The Warm Countenance

Dirty, long-nailed hands latched about her neck from behind as the last two Children before her charged, snarling. The black tattoos along her neck billowed out, breaking the grasp as the shadowy serpents trailing from her fingers shot through those before her. Reaching back, her whips ensnared the head of the assailant behind. She dragged the large body up and over her head, slamming it down with a wet snap on dry sands.

The writhing coils retracted to their mistress, residing back into the still images of woven tattoos along her entire body. Tressa stood stooped, breathing heavily.

They had danced for most of the day in the shadow of the ruins. When the remaining Children had retreated, the high peak of the neighboring tower's shadow barely touched the mouth of the pit. They had ceased their attack more for a sense of self-preservation than fear. Children felt emotion differently since Momma's touch.

All about her, contorted forms and raw, sundered flesh carpeted the thirsty ground. From the darkness within the pit she could hear the mournful, wordless cries of the survivors. It floated up through the blistering air as a sharp keening, many voices as one.

She gasped, doubling over as her stomach convulsed in the agony of utter emptiness. Desperately looking about, she saw only the corpses of the slain; twisted limbs, broken bones, torn skin and flesh. Meat, meat, meat. The etchings squirmed off her bare arms again, token avatars of her mind's immeasurable power and will.

She ate to bursting.

Just as she reached the immense burrow entrance, the side of her exposed face burned, and a bright, yellow glow seared into her eye. She flinched back with a yelp, into shadow, then looked up.

As the sun set, it passed behind a portion of the tower, the opposite wall of which had been blown open, either by God's Wrath, or the previous wars of men, or just the harsh windstorms of the New World.

Before her glowed a beautiful sight. The sun shone through the tower and a mostly intact stain glass window. Around the broken edges of the tower branched brilliant golden and violet rays of the dwindling evening horizon. She took two tottering steps back, looking down. There, just before the entrance at her feet, lay the colorful shadow of the window.

It had originally been one of the saints which her parents had been so intent to worship. Dianne? Ameena? It didn't matter now. Few even of the survivors who had cast her out bothered to maintain their withered religion, now proven hollow by God's revealing and subsequent betrayal.

But Tressa saw the world through art, and knew the sign which lay before her. The angelic face, shrouded by dark hair, the red and white tabard and skirts, one hand outstretched in supplication, or entreaty?

Throughout the image, holes shot through the glass, possibly from shrapnel or blown debris, caused brilliant spots of yellow and orange light to pock the visage before her on the sand, as if the figure looked upon Tressa through the light of countless far away stars.

The rabid girl sank to her knees with a sob, extending a hand into the poisonous light. Skin burned before the painted vines swelled and conjoined, leaving no skin exposed.

She made to touch the face, but her shadowed hand broke the image, swallowing the light above. The familiar visage slowly faded as the gargantuan orange ball slipped from behind the tower, lancing down hateful rays on the kneeling woman.

Tressa screamed, wordless and hoarse, staring stubbornly at that pitiless sun as it sank reluctantly beneath the far-off mountains. Her face and eyes were slowly covered in the shielding, dark void of her own making, never to resurface.

The world before her dimmed, the barren landscape washed in a sickly orange glow, like the inside of an oven whose flame dwindles. She watched the world transform, now devoid of the Sun and Gods and kindly mothers with tender touches and reassuring whispers. All that remained in the shadowy husk of this New World was fear, suffering, sickness, survival, domination and subjugation.

She stood trembling within her mental armor, Momma's likeness indeed, and descended to the utter darkness of the pit below.

Though she could see nothing, she felt her way through the stinking warren's chambers, tunnels, and caverns. She felt the Children lurking in the corners. They didn't move to attack, for their combined will was broken against her's like glass.

In a small chamber she found their heart. Pregnant females sat; some on rocks or on piles of filthy cloth. At the entrances gathered the remainder of the hive, quivering and bobbing in apprehension. They embraced her not, so they were now forced to obedience.

She faced her new flock, recalling a God-Empress addressing the pacified nations of men.

"A true ruler should stand."

Her unused voice grated into the darkness, pale mummery. They flinched at the noise, uncomprehending. It irritated her, but no matter. She would make them understand what was necessary. She would devour the last of mankind's wicked civilization.

The hordes poured out, swallowing many settlements of pathetic survivors. For centuries, a new era of danger and primal terror struck the ravaged world. Generations of brave defenders died attempting to stem the tide.

A solitary abandoned war orphan with resurgent nanotechnology transformed into the greatest threat to the reconstruction of humanity within a host of other tribulations.

Despite the growth of her power and influence, Tressa remained in her chamber, painting on the pelts brought to her by the wan light of burning dung, and only in red. Never again would she behold the sunset. Never again would she see that warm countenance.

She perished within the hunger, fear, and rage of her New World; far too long before the return of her Momma. So unaware of the tortured yet tearless wails uttered for a child most dearly beloved and so bitterly lost.