Tristan's Nightmare

The probing pain of Tristan’s aching body awaked him from his heavy sleep. Blood covered his face and coated his black hair, which glistened in the white light of the moon. His head throbbed worse than his body. Groaning, he sat up. He clutched his head as his vision cleared of the disorienting gray blue blur floating around his mind. The sound of his heart pounded in his hears. He struggled to breath, to sit. Sore, he leaned against a cold stonewall. His feet slid against a gravely cobble stone road as he adjusted his legs to sit comfortably. As his groggy mind became focused, the pain became more acute, it bit and nibbled at his nerves. The pain fed his brooding, the brooding blew on small fires. He growled, his features twisting with anger.

“How can I free anyone when I am not free myself!” Tristan yelled. His fingers gripped his hair, his eyes were closed tightly. Breathing heavily, Tristan struggled to stand. On his feet he was wobbly. Gaining his posture, he felt sick. Nauseous waves stirred in his stomach and invaded his head. Groaning, he leaned against the wall, his head hanging. His breaths were slow and labored. His dizziness subsided and he glanced around, finding that he was in an old broken down town.

The buildings were ancient, built by tormented bodies. The twisted dark structures held in their architecture the screams of countless souls. The crumbling black walls are covered in jagged marks from tired blistered fingers. Statues of screeching gargoyles, frozen in a hateful glare, watched over the suffering town. Their icy blue stone skin shone brilliantly in the bright full moon. There is one building that towers above all other buildings in the broken village. Made of fading soiled marble, it spirals high into the clouds, covered in silently screeching gargoyles, all reaching toward a great figure, which stands at the top of the tower. The massive figure is of a godly man, whose tears roll down his smooth lean body without a trace. His long hair shrouds his somber and handsome features. Everything was covered in the frosty clutch of demise.

Tristan walked carefully from the alley to a main street. He was weary of the decaying town, and untrusting of his own shaking legs. A sudden sense of familiarity rushed over Tristan. He felt suffocated as he tried to orient himself in his new environment. Frustration overtook him when he could not recall why this place was familiar. Tristan tried to find some object, which would clarify the strange feeling he had. He felt like he was on the brink of remembering when he was interrupted. An overwhelming rush of bodies slammed into Tristan. He fell to the ground, scrambling and fighting against the trampling feet. Tristan kicked and flailed, the masses cleared for him and he stood hostilely. His glare held the wrath of a blizzard.

The crowed formed a circle. Angry, but more curious to find out what was happening, Tristan moved to the outside. Dressed in rages, covered in dirt, they began in a single voice to sing. The entire town joined together in a haunting chorus, which twisted and twirled frantically through sadness and suffering. The woman’s voices were shrill and crying. The men’s voices were ominously low and full of mourning. Their stamping feet and clapping hands kept a spastic beat. In the sky, single star, shining over the intense white light of the moon, cast yellow light into the middle of the circle. Tristan stared in shock. The star, twinkling, floated from the sky toward the outstretched hands of the people. The light became unbearable, but the people sang on. Tristan was blinded. The light swallowed the horrible town and the desperate people. Steadily the light faded and in the middle of the circle stood a man.

All went silent, everyone kneeled and bowed their heads. Tristan moved to the shadows of a building. Skeptically, Tristan watch the man and the people. The man stood above them. All was still. The restless air shifted over the broken town. Crows croaked at the silence. The moon struggled against thick gray clouds, which threatened to swallow her. The man’s voice lifted above the crows, he reached the heavens. Tristan was filled with fear. He could feel the power pulsing from within this man, whose voice, he knew, could shake the very earth they kneeled on.

The people in unison, “Eversio of Lacricad, take us from our misery!”

“Death to the ignorant, death to the unfaithful, death to the corrupt, death to all who have been touched by Lucivio . . .”

Tristan glared at the Eversio. Like a blinding light, the man’s image burned Tristan’s eyes. The man was beautiful and powerful. Red fiery hair trailed down this man’s back, his skin was tan, his eyes were brilliant green. He wore a robe of pure white. His man, with all the energy coursing through his veins, could seduce anyone he pleased. These people did whatever the man wanted. They prostrated themselves before destruction because that was his only answer to their suffering. For them, the end was the only answer to the hellish world created by Lacricad. There were no promised people of Lacricad, they all died horribly under his black clouds.

“Welcome the destroyers of this suffering world for I am their leader! I am of the progeny of ancient, the progeny of our masters, whose great father was Lacricad!” He gestured toward the statue on the tower, “They have sent me to end your suffering, lift you to eternal bliss. Follow me and accept the destroyers!” The Eversio proclaimed. He peered through the shadows into Tristan’s eyes. There was a strange exchange, The Eversio understood, but Tristan was confused.

“But you must run”

Tristan was overwhelmed and the man’s words surrounded his will. He turned from the crowed, his black hair whipped in sudden violent winds. His black robe fluttered around his body tightly and he sprinted from the broken town. No one touched him. They were all praying to their masters and to their glorious God. The clouds became thicker and the moon was drowned from the sky. Lightening cracked and rain pounded the ground.

“Damn those touched by Lucivio!”

Tristan glanced back and he could see a shadow rise in the distance. A roar swept through the town. Windows shattered and walls crumbled. Its breath reeked of destruction. The shadow climbed the sky. Clouds parted and reviled a horrid demon. Its flesh was sleek and black. It had wings, which spanned the skies, teeth, which dwarfed mountains, eyes, which challenged the sun. The black demon’s chest heaved. It inhaled sweet fresh air, which became corrupted in the demons crooked lungs. Black fire with green flickering fingers spilled from the demons open mouth. All, which the flames caressed, exploded. Buildings became ruble, flesh and bones became red dripping mush. The demon roared with endless pleasure, an orgasm of destruction.

Tristan ran frantically from the town, his eyes wide with fear. Reaching cool calm grass, pale green in the moonlight, Tristan dashed from the ruins. He scrambled up a hill. He looked back at the burning ruins of the town. The demon disappeared into the clouds. The black fires swallowed the light of the moon and darkness seeped from the rubble of the city. A single structure remained, the tower with the crying God, Lacricad.

Alone and confused, Tristan stared at the raw power of the Eversio. “Did he survive?” Tristan questioned, but the truth was he never doubted the answer.

From the flames emerged the shadow of the Eversio, glaring straight at Tristan. Tristan felt as if he was falling. His feet tingled and his stomach churned. Quickly Tristan turned away and sprinted into the distance over a hilly grass terrain. Tears fell from his eyes and he cried desperately to the black sky, “Where am I, O God where am I!”

The world slipped away from him. The ground and sky melted into one and when they cleared he suddenly realized that he was looking down through crying eyes. Lacricad, the crying God, gazing down at his own dark world, crying at the hate, the destruction, the pain, saw only one salvation, oblivion.

Snatched, Tristan fell. A cold slithering body wrapped around him. The demonness had been waiting in tall grass for her lovely treat. She constricted around his legs, her torso slid beside Tristan’s. One smooth hand slid under Tristan’s robe. She pinched his nipple tenderly. Tristan moaned.

“Oh poor Tristan, you are where you have always been, in the darkest fathoms of your soul. Welcome home my love, Welcome home . . .” The moon, tired from trying to burst through the thick clouds, faded in exhaustion. The demonness rubbed Tristan’s body with her hand. She chuckled and tilted her head close to Tristan. “Come now Tristan, to my glorious palace.”

Slithering from his body she lifted Tristan from the ground. He tried to struggle free, but she hissed and revealed her long teeth, spears of deathly beauty. So he hung from her arms, motionless in anger, emotionless in desperation, but his inner thoughts were violent whirlwinds, and the demonness reveled in his incessant suffering as they traveled through the plains until they came upon a land of rivers. The brackish waters held suffering souls, fighting to free themselves from the waters restrictive surface, which stretched as they pushed upward and pulled them back to its body.

“Never touch those waters or they will pull you in too,” the demonness soothed Tristan.

“I have already touched those waters . . .”

“Hush,” she scolded.

Surrounded by the waters, filled with struggling souls, loomed a palace of obsidian stone. It spiraled into the clouds, which it could never pierce through, only be consumed. Statues of gargoyles watched from the smooth surface of the vast palace. The demoness and Tristan entered a gate, intricately ornate with images of the crying God. She ascended a tower, still carrying Tristan. When she reached the summit she walked into a dimly lit room with a circular bed in the middle. Red silk sheets covered the bed and were also draped from the walls, made of black stone, polished till it shined, and which also covered the floors. Torches placed around the room provided the little light, which danced on the stone surface of the walls and floor.

The demoness placed Tristan on the bed and she smiled alluringly. “Tristan . . . I am Viregna and you will bask in the euphoria, which I shall pour upon you.”

She slid both hands under Tristan’s robe. He moaned helplessly under her grip. Part of him wanted this, the other despised it. He was further torn in half by his own emotions and Viregna knew this, it was the only thing which brought her ever hungry body near orgasm, for she was cursed to never reach that state, but would always come close. She hungered for it, and she could never be sated. She would trap men and use them as toys until they were dry, but Tristan was different, yet before he came of use, she wanted to play with him. Only then would she split him apart, Only after he lay in such bliss that even the faintest touch would send tremors through his body.

Her long tongue roamed over Tristan’s firm and heaving stomach. He groaned unwillingly. Her hands worked his chest, the thumbs rubbing his sensitive nipples. Tristan shivered in resistance, but she was practiced and she wanted to break him down slowly.