Sun Oxen Year & ¾ , Eighthday
It was when I pressed my hand on the crystal ball that I saw.
It was dark.
The moon cast her luminous strings, twisting the forest and filling the land with shadow and twilight. A night breeze made the trees dance, sending their leaves to the hungry soil.
There was light coming from the top tower of the castle. A dim candle melting by the window, shaped pale outlines in the room, making the old wooden furniture look like oddly dressed tree-men. Inside the colors of gold and black painted curtains and sheets. A great chandelier hanged from the ceiling and claret walls carried portraits of insignificant dead folk. Intoxicating odors of the perfumes of lustful women lingered in the air, permeating decadent aristocracy.
“You sleepy?” said White with a naughty smile. Her red lips, tender and alluring, pressed together sending Alice a kiss. Gods and mortals alike were slaves to her soft breath touching the air.
She knew that.
“No. Not really.” answered the other girl. “What do you have in mind?”
White waved at the pillowcase she was dragging along. Her sister looked at it curiously with her deep blue eyes. Like a pair of sapphires, they penetrated any man's clothes and flesh and carved upon their souls an everlasting scar. Untouchable by the hourglass of time, like her. Kings had been drifted away, lost in that gaze. She smiled back.
And there, sitting by the bed, with the the moon reflecting their luscious half naked bodies, beauty met beauty.
Holding pillowcases, ready to fulfill every man's dark desire.
The pillows though, did not contain the feathers of dead gooses, and neither carried their soft touch. They seemed bulky and heavy. Gooses were hard to come by around this place.
Alice rearranged hers. A sound of metal, moving and colliding, broke the silence. The maces and flails, hammerheads and morningstars all belonged to heroes of ages long past. Thor and Ali Pasha laughed from under the ragged cloth. Jeanne d'Arc's headcrusher, painted crimson by the divine punishment it delivered to the heads of her enemies. No paradise held room for such bloody hands. No matter how graceful they were.
Two ravens took away the moon for a moment. As they flew before it, a sudden breeze came from the window and in the moonlight, I watched as the two sisters standing before each other, with gleaming skins and waving hair, locked eyes.
Inside White's handwoven linen pillowcase, the sharpened steel of blades and the pointy iron swords, rattled like a thousand rattlesnakes. The Vorpal sword, once Alice's, was there. The one which caused the three great evils, Tyrfing, too. And also, a very significant demon barber's bloody razor.
“You know you want to, love.” said White winking at her sister.
“Loser gets pointy ears.” announced Alice. “Winner gets a fur.”
And then both lifted their pillows like they were indeed made out of goosen plumage.
They swung once.
And aimed for the head.
I kept watching while Masamune and Sharur from inside the pillowcases attacked the sisters' divine faces.
Razors met cheekbones.
Prison balls met perfectly shaped noses.
Steel met skin.
Time froze, as the disgusting sounds of bashing bones and tearing flesh made Huginn and Muninn, fly away startled from the windowpane.
It all went down in one hit.
Alice was still on her knees with her arms limb on her thighs. Her head looking down covered by her blood-soaked hair. Someone could think she looked like she was praying from a distance, but even if she wanted now, it was to late. Her right eye hung lifeless by a little red string down to her chin. There wasn't much left of her left one.
White was looking at the ceiling. The only thing she could do now with the half bottom of her face gone. Her tongue was still there and a part of her nose too. What used to be her jaw lied on the crimson floor.
I averted my eyes from the ball.
These girls and their silly sleepovers.