'Only you!', a parched cry echoed all over the marble hall, filled with ash and black smoke. A man in tattered armor, partly charred and dented, walked shaggily into the hall from the dark tunnel, oozing smoke and flaring ruddy fires, he would have crawled if it wasn't for his long sword, forte as thick as oak bole. 'Only you can stop this nightmare, Lucili,' he puffed words of request in despair as smoldered dust glided off his beard. His eyes were reddened as if tears were forced off his black pupils.
Lucili, the last lady of the Thri-Lani, bloodline of Threi-Nani, the fire eater, was mending all survivors of this madness; elders of high council, guards, cooks, maids moaned in pain as they clustered in fear of the terror they had never expected to face in their short span of life, serving under banner of the Fire of the north; some lost their sight, askewed were their faces as if each was melted away ’ So he does awake, timely is he not? ’ She muttered and grinned as she finished tending the wounded, leaving the rest for the unharmed to take care.
'Milady, don't go! He will swallow you with his raging fire!' Many exclaimed as she made her way across the hall to the tunnel, her white robe swept the floor like the dawn of hope was again renewedly ignited. She was set in her determination to face the lord of Death, mocking him in front of his presence, and to meet with her long dead father, Bathaleni, the Red Hand.
Twas her family’s .. ‘tradition,’ to put it bluntly according to social norms. The Thri-Lani were widely respected, feared, for their ability to create fire from their emotion, channeling it through their organ ; Her uncle, Bathroci, unleashed inextinguishable fire by stomping his feet. Bathaleni, her father, the Red Hand, could turn everything into ash by touching. He was gifted, best of the best, he could, unlike his kin, channel fire from every weapon he wielded, as if it was one part of his body. The fire within all Thri-Lani was said to be given by Death, as told in her family’s history; ‘Death is fair, he gives exactly what he would take.’ Every 10 years after the death of any of her family, the dead would return to the mortal realm with their mind hazed in greed, thriving frantically for life, for Death would offer each of them the ‘chance’; ‘A skull of thy child upon my hand, an eternal life thou shalt be rewarded’ scripted in her house annal by her great great great grandfather of his wicked dream, 3 days before his actual death.
She walked fairly into the tunnel of smoke that never seemed to reach the end, where her ancestral tombs laid, just beyond the confine of her castle, within the north mountain. ‘Only you!’ She laughed with sweats of fear dripping down her lovely face, as those words were first said unto her by her father on his deathbed. Clutching on her robe, she met with the end of the smoke, at the very source of fire. There stood her father, a rotten corpse, short of an eye and some fingers.
'Welcome home, father.' She uttered in her trembling voice as she leapt forward to him with her arms growing in blazing flame, reaching to her father.
‘Let me hug you one last time, dad.’
Hey, pretty, it’s me again.
I just wanna tell you about the rain,
Set harsh in my head
Since you told me I am dead.
I am dead to your love,
Lingering as wind around your curves.
I am dead in your eyes,
As the dust swirls on the empty kitchen tiles.
The tiles where we once danced,
Where I had been enmeshed in your lovely glance.
The dances. the kisses. the verses
You sang like everlasting are the mirths.
I do miss all,
And I do crave for more.
If you have listened to this call,
Please set a stop to this rain, my love and my all.