Post by Octavia on Aug 11, 2016 19:06:39 GMT -5
So sad. So empty. So lonely. The castle, and what was left of it, sitting there as wind howled around it and sand drifted into the gaping holes where there had once been walls.
There was much left in terms of raw material, both literally and figuratively. Although the King’s rampage had vaporized a great deal, the Castle of Las Noches was nothing if not spacious, and Hueco Mundo was nothing if not expansive. Millions more Hollows, alike in their carnal curiosity, would see the flames and the smoke, smell the burning flesh and despair, and raise their predatory noses to the air to catch the scent of blood.
Octavia could do little else but wade over the charred stones and bleached bones as she passed between the decimated walls of the castle. Her footsteps echoed starkly, catching nothing but jagged ruins to bounce off of when she passed between desolate courtyards. And the wind snarled and whipped at her when she stood before the massive doors that marked the proper entrance to the throne room, now left exposed to the wind and sun and sand. It reminded her.
It reminded her of the eerie quiet in the morning after her death, when Mehmed ‘the Conqueror’ had called for an end to the looting and the smoldering ruins of half of Constantinople waited to be put out of their misery by the beasts that had raped and plundered her wealth, her beauty, her splendor. It reminded her of the tortured silence and quiet befuddlement on the faces of any fortunate enough to have escaped the sacking. And on the other side of those doors, left slightly agape and wavering by only centimeters, despite the ferocity of the wind, she was even afraid that she would see the same thing she saw in the church. Her corpse in a heap, with the neck sliced more than halfway through, hanging onto her body by a few thin, sinewy strands of flesh. Her arms empty, where he children, her husband, her family...where anyone should have been.
But she knew she wouldn’t find them there. It was merely the fear, the apprehension that she might, that she was required to feel so keenly all these centuries later. She had that in spades.
Silently, she slipped between the monolithic doors and into the darkness of the throne room. Like something out of a gothic cathedral, the ceilings rose higher and higher until the vault was nearly beyond sight! The windows were all blown out, and what few pillars there were left standing proudly bared the claw marks and scars of battle. And in the middle of it all, nestled atop a concentric dais, is where the throne would have sat.
A grand pit of rubble and shame was all that remained. It was what their King had shed when he abdicated and the very weight of it bore down from heaven and all the way down to hell. Not even the light from the massive hole in the ceiling was willing to touch this god forsaken place, not now, not after the devil himself had betrayed it.
She could feel so few of them, skittering about the sands like rats in a ruin, as the tendrils of her Pesquisa gentle searched her surroundings, probing for threat and friend alike. She was alone for now, still. A few presences in range, but their intention and direction remained masked. Octavia had reached the edge of the hole, the crater of glass brittle and seething contempt, born from a King’s rage.
On a heap of rubble that had jutted up from the floor, and teetered on the edge of falling into the pit, rested a tarnished crown. Pewter, or maybe silver. Possibly platinum. It was covered in soot and dirt and caked with blood or...some other bile or vital fluid. Was this the crown the King of Las Noches had worn? Somehow, it didn’t seem likely. From what she heard, Erasmus was not the sort of beast to rest of the ceremony of a piece like this.
An ornament then, from a bygone time? Seemed much more likely. Something stuck away in a crypt or a vault or...in a box on a shelf from a vain Arrancar or Espada who thought something so childish could actually dictate authority in a place like this. Or had she made it, just now when she approached?
Carefully, her fingertips made contact with the cold metal and ran lightly over the ridges and ornamentation. It was like looking at a tombstone or a gravemarker, but she couldn’t put her mind to which, or why. Hooking one finger underneath the diadem she lifted it to the scraping sound of metal on stone.
It felt impossibly heavy, hanging there on two of her fingers. Yet the heft of it, the feel, it couldn’t have been more than a pound or two. ’What an unwelcome burden,’ she whispered to herself, although she most certainly not not mean for her.
Minutes. Years? Days? No, hours? Time passed, and the darkness in the room seemed to grow thicker. She felt the breath of life at the edge of her sense. Someone else was beyond the door.
//872//
There was much left in terms of raw material, both literally and figuratively. Although the King’s rampage had vaporized a great deal, the Castle of Las Noches was nothing if not spacious, and Hueco Mundo was nothing if not expansive. Millions more Hollows, alike in their carnal curiosity, would see the flames and the smoke, smell the burning flesh and despair, and raise their predatory noses to the air to catch the scent of blood.
Octavia could do little else but wade over the charred stones and bleached bones as she passed between the decimated walls of the castle. Her footsteps echoed starkly, catching nothing but jagged ruins to bounce off of when she passed between desolate courtyards. And the wind snarled and whipped at her when she stood before the massive doors that marked the proper entrance to the throne room, now left exposed to the wind and sun and sand. It reminded her.
It reminded her of the eerie quiet in the morning after her death, when Mehmed ‘the Conqueror’ had called for an end to the looting and the smoldering ruins of half of Constantinople waited to be put out of their misery by the beasts that had raped and plundered her wealth, her beauty, her splendor. It reminded her of the tortured silence and quiet befuddlement on the faces of any fortunate enough to have escaped the sacking. And on the other side of those doors, left slightly agape and wavering by only centimeters, despite the ferocity of the wind, she was even afraid that she would see the same thing she saw in the church. Her corpse in a heap, with the neck sliced more than halfway through, hanging onto her body by a few thin, sinewy strands of flesh. Her arms empty, where he children, her husband, her family...where anyone should have been.
But she knew she wouldn’t find them there. It was merely the fear, the apprehension that she might, that she was required to feel so keenly all these centuries later. She had that in spades.
Silently, she slipped between the monolithic doors and into the darkness of the throne room. Like something out of a gothic cathedral, the ceilings rose higher and higher until the vault was nearly beyond sight! The windows were all blown out, and what few pillars there were left standing proudly bared the claw marks and scars of battle. And in the middle of it all, nestled atop a concentric dais, is where the throne would have sat.
A grand pit of rubble and shame was all that remained. It was what their King had shed when he abdicated and the very weight of it bore down from heaven and all the way down to hell. Not even the light from the massive hole in the ceiling was willing to touch this god forsaken place, not now, not after the devil himself had betrayed it.
She could feel so few of them, skittering about the sands like rats in a ruin, as the tendrils of her Pesquisa gentle searched her surroundings, probing for threat and friend alike. She was alone for now, still. A few presences in range, but their intention and direction remained masked. Octavia had reached the edge of the hole, the crater of glass brittle and seething contempt, born from a King’s rage.
On a heap of rubble that had jutted up from the floor, and teetered on the edge of falling into the pit, rested a tarnished crown. Pewter, or maybe silver. Possibly platinum. It was covered in soot and dirt and caked with blood or...some other bile or vital fluid. Was this the crown the King of Las Noches had worn? Somehow, it didn’t seem likely. From what she heard, Erasmus was not the sort of beast to rest of the ceremony of a piece like this.
An ornament then, from a bygone time? Seemed much more likely. Something stuck away in a crypt or a vault or...in a box on a shelf from a vain Arrancar or Espada who thought something so childish could actually dictate authority in a place like this. Or had she made it, just now when she approached?
Carefully, her fingertips made contact with the cold metal and ran lightly over the ridges and ornamentation. It was like looking at a tombstone or a gravemarker, but she couldn’t put her mind to which, or why. Hooking one finger underneath the diadem she lifted it to the scraping sound of metal on stone.
It felt impossibly heavy, hanging there on two of her fingers. Yet the heft of it, the feel, it couldn’t have been more than a pound or two. ’What an unwelcome burden,’ she whispered to herself, although she most certainly not not mean for her.
Minutes. Years? Days? No, hours? Time passed, and the darkness in the room seemed to grow thicker. She felt the breath of life at the edge of her sense. Someone else was beyond the door.
//872//
