GOOD END FOR MIELUN
GOOD END- The ideal end to my muse’s story where everything is resolved and they can live a good life.
A curse. A damned testament to the cruelty of Fate that has bound you to this mortal world, you have been without rest for what has felt like aeons. Immortal eyes do not rest, they simply relive the past, and yours had been wrought with volatile, hostile, unresting emotion. Your past haunts you as vividly as the daemons you swore you’d bound to the dark tethers of the outer sanctum of time itself, exiled to rot away and cause no more harm. But they find ways, little ways to crawl beneath your skin and make your every waking moment as an undead spectre a living Hell. No rest for the weary. No rest for the wicked.
You had never agreed to the work of the High Council, though you were a fundamental part of it’s success. You had been brought out of eternal rest by a stubborn pink-nosed brat with an uncanny lust for power, and even though the voices screamed until you were deaf whenever he had dared show his face around you, he had never found cause to bring you harm. He knew you were afraid of him, he knew that no matter what, he could find you. Your soul was tethered to him. He owned you. You hated him. He used you. He used your clairvoyance to predict the perfect moment to ascend to power, he used you decipher the cryptic utterings of those brought before the stand to tell him the Truth. The whole truth, nothing but the truth. You had no choice. They were guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. All of them, every single one.
Would he be able to tell if you were lying? Would he be able to detect the faintest hint of hesitance in your voice as you rambled off your own warnings, begging you to heed the voices of the Void from which you pull strength? He would just drain you until you spoke clearly, in ways he could understand. Despite being undead, you still fear the eternal unknown that is death.
You crave it. You’re so tired.
Now laying on the floor of the High Council’s Judgement Hall, you can feel the stale blood gush forth from the triple-set of holes His trident has punched through you, trickling from your gaping mouth to mix in the crystals braided into your hair in almost pretty rivulets. A river of Violet in a hall stripped of color. You had overstepped your bounds, and now you were dying. You had accepted your Fate, knew the consequences for your actions the second the troll to be killed was brought before you.
A small olive boy. Blind in one eye. Peasant clothes. No shoes. So timid, so scared. Beaten and bloodied by the Guards of the city to only be brought before a grinning embodiment of pure Evil. The charge? Pocketing loose change that had fallen from a high-blood’s pocket. He was innocent, but He knew the questions to ask to make the boy seem guilty.
The punishment? Execution.
You had shielded that blow. You had felt the cold teeth of Death sink into you as the trident of your Master tore through your age-worn flesh like paper, punching holes into you from which your life now drained. You had pushed the boy away, sent him careening into the arms of the only merciful seadweller you knew; the face of Mercy, the shade of Innocence. You can hear shouting. You can hear the desperate calls for a healer, and it makes you smile. You knew it would be too late for you. Ornate hands grasp the trident that has become an extension of you and you force it through completely, though you don’t necessarily feel it anymore. In the dark shadows that now claim your vision and usher you closer to death, you can just make out the twisted look of horror on the bastard’s face as he realized the intensity of his mistake. Good. Your vision goes dark, and you collapse to the floor, skewered by your own hand.
In the distance, a clock chimes.
A Heroic death.
Finally, you can rest. He cannot bring you back now.