The Empty Mirror
Chapter 56: Sculpture
I wandered, Miss shrouded in black mourning, cloaked in a cape of imperial purple hue, upon whose neckline lay a choker imbued with curse. In my trembling hand rested a wizard's staff, its tip cradling the mutilated extremity of a simian, while in the other, I wielded a knife of snowy blade. But above all, my hair displayed the white glow of the spectral, resembling a creature extracted from the most ominous corner of the human mind.
However, no peculiarity in me rivaled the dread of Hanging Gardens. Even I, the embodiment of albino horrors, paled at the sight before me. Reaching a section of the gardens, I found myself engulfed in a dense fog, where motionless marble statues lay. Arranged in perfectly ordered rows, both horizontally and vertically, as if it were an exhibition of supernatural art, these figures displayed impeccable structure and sophisticated delicacy in their craftsmanship. Yet, these statues were nothing but replicas of each other, grotesque emanations of nocturnal terror, for they represented only the lower extremities of human beings. Someone here harboured a dark fetish for the mutilated parts of the human body, especially those that lie in the deepest darkness.
Those statues resembled male legs, boasting a more masculine structure than feminine. The rows of these sculptures were composed of two male lower limbs, sculpted in marble, at least that's how my sight perceived it, or rather, what they induced me to believe. Who knows what material those abominations were actually made of. The fact is that, despite their stony appearance, the marble surface accurately depicted the anatomy of human legs. You could even discern the hair covering them, like an expression of perfect art or a chilling dream, so realistic that I feared they were corporeal and simply whitewashed.
Although the hair present on the legs was not excessively abundant, but barely enough to denote its presence, the statues were not entirely barefoot. Among them were some that, devoid of footwear, showed their feet and toes, nothing gloomy, just masculine legs with normal digits and a charming structure. However, other statues wore shoes: a pair of bulky white shoes, whose appearance, instead of stony, resembled stiff and dry leather. These deformed shoes had a bulbous tip, meticulously sculpted to the point of showing the untied laces, falling negligently to the ground.
The sculptures, despite their marble appearance, exhibited a aspect that defied logic, a lipoid covering that eluded description in my words. Enigmatic and mysterious, these figures of human legs constituted an endless source of confusion in every aspect and detail. They seemed to simultaneously evade and assume a bulbous structure, although no genitals or any other defined features were discernible on the upper part of the legs. At first glance, they resembled statues of nude bodies, except those wearing shoes. However, their culmination was nothing but a repulsive and grotesque mass, swollen in appearance like a tumor in constant metamorphosis. It gave the impression that this marble mass was crawling, reveling on the surface of the statues, eager to collapse to the ground in a grotesque splash.
Despite their limestone appearance, this shapeless mass seemed to pulsate and contort amidst gasps. Perhaps it was only the tension of the moment that induced me to perceive such movements. The legs, however, remained inert, although the fear persisted that those entities, which I considered statues, were actually living organisms, and that the apparent marble structure was a rigid and putrefied skin, akin to the leather of a white gangrene.
In the midst of this macabre spectacle, I had no choice but to traverse the rows of statues to reach the next section of Hanging Gardens. Holding the staff firmly in sweaty hands, I feared these figures would start to move, to walk, to run after me. However, none of this happened. Only behind me, I could hear the sound of footsteps on a greasy surface. Without looking back, I continued my path between the endless rows of statues until reaching the next balcony.
In the next scene, I witnessed the manifestation of two of those aforementioned trees, made of muscles, but I overlooked them, and of course, I avoided their proximity before they began to walk with their branches of deformed and arthritic bones, for indeed, they were branches composed of bone, decomposing and regrowing, in a cycle of excessive decomposition and bone regeneration, a deplorable aberration.
Meanwhile, on the garden floor, the mould was beginning to proliferate. Gradually, its upward advance engulfed me in a walk where my steps splashed on a surface of mould with a moist, spongy, and hairy consistency. However, this mould did not exhibit the green hue of vomit that I had previously observed; instead, it adopted a deep brown colour, akin to a carpet in a state of decay, from which decomposition bubbles constantly emerged. The odour it emitted was a blend of decay and stagnant moisture, pungent enough to twist the stomach with disgust. The brown hue of the mould resembled the crust that forms at the bottom of a muddy swamp. In this walk, it became increasingly difficult to advance through such dense vegetation, holding the staff firmly while trying to continue my journey. Suddenly, the mould began to ascend my attire, enveloping me in its repulsive presence.
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Like clusters of mould mass, they writhed on my clothes in an attempt to ascend my body. These masses of mould were distinguished by their unique appearance: a wrinkled and curved mass, with furrows and folds, smooth and gelatinous, with a rough surface evoking the texture of an organ. This mould seemed to possess a dirtier colour, oscillating between shades of brown and grey, as it insidiously slid towards my body, without a defined purpose but with a malevolent intention. Realising this sinister invasion, I was overcome by a deep alarm and redoubled my efforts to flee. However, my body was quickly immobilised by the weight of the large clusters of greyish mould. Aware that I had no other choice, I decided to resort to "Hunger on Trial," focusing with forced calm amidst the gasping and panic.
I extended my hand in a clenched fist, feeling the prominent blue veins on my delicate white skin. With a supreme effort, I uttered the name of the ability "Devourer of Souls," and, as I opened the palm of my hand with determination, I felt the suffocation of "Hunger on Trial." The tumultuous grip of the brown mould abruptly faded, and the clusters fell to the ground like withered living beings, acquiring a deeper grey in their apparent death.
Free from the suffocating embrace of the mould, I did not hesitate to run with all my strength, fearful that the mould would try to ensnare me again. Reaching the tip of the garden, where the mould diluted into the spilled surface, I experienced immense relief at having escaped its lethal influence. Fortunately, the mould did not seem to possess a hive mind, but consisted of a cluster of independent beings, equally dangerous in their unrestrained voracity.
Despite the adversities, I knew I had to continue, even amidst the perpetual twilight enveloping Hanging Gardens. I had already faced the unsettling statues and now the mould that eagerly attempted to invade my senses. However, the torments and affliction persisted, and I even feared for my own artifacts, as my experiences with "Hunger on Trial" and "Two of Wands" were still not entirely clear in my mind.
Above all, after invoking the power of "Hunger on Trial," I felt the weight of hunger more intensely, as if those artifacts had stripped away a vital part of my essence. I felt fatigued, yet I could not discern the exact cause of my tiredness. As for "Two of Wands," I held it in higher esteem, as it was an extension of the will of "Ace of Wands," at least in my perception, and moreover, it continuously healed my wounds and gangrene.
With this jumble of thoughts, I continued my journey, trusting to find food along the way, although my concern did not diminish. The membranous flutter of insects hovered over my thoughts, while the terraces, approximately 120 meters long and 40 meters wide, seemed to become a torment with each step. As I ascended, I noticed that the upper terraces became narrower, while leaving behind the lower ones of Hanging Gardens. However, the uncertainty about how many terraces I had ascended persisted, amidst my constant dread and lack of reference. Nevertheless, I pressed on, increasingly leaving the lower terraces behind on my way to the top.
I pushed forward with all my strength, despite the exhaustion that engulfed me. However, this place, which the Marquise defined as a nightmare, or at least related to the interior of one, stood before me as a distorted version of reality. In Hanging Gardens, the perpetual twilight and the greyish mist that enveloped everything created a suffocating and unsettling atmosphere. I tried to fall asleep, but it was in vain; this place was the dream itself, while I lay asleep in reality. Fatigue overtook me in an unusual, inexplicable, and abnormal manner. In those moments, when the fatigue became unbearable, I was forced to stop and pretend to rest, although I knew that true rest would never come.
However, what I feared most was the return of the vine, that ruthless creature that seemed to represent the greatest danger within Hanging Gardens. It even reveled in the annihilation of the giant insects that swarmed in this place. In comparison, I was just a insignificant fly before such a monstrosity. Fortunately, I had the powerful protection of "Hunger on Trial," thanks to which my choker did practically all the work. Without it, undoubtedly, I would have perished from the moment I entered Hanging Gardens.
At this point, everyone would question what on earth is happening on this journey, and I myself am among the perplexed. I reached a forest, ventured into a castle, and, as one would expect, any romance with a supernatural being faded like the mist of forgetfulness. This story awaits to be unveiled, but now I find myself immersed in a nightmare, in a garden that serves as a monument to degeneration, trapped in a cenotaph of uncertainty.
Of course, such a turn of events is as unusual as leaving the main conflict in the castle, like a whimsical child. However, this is the charm of the situation, a biting mockery meant to challenge any notion of credibility and mystery. Someone, undoubtedly, is having fun with this farce, laughing uproariously behind the veil of disbelief and enigma that shrouds everything, just like that castle, just like that man. Nothing is as it seems, nothing is as it appears, like a mischievous girl tearing apart the shelves of predictability with a flirtatious smile, adorned with grotesque lipstick. Deformed, abnormal, degenerate; a harlot, with a promiscuous gaze that defies all social conventions.
As I wandered, I came across an unusual plant. Its roots, flexible and delicate, spread entwining in the ground, while its stem, weak and sickly, rose with a pale green hue. Along the stem, sharp and greenish leaves unfolded, so vivid they seemed painted with vomit. On the stem and scattered leaves, a subtle carmine hue was glimpsed, like lipstick, and freckles dotted the surface of the plant.
However, the most striking aspect was the web that crowned the plant, a sort of spiderweb of remarkable dimensions compared to the fragile stem that supported it. The web seemed ancient and frayed, almost spectral, as if a mere breath of wind could carry it away. It moved with a slow lethargy, as if each moment were the plant's last. Though large, the spiders inhabiting it were even more remarkable, with hairy, twisted legs hanging upside down like dormant tarantulas. They seemed to have been placed there, rather than having woven the web, for they lay motionless as if they were dead. With caution, I approached the plant, feeling how the web seemed to slowly close around me, as if it intended to trap me in its deadly embrace.
The web opened before me like a rusted door, seemingly fragile but ready to ensnare me. With a sound that cut through the air, it closed forcefully, but my intuition made me stagger back. Perhaps the web was much sturdier than it appeared, with metallic threads weaving a trap cleverly disguised as vulnerability. The strands of the web seemed so sharp they cut through the very air; had I not retreated in time, I wouldn't even have had the chance to invoke "Hunger on Trial" to save myself. I would have been shattered among the metallic threads of the web, my body dismembered and bloodied, torn and shredded in the loom of the Hanging Gardens.