The Empty Mirror
Chapter 52: Two of Wands
Though lying within a dream, or rather, a nightmare, my physical body still dwindled, poisoned upon the cenotaph. Slowly, the poison balanced within my stomach until it finally made its presence evident. Not only did my nails, barely visible, show signs of corruption, but my being was affected both internally and externally. Despite seeking refuge in the woods, in the castle, on the cenotaph, in the dream, in the nightmare, my physical body remained vulnerable to illness. Soon, my mind too was afflicted by the ailment; gangrene spread, even manifesting in my nightmares. The poison had been revived, and perhaps only brief moments of agony awaited me before succumbing, both physically and mentally, within this labyrinth of torment.
In a manner yet to be comprehended, the poison lingered before taking action, as a mockery of some ungrateful god with reddened noses. Though my fate was not that of instant death like Esme and Hilda's, the suffering awaiting me would be prolonged until I finally succumbed. For the body, like the mind, is but one component of our identity, where both are closely intertwined. I consumed in agony, as the foods, including the insect fetuses I greedily devoured, exacerbated the degradation in my stomach, thus awakening the poison. Though dangerous to delve into the corruption of Hanging Gardens, for eating those fetuses caused swelling and nausea, among other ills, the worst was that, in my case, they fueled the unquenchable flame of Agonal Breathing, condemning me inevitably to death.
Remembering and agonizing, I reached the end of my tale about that cabin, about those people and their tragedy. Crawling, my increasingly gangrenous organs, I relived and recounted that tragedy: the tragedy of Esme, Dougal, Hilda, and my own. Now, moribund, I awaited to expire amidst gasps and moans.
Before me, like a spectre emerging from the watery depths, rose that presence, that creature, whose misshapen body unfolded long reptilian limbs. Its stomach, an abomination in constant mutation, tore itself apart with its own extremities, while it stood towering like a colossus before my astonished eyes. Yet, I could glimpse its lower part, revealing a grotesquely twisted fish tail, covered in algae and tangled in the wreckage remains, each fin torn and mutilated as if prey to voracious sea beasts.
A mantle of secretions hung over its scales, while a viscous and fetid liquid overflowed from its open wounds, attracting, if possible, marine scavengers with its putrid aroma. Every movement of that tail resonated with a crunchy groan, as if trapped in eternal agony. Such a horrifying sight that even the bravest sailors would wish they had not witnessed it. And though its form might evoke the appearance of a tail, it could rather be described as human corpses cooked, grotesquely amalgamated to mimic the contours of a sea creature.
Human feet, disfigured and tortured in a grotesque parody of a fish's tail, exhale a foul scent of charred flesh and decay, permeating the surroundings. Scorched skin hangs in tatters, revealing charred bones and torn tendons. Twisted fingers contort in unnatural directions, with torn and dirt-encrusted nails protruding like monstrous claws.
A viscous, malodorous liquid drips from the open wounds, secretions, mixing with clots of dried blood to form a repulsive mass on the floor. Every step of these deformed feet is followed by an ominous crunch and a hissing crackle, as if they were destined to crawl eternally in unbearable torment. It's a sight that freezes the blood and induces nausea in those brave enough to behold it, a horrifying amalgam between humanity and the unfathomable depths of the ocean.
This creature awaited with sinister expectancy, as if awaiting a transcendental event that only I could perceive or provoke. I found myself laid low in my gangrene, immobile and forsaken, awaiting its deadly blow, whether to extinguish me in the most horrendous of torments or to let the gangrene complete its fatal work. I didn't even entertain the idea of resorting to defence through "Hunger on trial”, for my being lay dying, devoid of any will. Yet, fate seemed to have stalled in a wicked lethargy; minutes passed with the slowness of a breeze as the poison gradually infiltrated my entrails, corrupting every fibre of my being.
In those moments, my mind plunged into a sombre recounting of the events in the woods and the shadows lurking on the castle's horizon. But, as if my lips were possessed by a dark and inexplicable force, words began to spill from them with a feverish insistence. I recalled the words of the Marquess, the warnings and prophecies, but above all, the image of the fate of the vast. And in an act seemingly beyond my will, my lips trembled as they articulated a sentence like that of a witch, words that injected into my consciousness like an insidious potion.
"I am the Page of Wands, the very embodiment of overflowing youth and unrestrained enthusiasm. I represent the tumultuous beginning of a journey infused with creativity and overflowing passion. My appearance in the tarot signals that your mind brims with fresh ideas and your spirit pulsates with vibrant energy, ready to embark on new missions or bold adventures. My zeal is contagious, inciting others to follow in your footsteps and pursue their own burning obsessions. However, I warn with a sepulchral growl about the urgent need to maintain balance and discipline, for my fire can be both a driving force and a fleeting flame that consumes itself in an instant if not carefully controlled. In essence, as the Page of Wands, I personify the boundless potential and radiant promise of a bright future if you know how to direct your energy with prudence and determination."
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
The creature, whose head was a swarm of holes filled with flesh, watched me with its last strength as it witnessed a shapeless mass of crimson flesh sprout from its skull, pulsating and writhing like a living tumour. Groans and hoarse screams echoed from its nonexistent deformed lips as it tore open its own belly, exposing putrefied viscera to the world. Its body, enveloped in a feast of decay and agony, transformed into a walking corpse, while gangrene spread relentlessly from its stomach. With a final gasp, its gangrenous belly detached with a grotesque splash, like the fall of a fleshy mass to the ground in a wet rumble. Beside me, gangrene devoured my own dying body, as I watched in horror as from the belly of the lifeless creature emerged a staff, like a macabre symbol of its gruesome existence.
The staff, like a magic wand, stood majestic, defying the limits of the mundane. Its structure, instead of smooth and linear, took on the twisted form of a double helix, like an organic statute, like roots of a cursed tree, woven with the very threads of destiny. Along its length, a mantle of living, green leaves unfolded, pulsating with the primordial energy of existence. However, amid this vegetal exuberance, a dark secret was hidden: some leaves lay wilted and dead, their putrefied brown colour and twisted contours as if trapped in eternal agony. These leaves exuded a pestilent odour of death and decay, enveloping the staff in an aura of decay and despair. Its presence, though grotesque, was impossible to ignore, for it embodied the duality between life and death, between beauty and corruption, in a macabre dance that only a true magician could control, a Page of Wands.
However, the most aberrant aspect of all lay on the surface of that magician's staff, where a mutilated monkey's paw rested. In the damp gloom lay the mummified limb, cruelly torn from the primate's joint, like a sinister trophy from some occult ritual. The once smooth and flexible skin was now twisted and hardened like dried leather by the passage of time and decay. A stench of putrefaction permeated the air, a nauseating mixture of decomposition and decadence. The mutilated joint dripped a viscous, dark liquid, while exposed veins twisted like dead serpents. Remnants of putrefied flesh hung in tatters, revealing worn and deformed bones that seemed to writhe in perpetual agony. Upon the skin's surface, patches of pus and gangrene could be glimpsed, a repulsive layer that seemed to take on a life of its own.
The amputated fingers lay twisted in a grimace of perpetual pain, their nails, sturdy and soiled, seeming eager to desperately cling to the life they once knew, as if trying to tear the flesh from their former host or deform it beyond recognition. Every angle of this grotesque relic whispers tales of suffering and terror, a macabre reminder of the fragility of existence and the inevitable arrival of death. The limb seems fused to the staff, with the skin stitched to it in a network of vines, green and sickly like vomit. The hairs that once adorned this limb now hang in dry, tangled tufts, akin to threads of shadow fading into darkness. Among the discoloured and brittle strands, swarms of flies buzz frantically, drawn by the stench of death emanating from the decomposing flesh.
Each hair strand retains the subtle echo of death's whispers, a shadow of the vigour that once animated this hair, now reduced to a desolate spectre of its former splendour. The flies flutter and settle upon this desolate tangle, like heralds of the corruption that has devoured every filament of this macabre trophy. On the fingers, crimson clings desperately to the edges, as if trying to contain the malignancy emanating from its corrupt essence. Each stroke is a sinister caress of horror, a warning of the terrors lurking beyond, as if the simian limb had been painted for a theatrical performance.
At the centre of the palm, a circle of blood red seems to pulsate with a life of its own, an open wound that will never heal, a surface that, instead of pigment, appears stripped of skin, leaving only dead tissue in sight. The coagulated blood stands as a chilling reminder of the violence that preceded this monstrosity. This monkey's paw, once a symbol of agility and dexterity, is now a twisted testimony to decay and corruption, an aberration that defies all reason and logic. Its presence is an invitation to the deepest horror, a repugnant reminder of the fragility of life and the brutality of fate.
At the height of my desperation, I lunged towards that foreign staff, as if its mere presence could redeem me from my misery. However, my attempts to reach its wooden surface were in vain, as my increasingly gangrenous and putrefied nails resembled the purulent leather of a purple gangrene. Almost falling, amidst the calamity, my hand and the monkey's paw met intertwined, their fingers and mine united in a grotesque embrace. As I touched the simian limb, I experienced the sensation of touching a piece of discoloured tanned skin, rough and unpleasant, devoid of life and laden with horror.
The underlying muscles and tendons gave an impression of density and power, but I feared its claws would pierce my flesh and begin to mutilate my hands, although such atrocity did not materialise. Drawing closer to me, the mutilated monkey's paw seemed to vibrate with a vitality that paradoxically seemed to confer to its bearer. As I held it, it transformed into a grip, a grotesque handle where our fingers intertwined, highlighting the monstrosity of its size compared to the delicacy and fragility of a feminine hand. In that moment, I felt an ancestral connection to my primate ancestors, as if the history of evolution manifested through that macabre encounter.
Gripping the handle of the staff, which was nothing more than the palm of a monkey's paw, with rough pads on the limbs that provided a grip associated with agility in climbing and grasping objects, I began to slowly straighten up with the help of this support, while the skin of my face began to decompose with gangrene. The staff, steady and unwavering, kept me upright until I reached a raised posture.
My hands now held the lower part of the staff, feeling the rough fur of the paw, as I clung wearily, with sweaty hands at chest height. It was at that precise moment that I realised that this staff, this object, was my true refuge, an essential element, as vital as "Hunger on trial" was to me. But this one was strangely linked to me, imbued with a madness so deep that I would swear this staff was nothing but the embodiment of the forest anomaly known as the "Ace of Wands", the one that made me the Page of Wands. Therefore, the name given to this protective staff could be no other than "Two of Wands".