⑄ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 ⑄

『 act XX: white lilies. 』

... a raven-haired, frail figure lies amongst the corpses,

of former allies,

now nothing but traitors.

dull gray eyes have long since dried out, now picked at by butterflies and beetles.

red stains thin, sickly skin.

red stains ripped, pale fabric.

the silver bells tied to its sleeves have started rusting.

blood has long stopped running from its veins.

there it lies, a gaping hole in the stomach, exposing all of its mutilated innards.

poor soul.

so young.

.

.

.

flora breaks the still, bloodied dirt.

slowly, surely, a figure drags itself towards the corpse;

it is covered in white lilies,

bleeding from every pore.

it stretches a desperate, fading hand out.

sickly, bloody skin brushes against rotting flesh.

in an instant, the bleeding figure melts into the ground, leaving nothing but crimson-coated flowers behind.

.

.

.

the corpse's eyelids flick open.

pale green.

a silhouette of a lily is outlined in its pupils.

the sound of rearranging organs disturb the insects in its stomach,

followed by a gory squelch.

thin vines dig itself into the living corpse's ribs.

they weave themselves through its bones, piercing through tattered skin, stitching its skeleton into place.

slowly, surely, with pops and snaps, the sound of a frail figure breaking into place shatters the still air.

eyelids flutter, clumped white eyelashes quickly becoming coated in new tears, blinking away flower buds in their tear ducts.

its ribcage creaks with new breath, sewn lungs stressing against their tendril stitches.

its heartbeat beats louder than anything else among the grove.

.

.

.

pale irises flick about the abandoned clearing of dirt and rock.

a tongue, stitched together by thin tendrils, rubs against the roof of a dry mouth, opening slowly.

all of its teeth are like needles,

dripping with old blood.

"w..."

its voice resembles a creaking doorway - a child's tone,

no doubt,

high-pitched and not yet developed.

"whe...re...."

the creak of a neck,

straining against the weight of a horned skull,

accompanies the low breath that follows.

"...am....I...?"