Ice melts at its zenith;
As the quivering lips, sate
The thirst with red water, but
That of Sacrifice maybe however
Tantalizing – there is none like
That of Human.
The stooped vampire did not bother to look up as the studded door opened with a dull clang; the scent that had wafted into the room with the opening of the door was distinctly recognizable – the eminent aura of blood that surrounded a Harvester could be easily distinguished. But Eleaan, well-aware of the particular odor, did not deem it important to cease his feed for something so routine and slipshod.
The Harvester deferentially lingered at the threshold of the gargantuan door; waiting in silence, as Eleaan leaned over the Sacrifice: satiating the manic thirst that raved across his throat in an upwelling of craving and desire.
It was to be few moments before the vampire carelessly flung away the Sacrifice and glared at the intruder.
It was a terrifying sight to behold; blood trailing down the outstretched mouth, dripped across his chin; his face convulsed in irritation; his eyes throbbing, with all impressions of annoyance over this intrusion on the part of the stranger that had dared to barge in while the Glacial Lord fed.
But even amid the bestiality that had crept up the visage of the vampire, there was an almost strange carnal beauty etched across it. The eyes, though bore a displeased expression, were mesmerizing beyond the peak of mortality – blue, intensely blue with a tinge of purple, the eyes had a coldness that had an immediate chilling effect. The temperature visibly precipitated down a few degrees.
Despite the thick skin that Harvesters are known to possess due to the nature of their work, the stranger shuddered upon receiving this frigid reception.
“Pardon my intrusion, my … my lord. But your lordship had directed your humble servant to come right away as soon as the new shipment docked on the port of Axminsia,” the Harvester mumbled in a barely-audible voice; the tremble in his frame was obvious, his fear apparent.
Eleaan slowly relaxed and motioned towards an elegant silken cloth that was sloppily perched on an elaborately carven holder; the Harvester hastened to obey.
Gently wiping the streaks of blood with the cloth, the features of Eleaan once again resumed their pallid, beautiful composure.
He tossed away the cloth, and hissed tersely,” How much?”
“About a hundred,” the Harvester replied eagerly; it was evident that he painfully yearned to please the Glacial Lord.
A trace of a haunting smile transpired on the gaunt lips of the vampire.
The lotus drifts with the current;
Sneering silently at the one
Left behind; but the left behind
Endures and curling in rage,
Tries to float ahead – only to be
Impeded by the one ahead.
The room was dismally lit; its sparse furnishings spartan and dull; the only light that pervaded in the room was thrown by flickering torches perched on the wall which, bleak and grimy, were adorned with massive cobwebs. It was not a pretty place.
In the weak light, one could perceive two silhouettes; both of feminine frames; one reclined on an archaic armchair and other perched on a straight-backed chair.
“Indeed, there is nothing more pitiful than a withered rose,” the figure settled on the chair, uttered silkily; a certain fluidity, a prominent grace could be observed in the taunting words.
Profound silence, crackling with hostility and resentment, was broken by a mirthless laugh of the reclined figure; however, the mocking laugh afflicted more damage than amend.
The figure settled on the chair leaned forward; and a glare of light fell across the pristine face.
It was an enchanting countenance; so beautiful as to inspire love in the most cold of the hearts. With a carnation truly regal, the well-chiseled face was exquisitely fashioned, majestically crowned with straight-locks of verily silver: with such sheen, they glimmered even in the fading flecks of light. But, the eyes – fickle and deceitful as they maybe – beheld a charm that would have beguiled the most devout of the saints! Imbued in green, tinted with a vague shade of golden, the eyes had a strange menacing beauty to them – the kind of poisonous brilliance that a cobra boasts off, when it unfurls its hood.
“Your feet hang in death bed and still you mock me, Eichorna,” Nelumbia whispered; her words though easily decipherable carried a suggestion of anger.
The figure reclined in the armchair, straightened at this sneer. Her visage that had been concealed by the mushrooming shadows, transcended into view: one would have been shocked at the resemblance the two figures shared; similar compelling green eyes, gleaming silvery locks and perfectly molded features – yet even in this storm of likenesses, discrepancies existed. Eichorna’s face was paler and gaunter; her locks more hoary than silvery; and an air of weariness hung about her brow. It was a frayed countenance – one that had slowly faded with time.
“What do you expect, my accursed offspring?” Eichorna hissed in acerbity; with otherwise no apparent manifestation of rage, the words spoke for themselves.
“Ah, well, you’ve good reasons to hate me,” Nelumbia replied slyly; a coy smile played on her lips: all anger, if any, had evaporated.
Eichorna’s eyes flashed in anger.
“One naturally being my usurping your besotted position, but I believe it would be the other that stings more, doesn’t it?” Nelumbia continued, finishing with a relish; the odd menace that swirled in her eyes took form of a malevolent darkness.
Eichorna bared her teeth at this malicious utterance; deadly canines gleamed dully in the intermittent light. It was not the same countenance anymore; one that had been as calm as to provoke Nelumbia’s anger earlier had distorted into wrathful convulsions.
Nelumbia laughed slickly; and within a blink of the eyes, was standing behind Eichorna’s armchair, her arm wound around her throat – the move so immediate and rapid, that lucidity was buried under surprise.
Eichorna, her speech thick in anger, stammered, as the apparently dainty hand of Nelumbia closed around her as a steel corral,” To … think … that my … own blood … is behind my … blood …”
A few terrible moments passed and Nelumbia unhurriedly let go.
Eichorna slowly slid into the armchair as the grip loosened; Nelumbia steadily lifted her hand, slithering it across Eichorna’s pale neck: upon reaching its median, she let her fingers linger there – tracing circles in the inviting neck of the helpless woman; who it seemed had been drained of all the vigor that had yet loitered in her age-worn body, by the venomous touch of her progeny.
Nelumbia leaned down; and stopping her flawless face just few inches away from the sallow skin, uttered foxily,” Time has not yet arrived for your death, Eichorna. You may still be of some use.”
Saying these words, she straightened and gliding gracefully, swept around the armchair and headed for the heavily guarded door; her magnificent floating pink gown slinked across the floor: very much like the triumphant glide of the serpent after it has struck at its prey.
“Spare me this anguish of beholding your wretched face everyday!” Eichorna cried; her speech raspy, unsettled: it was not a plea, but a command; an inclination that she had grown accustomed to whence she had still been the Lotus Lord.
Nelumbia turned slowly at this cry.
“I’m your daughter, Eichorna. How could I not come to visit my mother?” she said simply and exited the room.