long as it was far from the stadium.
He ran into the woods, and then through them. He didn’t stop; didn’t feel the pain and fatigue in his body until the full moon touched his skin. He crumbled in a heap of sweat and breathlessness, uncaring of the collectors that patrolled the realm at night.
The soft touch of hands on his back, turned him quickly. He saw no one. He scanned the surrounding area before he fell back in pain. Where the hands had touched, something tried to get out of his skin.
He arched his back as the flesh between his shoulders pushed out, away from him, tearing apart. He bit his lip hard. He groaned out, the sound just short of a scream, as a pair of wings pushed through his thinned out skin. He rolled over on his stomach, his new, bat-like wings stretching out in the moonlight. The torn skin around the base of the wings, closed up, leaving no trace of the pain he had just gone through. He didn’t know how long he laid like that, but something told him it was time to move.
He shakily rose and looked around. In the distance, from where he had come from, he saw the blinking of search lights. Again he ran, his wings flapping uselessly behind him, slowing his pace. Daimon was far enough ahead, that it made little difference.
His fatigue was warring with his need for survival when he came across the cliff. It was a sheer side, no human could climb it, and it left no place for him to hide. Slamming his fists against the rock face, he cried as he knew he would die as soon as the collectors caught up with him.
Then, as he laid his head against the cool slab of granite, he felt the brush of his leathery wings. The idea came so sudden he didn’t have a chance to think about it. Remembering Martin’s take offs, Daimon ran away from the cliff, his wings spread out. When he felt the air pushing him up, he jumped. Flapping his wings he rose. He turned back to the cliff, flying this time, up the side.
He flew into a thick cloud of fog, but kept going despite his exhaustion. Then he saw the dim light, standing at the top of the fog. With a burst of adrenaline,
Daimon soared towards it. Breaking through the fog, he found the source of the light. A large house that no human could get to.
His landing left something to be desired as he flew into the hard oak door. Stumbling back a bit, a hand to his head, the door opened. There stood a pretty young woman. Her blond hair was pulled into pig-tails, the ends curling slightly. Her eyes were wide and the most startling blue he had ever seen. She wore a simple, backless sun dress, and sandals. Sprouting from her back was a pair of lovely white, feathered wings. She smiled at him, and stepped aside.
“Welcome.”
This thing I do/I do not deny it/All through this smile
framed with long black dreads, coated with blood and water. His thin white shirt was plastered to his chest, the stench of copper and salt invading his senses. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to push the memories back with pain, but the images of just moments ago played again through his tortured mind.
He saw Martin walking up the stairs, into the room. He followed behind, like a dog to his master. He heard the click of the door locking behind him. The curtain before them was closed, muffling the sounds of cheering. The scent of salt water filled their nostrils.
He saw again, the look of horror on Martin’s face as he realized his fate. His words played again in his ears, “Daimon, hide in that hole. Hurry. And don’t come out. No matter what.”
Daimon did as he was told. His hands felt the wet blood of the execution before. As he opened his mouth to speak, the curtain slowly opened. He crouched lower in the hole as a loud roar filled the room, over powering the jubilations of the crowd.
He saw Martin’s bat-like wings break through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. They stretched out, their shadow hiding Daimon from view. He gasped in terror as the creature emerged from below the ledge. Its huge claws sunk into the floor, and its gaping jaws dripped blood and water. Martin closed his eyes and opened his arms to his certain, painful death.
The creature was not slow in its killing. It grasped him in its deadly claws and preceded to tear him apart. For the joyous screams of the crowd, the creature sloppily ate the halves of Martin.
Daimon let out a howl of pain, and ripped the drenched shirt from his body. He pushed away from the wall and ran. He had no idea what his destination was, just as long as it was far from the stadium.
He ran into the woods, and then through them. He didn’t stop; didn’t feel the pain and fatigue in his body until the full moon touched his skin. He crumbled in a heap of sweat and breathlessness, uncaring of the collectors that patrolled the realm at night.
The soft touch of hands on his back, turned him quickly. He saw no one. He scanned the surrounding area before he fell back in pain. Where the hands had touched, something tried to get out of his skin.
He arched his back as the flesh between his shoulders pushed out, away from him, tearing apart. He bit his lip hard. He groaned out, the sound just short of a scream, as a pair of wings pushed through his thinned out skin. He rolled over on his stomach, his new, bat-like wings stretching out in the moonlight. The torn skin around the base of the wings, closed up, leaving no trace of the pain he had just gone through. He didn’t know how long he laid like that, but something told him it was time to move.
He shakily rose and looked around. In the distance, from where he had come from, he saw the blinking of search lights. Again he ran, his wings flapping uselessly behind him, slowing his pace. Daimon was far enough ahead, that it made little difference.
His fatigue was warring with his need for survival when he came across the cliff. It was a sheer side, no human could climb it, and it left no place for him to hide. Slamming his fists against the rock face, he cried as he knew he would die as soon as the collectors caught up with him.
Then, as he laid his head against the cool slab of granite, he felt the brush of his leathery wings. The idea came so sudden he didn’t have a chance to think about it. Remembering Martin’s take offs, Daimon ran away from the cliff, his wings spread out. When he felt the air pushing him up, he jumped. Flapping his wings he rose. He turned back to the cliff, flying this time, up the side.
He flew into a thick cloud of fog, but kept going despite his exhaustion. Then he saw the dim light, standing at the top of the fog. With a burst of adrenaline,
Daimon soared towards it. Breaking through the fog, he found the source of the light. A large house that no human could get to.
His landing left something to be desired as he flew into the hard oak door. Stumbling back a bit, a hand to his head, the door opened. There stood a pretty young woman. Her blond hair was pulled into pig-tails, the ends curling slightly. Her eyes were wide and the most startling blue he had ever seen. She wore a simple, backless sun dress, and sandals. Sprouting from her back was a pair of lovely white, feathered wings. She smiled at him, and stepped aside.
“Welcome.”
This thing I do/I do not deny it/All through this smile