Varda's Excuse

[Desert Jesus]

- Varda's Excuse

“What do I live for…?”

Silence. A brother, veiled by the absence of color, slowly lowered his head over the mangled body of a newborn child. The face of perfection… A soul free of sin, free of the iniquity… O’, such a glamorous drug. Its face was tilted toward the cracked pavement, and it had a peaceful look about it – the lips pressed gently together, a trickle of blood hardened on the edge of the nostril. Varda’s pale hand could not resist – collapsing upon his knees, he reached out and bathed the forsaken child’s forehead with the warmth of his palm.

“Rest, young one,” he muttered to himself, sure to keep his voice to a low whisper. The tips of his ring and index finger fell upon the infant’s eyelids, and with a gentle motion of the hand, closed the baby’s eyes. “Hopefully, you will find peace in the afterlife…” said Varda, rising to his feet. “I find it funny,” he pronounced to the dead infant. “I find it sad, as well… When I sleep, I dream; and when I dream, I dream of you. Yet, you do not breathe… You die…” As his confident gaze weakened, Varda turned to the long road of wreckage before him. The rays of a descending sun peered through a large pile of wreckage at the end of the road, signaling the revival of a dead race. The shadows moved across his body as if they were dancing; reaching out to his left, Varda grasped the splintered end of a spear jammed through the ruptured pavement. His gaze upon the descending sun did not falter. Rubble fell upon his feet as the spear was unearthed and hovered over the infant.

“You must have been nervous on your first day of school,” he said, rubbing away the escaped tear with his free hand. “I cannot remember my first day of school…” His face was calm, unmoved by the prospect of piercing purities flesh. By now, the sun had fallen beneath the horizon, and the Dark of Eve had descended upon Varda – the undisturbed distance soon became a loud collection of cries and howls, the thirst for blood fueled by an unwavering terror. The hood over his head was pulled back now to reveal a handsome man of young age and high, majestic cheekbones.

“Forgive me.” He lifted the spear, and with powerful strength lodged the tip of the blade into the infant’s skull – it wasn’t soon after that its eyes had opened to reveal white, sinister pupils blanketed by a grey, rotting ash. The undead baby arched its back in hatred as it squirmed under the power of Varda, clawing at the stone beneath until its fingertips bled their black blood. The spear was shoved through even farther so that it penetrated the brain; in a disgusting display of revulsion, the infants head cracked in two pieces and fell to either side. Its small, tender eyes rolled over its bloody cheeks and hit the earth with an uneasy ‘slap.’ Varda quickly crushed the eyeballs under his feet before they could hatch. Leaving the spear where it was, Varda unsheathed both his blades and turned to face an abyss of darkness.

"I've lived my life, now I will end yours."

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I know, repulsion. It'll end soon. I've basically created a world of my own, and this one of the hundreds of stories that help to illuminate this world of mine. First post is vague, but I was bored. It'll end soon.

[simple_clean]

Woah.....that was good. Very descriptive. I like it. I can't wait for you to update ^^

[Desert Jesus]

Varda unsheathed his blades and faced an abyss of darkness – a park, to be specific. The trees of diminishing life groaned throughout the misty shadows of the Commons before Varda. The gate, bearing the words “Thou shalt perish beyond these bars”, creaked as it swung open with the sudden burst of winds. The icy steel of Varda’s robe lost its glimmer as he stepped onto the Common Grounds. The Common Grounds, bluntly put, were nothing more than breeding grounds, wrecked by the cruel hand of time. The oak were once very much alive and full of spirit, both figuratively and literally; however, for as many years as he could count, Varda has recognized the oaks as sigils of fear. Their branches, littered with holes and chipped skin, curled amongst each other in such a tangled, uneasy fashion, that no amount of daylight could shine away the trepidation that seemed to birth on the Common Grounds. They were…evil.

“Show yourself, earth lord. Allow me the honor of seeing my brothers’ face.” Spoke Varda, moving his metallic-blue eyes about the darkness. The icy chains wrapped around either of his blades shuffled across the dirt as he stepped in further and gritted his teeth. No more than a minute had gone by before his blind words were acknowledged.

“… Varda…” A solemn foot emerged from the shadows bathing a nearby oak. A torso, suffused by auburn robes followed. As the mysterious man laid his hand upon the tree, the lowest branch began to shift – small, tendril-like undergrowth emerged from beneath the bark, forming a hand. As the branch motioned in Varda’s direction, a small, neon sphere moved between the fingertips. The glow soon diffused, and from its emerald ashes birthed a tall woman of elegant beauty. Her eyes shown like grassy riches, and her complexion was of the softest shade of pink. With a disappointed look about her, the young woman spoke.

“The trees tell me that you’ve changed, Varda,” She slowly advanced. “Please, tell me it is not so. Tell me that it is nothing more than that of old fools talk.”

“The damned trees speak the truth, Floril. I do what I please, and as usual, they overhear.” sparred Varda with a smirk, lifting the left blade and resting it on his shoulder. “All they do is ****ing gossip and spread tales that are not their own.” Floril’s gaze saddened. How could it be…? A brother, her brother…lost to the All-Father’s cause? Lost of hope? With an empathetic sensation about her, the Queen of the Roots turned to look at the man whose body was half-cast in the shadow of an oak. His right eye was all that could be seen, and it was of a fortified, auburn color. His high, defined cheekbones rested firmly beneath his eyes. It was odd… The mans eyes seemed to govern the entirety of his attitude. They were as books with an infinite number of pages. With a stern stare, the man clothed in ginger spoke.

“Varda, brother, you should reconsider your actions. Take time to reflect upon what you have chosen to do…what you have chosen to commit.” He said. His voice was concrete and full of strength; the mere tone of his voice could command even the most disobedient of traitors. “Varda, let me understand your actions.” Merely trying to reason with the traitor.

“Dear brother, to understand my actions would be treachery.” he chuckled, stepping closer towards the man of auburn. As he did so, the hand of the great oak moved in closer as well – a collected moan emitted from the forest just then, and the trees began to shift and leaves began to rustle in an invisible wind. They grew weary of Varda’s blades. With ease, he could cut them to pieces…assuming the Guardian Roots would allow such a catastrophe. Floril’s own body guards, present in every natural disaster, sometimes the cause of it. They were of great power. “Aldrich, stay out of my way; do not meddle in the affairs of those who are superior to you… You may die.” As he said this with such vigor, Varda readied both his blades before him and mumbled something beneath his breath. As the mumbles ceased, the swords became engulfed in a white, chilly flame. Steam emanated from every pore in his body as sweat overcame him. “Listen closely, this will be the last time I say this,” His voice was no longer low and unstable. It was cold and hollowed out – even though they stood at the edge of a wood, it echoed across the landscape.

“Stay out of my way.”