One

One.

Chapter 1: Hunger.

A lonely wasted spirit stumbled the oak lined highway in the moonlight. All was silent except for the slightest stirring of the wind and the sorrowful groaning of ancient trees. The solitary soul looked up at the vaulted gallery of dark twisted limbs claw ing longingly at the night sky. It was as though the gnarled boughs were reaching desperately for the heavens. Or perhaps the skeletal branches were a snarled cage to entrap wayward souls in purgatory.

The spirit hesitantly left the somber avenue and ventured into a pristine grassy meadow. There was no colour in the moonlight, only gradations of gray.

The spirit's step became more laboured as though each stride were weighted with dread. Something kept drawing it ever onwards. Finally the bedraggled soul reached the centre of the pasture and looked with empty eyes upon the grassy clearing. The grass here was as unremarkable as anywhere else in the clearing.

The spirit didn't see grass though. It saw the past and the present and the future. Torn ground. The stamp of many horse hooves. Glistening blood and churned soil. An open weeping wound in the land. A wound that had bled for much too long.

A ragged cry escaped the spirit's mouth. A clarion cry of pain and loss. The soul collapsed to its knees. "Why?" The soul looked up at the distant and merciless stars. There was no answer. "Damn you!" it screamed defiantly. "Why? Why? Why?" The soul bent over double as its mortal body shuddered with convolutions of sorrow. It pounded its fists into the fractured ground, pulling clumps of grass free at the roots . It gripped a handful of the sodden turf in it's hand and lifted it, scattering the soil about it. "Ashes... Dust..." Its shoulders slumped, its crying became less frequent then ceased. It kneeled there for an eternity.

A dark bird flew above, blocking the pregnant moon and breaking the stillness of the night with a hoarse avian cry. The soul looked up at the aloof satellite, its delicate features bathed in ethereal light. A wry smile played upon the sprites lips as it stood.

It possessed a beautiful face. Full pouting lips, high pale cheekbones and long lashes framing doleful eyes. The face of an otherworldly nymph. A bitterly proud countenance savaged by heartbreak. The face of a once beatific angel. The broken spirit of a fallen angel.

The tattered remains of a fine dress clung to the sprites lithe frame. The dress was muddied and blood stained. The sprite looked down at the dress in a stupor. She noticed something not quite right. She laughed at the site before her, a demented cackle. An arrow protruded from her chest, point first. A rotted shaft.

It was the arrow that had killed Karen. Killed their love.

The spectral woman gripped the shaft in her bloodless hands and pulled it from her chest in one savage motion. She felt nothing but a great emptiness pulling at her chest. No pain. No physical sensation. Her body was surely dead.

The soul which inhabited the dead body was another matter. It burned resplendently with two emotions. Love and anger. These immeasurable forces were equally balanced, perfectly opposed and provided the arcane impetus to propel the creatures failed flesh beyond all natural limits.

* * *

I'm a bitter twisted soul

With my hand behind my back

I feel my shiny silver blade

Love on my right hand

Hate on my left hand

God at my command

But they don't understand

Cause I've got blood on my hands