Born into devotion , and from a young age indoctrinated by power, Merikh Fremont was decreed to fight, kill and destroy. The King of Hybern saw the Illyrian rebel as a symbol of the battleground, possessing her for her strength and courage.
But Meri...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The stupendous, un-ploughed field had been adapted into a haunting tapestry of oblivion, thousands of unmarked graves grovelling for recognition, each minuscule mountain of soil marked with a rugged, hand-made cross.
The poignant memorials stood as tragic testaments to the lives that were taken too soon, each intricate mound of earth a solemn reminder of conflict's consequences.
As the saddened sun bowed below the horizon, it casted a long shadow of loss over the verboten grave-yard, the haphazardly carved wood aglow with a gruesome tale. Flowers of every hue bloomed ceaselessly around the fallen, their petals never wilting, a symbol of eternal remembrance in a realm where time held no sway.
The rows of graves stretched far beyond the shrewd horizon, faint echoes of battle and sacrifices droning amid the ruins like an earnest refrain. Each barren hole bore witness to a life cut short, a family forever changed and a community left to mourn.
Each groove and roughened patch told a story of loving labour and an unwavering dedication to the fallen, each stroke of the chisel leaving behind a piece of their own anguish, a mournful connection between the craftsmen and the fallen.
As the weeping stars bore witness to their silent vigil, these weary hands continued their sacred work, a bittersweet offering to those who would never again feel the warmth of the sun or the strength of camaraderie.
KNOCK KNOCK!
The echo of startled water rumbled through the quaint bathroom as Merikh roused from the flushed bath, disoriented and dazed, her unglamored, violet eyes capacious with indignity.
In the glowing light of the bathroom, those haunting memories lingered, casting an indelible shadow over her piloting mind as it navigated the transition from devastation to the warm reality of her bathtub.
Tediously, Merikh sat up, gazing around the tiled room as recitals of her past and echoes of sorrow slowly dissipated into the background, a thunderous knocking demanding her attention.
She cursed her obsolete exhaustion, springing from the ivory tub with urgency, droplets of clingy water cascading from her like a glimmering waterfall, flowing as she propelled toward the source of disturbance, bumbling over the wet tiles as she knotted a lavender robe around her flushed, rosy body.
"It's Clove!" Called out the ruckus, a beacon of serenity as her youthful voice flowed like a gentle stream, imbued with comfort and clarity as it travelled beneath the door's fresh hinges.
