Daughter of Shadow

Shadows grew long, and the air within the Riddle mansion was thick with silence. Chill crept up across the vast garden and found it's way into the house - unnatural chill. The coldness of great evil, or the remnants of thereof.

The figure by the windowsill did not flinch or shiver - she knew the cold like the back of her hand, and in a way, welcomed it. It brought forth memories of old greatness, of old power. It filled her with an illusion that things will go back to normal, which she knew they wont. They could not.

The woman stood, watching and unseeing, her pale face and dark eyes devoid of emotion, devoid of even sadness. Sheets of her long, thick black hair fell to her waist, and her pale, beautiful face was held majestically high. She was clad in the usual black silk - a long robe, beautifully embroidered and covered with an ancient lace of blood-red thread. Her sleeves were loose by the wrist, in medieval fashion, and she, perhaps absent-mindedly, held one well-manicured hand on her abdomen, her many black rings glistening.

The wrist of the same hand wore numerous scars, memories of the moment it had been blasted open, warm blood gushing out and spattering on her robes, her skin, her face and hair, and his hands too as he tried to stop it... she closed her eyes, and wished the memories would vanish. She wished she could not feel her grief.

The world was growing dark, and seemed endless and empty. There was no hope, only a fool's hope. She had nothing to live for, not any more. She was finished with her mission, albeit only because it had gone so very much awry, and now she did not have a place in this happy, joyful, celebrating world any longer. Faced with a choice, she had desperately bargained for time until it had been too late. Now, her world was vast emptiness, living only because she was too indifferent to actually commit suicide. And even if she did, she was too weak to leave this world, and would only end up here, by the same windowsill, in her ghost form.

All this had happened, and was happening, because she had been weak. Yes, she, of all people, was weak. Weak. The word made her feel slightly nauseous. She had always despised, laughed at and looked down on the weak, never realizing she was one of them. One of them. The notion was horrible in its truthfulness.

She closed her eyes to steady herself, and realized she could no longer stop the memories. The barged into her mind, tearing and ripping her feelings, much like the fangs of the werewolves had ripped her flesh. She felt them enter her, against her will, a feeling that was far too familiar for her liking. A wave of nausea swept over her at the last image. She breathed deeply to calm her mind, and remembered how it had all started.