Vertical beams of amber light project through embrasure windows on the western wall of room. A taller-than-average woman reclines against the western wall in a ruddy red robe, the nature of its dye obscured by the shadows between the rays. She watches the elf huddled in the corner, wings pulled protectively around her.
"Give me what I want or stay right where you are. The choice is yours." She closes incredulously, "you have nothing but time."
Food is brought in, stays untouched just out of reach, then wilts and molders. The elven woman's clothing becomes soiled with the duress of her predicament and she growths thin. Yet still, she does not falter as the room grows dim. A pregnant moment passes midnight before the tall woman curiously asks, "You play the harp, do you not?"
Thunder rolls overhead as the day fades to another.
The tall woman gazes intently on the silver-haired elf entangled in the frame of a massive harp. Her body remains suspended-- woven-- between the harp strings. Metal ligatures dig at the elf's thin appendages. She is all but helpless to free herself from the wooden armature built far too large for practical use.
Days go by with similar scenes of arrested torture, speckled with harrowing cries.
"How does that feel, Rohese?"
As time continues, it becomes apparent that the elven woman does not weep from her own physical anguish, for all the pain in the world has been borne out upon flesh. Yet still, she does not relinquish. Her torment gnaws from something deeper.
In her darkness, the tall woman comes to the elf yet again. "He who is the Sorrow of the World feels your anguish and He mourns for you. But I cannot help you if you won't let me. So speak to me of your sorrow, child."
All the grief of the world streams from the elven woman's dry, cracked lips in that moment. Minutes turn to hours, the sun rises and sets. Rohese has seen a century of strife and the burden of this knowledge is too great to bear any longer -- too great to bear without the love of her life.
The green-eyed woman absorbs what she has been told, machination brewing in kind. "Embrace Him, and the pit in your heart will be filled again. Your troubles will end and the weight of your memories, the gravity of your loss shall be lifted from your shoulders in kind. Give me what I want and I will free of your burden. Words alone are not enough to silence your mind however."
Rohese nods with resignation and says, "I am ready."
Cool serenity now guides the tall woman, as it appears the two have finally come to a grim understanding. She is in her element and revels in her work, this cruel contrivance of... Compassion.
Leather thongs are wound around the elf's wings at their base and she is hoisted into the air. The tall woman draws neat lines down the elf's wrists and she watches, enrapt, until rivulets of blood stain the bronze ritual bowls. She lifts herself up to embrace her ward, allowing her full weight to drag on the feathered appendages.
The two women's voices rise in a sustained cacophony of screams layered with laughter. Whose voice is whose seems indecipherable as the squalling transforms into keening wails and vibrating ululations. Icy feathers fall to the ground as the constriction worsens and ligaments tear under the pressure of such dark invocations. Hour by hour, the tall woman exsanguinates her willing companion and she consumes her bloody bounty as the ritual continues.
They scream the Songs of Sorrow, until there is nothing left but razor-thin strands enveloping the mindspace Rohese's love once held. At last, the skeletonized wings give way even under the frail weight of the elf's frame and that of her keeper. The pair tumble to the ground and in that very moment, a single, roaring boom of thunder followed immediately by a clap lightning shudders the manor at its core.
Both women, spent, clutch one another and pass out in an unadultered, vacuous embrace.
Vertical beams of pale light project through embrasure windows on the eastern wall of room. A now clearly younger woman rolls over, sits up, and kisses Rohese's cheek almost tenderly as she whispers, "never forget."
She plants a firm hand on the elven woman's forehead, using it like a crutch to right herself out of habit and coldly commands, "We are through here. Get your things and go. One must keep up appearances, after all."
The robust, yet short giantwoman discards her tattered robe at the frail elf's feet and with it, her mask of illusion.
Naamit simply walks away...
