What Lies Beneath

[Bvie 1754]

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

The pickaxe slammed its pointed nose into the dark stone time and time again.

 

A flick of the wrist and the head drags through the loose stone, now scattered about, as tired eyes search not for traces of ore nor gem, but something more.

 

The tumbling of stones as the minerals are poured into a cart.

 

The squealing of the wheels as the cart is pushed down the long narrow tunnel with its new load.

 

Memories of a time when life was simple. Memories of a time when this was life.

 

The cart reaches the depository, the noise of the soothing forest flooding the ears.

 

A sharp stone is picked up and dragged across the palm, crimson flowing slowly down the wrist and forearm.

 

Eyes narrow on the wound. Concentration and focus pushed to its limits.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

 

 

 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

 

The leaves rustle under light steps. The solitude of the mine abandoned.

 

The songs of birds filling the afternoon air as the crashing of waves upon rocks are met.

 

Careful steps upon slippery shifting rocks as the water comes closer.

 

A soft whistle and the tapping of the water’s surface brings life to the calm coastline.

 

Playful young sea serpents rise from the crystal shallow waters, their heads tilted inquisitively

 

Smooth stones skid across the clear water, shimmering scales dart after them, trying to catch it.

 

A smile spreads as the innocent and relaxing activity comes to a close as the sun begins to set.

 

A white cloth that’s stained crimson is pulled from a palm.

 

Eyes narrow on the wound. Concentration and focus pushed to its limits.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

 

 

 

Flick. Flick. Flick.

 

A hand shakes quickly as smoke rises from the match, candles burning brightly in the study.

 

Curtains are drawn about the windows, blocking the darkness of the night from invading the lit room.

 

An old book is picked from a shelf, a large fish with shimmering colored scales decorates the front.

 

Letters and notes of various importance are pushed aside, the book taking priority at this moment.

 

A soft breath is taken with each page turned, the words memorized yet still read aloud.

 

Fingers stroke the air slowly out of habit as the book is read, although only wisps of air greet their labors.

 

A deep sigh escapes as the book comes to a close, the memory and moment washing over.

 

A white cloth that’s stained crimson is pulled from a palm.

 

Eyes narrow on the wound. Concentration and focus pushed to its limits.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

Perspiration drips from the forehead. Breaths become shallow and rapid.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

Wrinkles decorate the face. Teeth clench and seethe.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

 

 

 

A roar of anger is unleashed. Chaotic golden lights and flames burst from the palms.

 

The shadows in the room retreat from the manifested rage, screaming in agony.

 

The windows quiver as the uncontrollable power emanates outwards.

 

A brilliance born from a deep well of rage, hatred, and anger.

 

 

 

As the roar fades, so does the light. The candles that danced fiercely in the power’s wake slow dance once more.

 

Heavy breathing and panting replaces the shallow and short breaths.

 

The light had retreated from the palm.

 

But the crimson flows still.

 

 

 

A new day, a new opportunity.

 

A figure walks, pickaxe on their shoulder.

 

A squeaky cart is wheeled into a long narrow tunnel.

 

A hand is bandaged with a white cloth that’s stained crimson.

 

The solitude of the mine greets the recently-made regular visitor as the pickaxe is lifted.

 

The search continuing once more.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

[_Leyd 1010]

((Always enjoy a good read by you Lily. 

[SeventhCircle 460]

(( Wonderful read and deeply confusing the first few reads as always :P ))

[SaviourMeme 968]

((Amazing Post, really enjoyed reading it))