𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝙃𝘼𝘿𝙊𝙒'𝙎 𝘽𝙍𝙄𝘿𝙀

𝕿𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘

THE STEAM OF STARLIGHT BRUSHES THE PATH OF NIGHT, and the sagging cold sits leaking into enigmatic mists over the town of old saints. While my eyes were slithering past the canvas of millennial constellations devouring the city of sombre, deciding how to write peace in a calamity. When writing is like the galloping flame in a glass jar, if touched by the wind then survived.

From the corner of my gaze, I notice a chair gets pulled by as she takes a place, cigars in her hands, smoking countless as her norm is, my sister, leans, dropping her hands to the sides on whose presence seeks in the high trees, honeyed lilac of blossoms tremulous. As slowly she traces my sight, I know she can see what I imagine.

"There was a time when nothing could scare me like winter. It reminds me of him." She tells me. Winter is analogous to there, where she was married off, faraway. He was her husband Karamazov for whom she is always numb to the world. But now she lives like a tale. Survived.

"They call you cleverest women of Nile." She asked me.

I shift my gaze at her.

"Tell me, what you think of me?"

"I'm a lover of tales. I can only judge one's tale not him. Tell me, I'll tell you."

She stirs in her place, inkling her fingers. Her lips are always sealed on it every time her loved ones ask. Albeit she speaks now.

THE NIGHT DID NOT DESCEND AND DIMINISH IN NAVY LEAVES THERE. Rather the nights of this land were knitted in charcoal woodlands, darkness lurked behind sorrowful trees. Children crept into their bed when howls of wilds spiralled over the skies in the very first dimness of winter's eve.

It felt like a century apart when Karamazov stepped back into his motherland. As he stood on the stairs of the harbour, the sun was setting in a tang of orange clouds, and blue holocaust chased in the horizons. After he reached the alley of the populace, it was twilight chiming the cold winds of Bay. Crowds were breaking, individuals hurrying to reach their houses, and even the greediest merchants were busy pulling the shutters of their stores. Amidst their chases, Karamazov found a shopkeeper who hadn't shut his store yet. The yellow light was on, he bought some cigarettes from it.

He lit it, taking a few steps back, turning from the shop he breathed smoke as he heard women in hushes. How they'd whisper The Tsar's name in fear. In doubt when he may take another bride's soul. The lands of thousand and one years, Agra called him the incarnate of Ahriman himself, from its elicited roots of antiquity. However, his own people addressed him as the son of Morana.

Karamazov was watching absently when the shopkeeper called him from the back, jerking him.

"Listen, child! It's near dark. Why are you still unmoving? Go home, for your betterment only." He said shutting the doors. With a bag of his earnings in his hands, he took a look over his shoulder when Karamazov showed him his cigarette in hand, the old man shook his head, and murmured, "Madman!"

The shopkeeper disappeared in quick strides.

Moments passed, the night deepened. In a few hours, silence will haunt in skies as people settled their beds to sleep. The guard walked into the chamber, announcing the arrival of the Tsar. His bride lifted her gaze and met the gaze of her killer. Like a brisk flash of cataclysm cornered the outermost of his eyes.

However, he surprised her.

"My lady, I do not kill you," said him. Moving in swishes of dimness, only two eyes stared; of deep hues of emerald. "You may call me, Karamazov."

"You won't kill me?" Asked the Tsarina in disbelief.

He shook his head in a smile, although barely visible.

"Then?" She asked again.

"There is a ravine behind the castle- you may know as  Ahorithe  Quite a magnificent view. Go there sometimes and bathe. My men may take you there." He said while she awaited him to finish. But he never did.

Yet again in a fear-stricken demeanour, she requested. "I beg. Therefore?"

"You'd be returned to home."

It was rather a miracle that she wasn't laying on the floor blade kissed and lifeless the next morning. The tales of God of death may be buried hereafter.

The Tsarina followed his wishes and bathed in the blackwater ravine.

__

After a few days, she was found dead in her hut. Eyes plunged out like someone has stolen her soul. Her flesh was snatched as if the food was offered to a wild animal. In the back of her hut, someone was whispering words that slithered beyond human ears.

I was in a trance by the time she paused continuing. I look at her for a few seconds, before it crawls into my mind. My sister wasn't telling me about her husband. Rather she tapestried the lore of generations and kept breeding a web of illusions.

"I have a feeling you are kind of something who loves to be in the dark," I tell her

While she laughs at my statement. "Clever."

The Tsarina then raises from her seat, taking another cigarette between her lips. Like the way she came, she is slowly diminished in the mists.

Somewhere from there, her voice echoes in the courtyard. "People who are in darkness of lifetime can become insane for  ardent exposure to bright."

.

.

.