The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of the Origin (4|7)

(№4.7)

When the violent, reverberating seizures gone to tremors, than to earthquakes would twitch and divulge under the magic born to a crime, furtively reform and warp to shapes forced of the immense pressure, leading all to a most dearest final eclipsing climax,  the universe prepared to tear asunder decreed and final.

The all-mighty father of the powerful beings dawned on the soil mortals walked upon, seemingly just out of the nowhere, coolly scanning the ensemble and scorching surroundings bluntly and tiredly, ancient yet beautiful faces hid beneath a shroud of blooming sweat and creasing ash that gathered to watch the bender of the world fall, collapsing hand in hand.

Standing beside the father's family or rather lurking in the spare space of wretched corners and the shades, lest this presence more would not be revealed until the very grand finale, was watching the very god who orchestrated all this mayhem in the first place, valuably pleased and deviously savouring the mischief his hands must be streaked red for all the deaths on him. He reaped what he sowed and cherished this harvest dearly.

And now he came to watch the real delicious tragedy, the execution of the girl, a last fleeting sacrifice to be made, the last that could be in an enthralling realm.

The father remained calm, but all those with finer senses sensed it would be apocalyptic, her execution, and while she seemed the incarnation of smugness, the girl would not be allowed to exit the mortal realm but with the most excruciating agony at her heels.

The boy stirred wildly against his restraints. He still had a chance, if only he could make them an offer on the bypass unveiling how the ending of all might be warded off still.

The most powerful in the midst of the crowd rose his hand, as a reminder of silence. Not even the wind was bestowed with a power to ruin these silent seconds galvanised with anticipation.

The father looked at the girl, examined how such a pathetic dirty little thing ruined his eternity, his rule, his power, his Empire, simply everything.

His golden eyes locked on hers, human once of unknown quantity, the hue of pent-up clouds right before a tempest. He inched closer, mere power sourcing out of his being than feet of flesh wandering.

The father stopped as close as he dared near a mortal, as if her ability to die might prove to be prone for contagion, his expression completely unreadable, neutral, the edges of his lips curled ever so slightly in revulsion.

An insect she was, aeons placed from posing a real threat, hence the reason her hands remained untied and yet, and yet, it would be a mortal to do the bidding of their undoing

"Is there anything you might add in the pathetic last words for trying apologia of insulting us in such capacity?", he harshly demanded ironically, his tranquil voice resonating through the entire area, shattering her brain to pieces, figuratively speaking, for he impressed but with his mighty volume.

She eyed him for a few seconds, flocks of cinder blowing warmly in her face, crisp and singeing, and too exhausted and done she was with living and the need of finding gesture to perfectly display such, that as small might even be the flick of her fingers, wiping dust creases away from her sullen, sweating skin. Then she did stumble on a way to declare her rage and ire, by spitting him in the face, malice glittering in her eyes, as rumours and hectic shouts grew louder behind and around and above and under them. Hushed voices and their owners angrily looked at the filthy girl, who grinned provocatively, patiently watching the reaction of her opponents, missing already the impossible weight of her boiling blood coursing blissfully in her veins and upon hours of torture, the motion how evermore tracks of pearly tears sinked into her skin. After all, shambles of proof she was still alive.