Much flickers does the aurora,
In mischief it seems,
But in the end, its
Playfulness evinces to be
Only a painful reality.
They stood by the immense window, father and son.
Mischievous beams of aurora peeped from amid the partly-stained glass, adorned with the livery of the Order of Aurora: the flickering vividness of the aurora rather depressing, as multi-hued light wavered and highlighted on the countenances of the two that faced one another.
It was a strange setting, that. A most expressive silence reigned: impregnated with disdain, remorse and hate.
“I hear the whispers. Of the Vampri, of the Nobles: they are shocked, stunned in disbelief. They cannot believe that Lord Neilson could produce something so inherently powerless. They cannot believe why the son of Aurora Lord could not produce even the faintest of auroras. They cannot believe that in mere seconds, the hegemony of Order of Aurora was broken by the meekness of a boy,” the father spoke: no trace of anger could be detected in that stolid tone – rather the indifference more emphasized the notorious cold ruthlessness of the Aurora Lord.
The son shifted; tears fast fell onto the unyielding stone floor.
“They question my ability. They sabotage my integrity. One who could not rear the powers of a child cannot be trusted to wield the powers of an Order so feared throughout the Realm. How can I expect them to depend on me, when my offspring, my progeny can conjure not more than a few sparks?” Neilson hissed.
Vidan shrunk with each word as if they were blows; Neilson’s frosty, impassive face enough to inspire fear in the heart of the child, who trembled so violently that he, shook.
“And, I, the unfortunate father of you – attempt to hush the whispers: what else I could do?” he pronounced the ‘you’, with such contempt as mustered when talking of the most repugnant of the monsters.
The boy whimpered: yet, there was something different in the cries. Something had broken then; in that particular moment, whence the father demeaned his son – something had shattered and amid the disorder raging inside the soul of the boy, a twinge of hatred arose for that hard, patronizing vampire who knew only how to pose as a father, who knew only how to remind him of his weaknesses.
Much plotting does the lotus,
Impaling the one who created it,
Ruining the one who it created,
Forgetting that evil does not
Cherish the soul, rather withers it.
The unblemished white petals of the lotus furled and unfurled in a beautiful synchronicity: the mysterious green eyes that watched this entrancing dance were even more spellbinding to behold.
“You scarred her,” an annoying voice came from behind her.
Nelumbia turning her glance slightly away from her palm whereupon the lotus danced, replied coldly,” It is none of your concern, Eichorna.”
“Why should it not be? Daphnia is my granddaughter. I care for her.”
“How dare you even chastise me, Eichorna? How convenient it must be to forget all those scars that you yourself inflicted on me.”
Eichorna crouched back in the chair to some extent; it seemed that she sought escape from the chilling nostalgia that threatened to plunge her into an uncharted sea of dread that Nelumbia’s reply had invoked.
A deep pause followed the short, but caustic repartee between the mother and daughter.
At length, Eichorna struggling in the asphyxiating grasp of conscience spoke,” I’m not proud of what I did. It was a … mistake.”
Barely had the words resounded in the room, the playful lotus that had so enchantingly frolicked in Nelumbia’s palm, withered in a mass of pallid petals – a flare had erupted in the esoteric green of her eyes, each lick of flame crawling in malice, each flicker of heat smothering in anger.
“You call that a mistake, a damned mistake? No, Eichorna – you only tainted my soul for the satisfaction of your lover. You extinguished all good that kindled within me in a breath. You wrecked the lotus to such an extent, that all it could ever emit was stale fragrance of past joy. You do not get the right to question my deeds,” Nelumbia spluttered in a seething fury.
Eichorna bore patiently the serrated spikes of hatred that Nelumbia verbally threw on her; so many times had she heard the accusations that now they had ceased to be of any importance. She waited.
“Think, you demented lady, think how much in stature The Order of Lotus has risen by the perfect act of a ten-year old girl at the Revealing. The Vampri are joyous that their Lord’s daughter could create an absolute lotus at such a young age. The nobles are enthusiastic that Order of Aurora has been stubbed in the face. Soon enough, Lotus would perch on the topmost pinnacle of the Realm,” Nelumbia ended, as her fatal anger slowly burned out: how much did she despise her mother, and yet she reasoned, yet she justified her course of action.
Eichorna shook her head; her eyes pleading, she spoke:
“Channeling your powers through a juvenile soul will only wreck it, Nelumbia. Do not curtail the growth of a bud into a lotus. I beg you; I beg you, Nelumbia – have some compassion for your own offspring. This greed of power will only succeed in burning you.”
A fleeting impression flew past Nelumbia’s countenance; of reluctance, perhaps but quickly the folds of darkness that had so utterly enveloped her soul surfaced and buried it under beastly indifference.
“You sowed carpus satanus in me. It came as a refuge for me in the dark times when you had ambushed me into the emptiness of oblivion. The same salvation would come to save my daughter,” Nelumbia said softly but with an air of finality. She made to leave the prison that she had created to hold her mother.
As her feet touched the threshold of the door, the voice that annoyed her so much reached her ears again.
“Evil never brings salvation, but only a false sense of security; a farce that is programmed to break one time. I indeed sowed the seed, and God knows He has punished me enough for it – but I pray and hope relentlessly that you will not let your daughter indulge into it.”
Nelumbia paused for a moment at the doorsill, and left the room.
No more than a sly cat,
That torments its victims,
Before devouring them;
One who harvests finds
His harvest disdained.
The Harvester stood before his master, subdued, head bowed obsequiously.
“As, your eminence had commanded, your faithful servant has dutifully completed both tasks given. Glacial Lord has been informed of the shipment docked at Axminsia. I also managed to observe the entire Revealing in Veil; the Lotus Lord’s daughter and the Mist Lord’s son performed admirably, whilst Aurora Lord’s son failed miserably. It was surely an anti climax, that! The child could barely manage to create a few sparks. To think he is the son of the supposedly invincible Neilson,” the Harvester guffawed, rather stupidly.
His master however was not impressed.
“Unplug all hilarity when you come here, you fucked-up vampire,” he uttered frigidly.
Harkin stopped; his face puce in shame. His master had that extraordinary negative energy, so essential for trampling a person’s self esteem. Despite the fact, that he, Harkin, a Harvester had the means to kill his master – he knew, just knew that he will never be able to lay a finger on him.
“When you informed Eleaan of the shipment that was your role as a Harvester: I merely chose the moment when you had to inform him. As for the Revealing, did you think by just applying Veil you could not be perceived by Ardui, the bastard whose perception is a hundred fold of a normal vampire?” his master voiced harshly.
The Harvester literally cowered: he could feel blood trickle from his wounded dignity.
And, the fact that was the most hurting was he knew that his master amused himself by tormenting him.
How wonderfully easy, how marvelously effortless it is to ignore the silent cries. Swollen in pride, we indulge in conceit and fail to hear those cries: of the rising hate, of the diminishing control, of the wounded self-respect.
Foolish we are: not understanding that when a silent cry echoes in a cavern, it becomes a clarion-call.
Translation: Carpus Satanus – The Seed of Satan