TALES & POETRY

Prologue: 

It must be a dream, a nightmare, or a spell cast on her by the old, jealous god, Ixiàs, or who among the gods of Valeriè has done this evil. She turned to look around for any familiar sight and found nothing but trees and bushes. A white owl was laughing at her or saying something nasty, but she really could not understand. It was past midnight, she guessed because the moon was packed up in the sky, and she was nowhere. Her silver dress was torn, and her feet were bare; her glass slippers were broken, which must be from the fall. She shot her eyes so tightly that they hurt, searching her mind for answers, looking beyond the darkness to find light, but there was nothing. Valeriè was gone, and here she was standing in a dark forest with only a night watcher mocking her. She was lost…

Idaliah wandered through the night in search of a nest to rest her head. Her entire body was aching, her feet and hands were becoming cold, and her eyes were as thirsty as her tongue. She felt none of her powers, only a dark presence following her. She was a mere hopeless mortal, not the daughter of her father. She had walked for a long time before she realised her necklace was gone. ”Nay!” She saw her weight collapsing to the ground. It was right in front of where he wanted her to be…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Once a child, he met her there—O gentle May, the name she bore.

He watched her rise with ember hair, a quiet flame upon his door.

A rosy mare in muted grey, the tender prey he marked before.

Twice a youth, he dimmed her soul—a shadow cast across her heart.

Her spirit, steel yet bowed to grief, stood trembling at the hearth’s red spark.

A mighty hand, a storming reign, tore down her walls and split her dark.

Thrice she stared with hollow voice, a tether binding wrist to fate.

The maid he claimed without a word to feed the hunger of his hate.

The ache was his, though born of her—he wandered nights in restless weight.

Behold the hare, once ever fair, now fallen where no truth is told.

A fragment of her lingers still, like trampled tides in skies of gold.

The mourning rose as morning broke—he hid his face, grown pale and cold.

Forever is a late‑struck chime, a toll that ends his borrowed role.

His image black as burning ash, his name a whisper lost in coal.

“Say no more,” he pleads the dust—yet rust reveals what none extol.

For beneath the earth, a tale remains—that stirs anew with every night.

Who dares unbind old curses cast to break the heel of ancient blight?

No mortal saw the knight again, nor heard his name after that plight.

Prologue: 

Father Marcus decided to run away from his past; the life he thought he always knew belonged to him had finally ended. Now, he was to begin a new one, to find redemption for his soul somewhere in the shadows of an uncertain future. As he stood by the station, anxiously waiting for the train to arrive, he lit the last of his cigarettes and devoured it within seconds. his eyes remained dark and gloomy as the events of a horrific night played back in his head. 

Two nights ago, he illegally performed an exorcism on a minor, and the result was a huge mess. it was all a stupid mistake that has taken away his license as a priest and his faith in God. The suspension was not the only crime on his hands; the blood had become a nightmare in his wake; guilt and disgrace constantly laughed at him. “You are a fake!” The voices whispered to him, “It is your fault they all died!” The accusations continued to grow in strength and number. he felt as though he was going mad and shook his head several times. 

The night was cold and rainy, so he wore a black hooded sweatshirt on top of his green polo shirt. When the train finally showed face, he picked up his small leather bag from the ground. In it were just a few of his belongings that he could not live without. He climbed on board the train and pushed his way to find a comfortable seat by a window. His mind was racing with too many worries, but he tried to keep calm and ignore the faces that appeared now and then. First, he had no idea where the present journey would take him, and though he cared little or nothing about his life, he was literary lost. All he wanted at this point was to run away from God if possible, and he hoped the train would help do that. But as the train whistled away towards the south, the priest folded his arms under the leather bag at his bosom and drifted to his dreams.