Fiction logo

Crimson Dance

by Mikayla Decker 2 months ago in Short Story

Throes of Death

Crimson Dance

Their bodies lithely move in sync, sweat coats every inch of the two deadly dancers. Their gazes are intensely locked in an intimate moment. Their swords clash as each strives to kill the other. They move with feline grace, each striking so fast their bodies are an inhuman blur. After a flurry of blows it appears like one has the upper hand and the fight has swung in favor of the female. A wicked smirk alights upon the elven woman’s face a half second later, she catches his sword with hers and knocks it from his grasp. Immediately following, she flicks her wrist bringing the point of her sword to his throat. In a light musical thrill she speaks a single one word, “concede.” He pauses dumbstruck at his defeat and stares at his fallen sword. She was weak, how had she bested me? Thoughts swirl like oil on water inside his head.

His eyes, copper in color, flick to hers and anger reflects in them. He loosens a deep growl before he lifts his lip in a sneer. “Never. The dance of the Ebillus, will remember my fight. I shall not be forgotten. I shall lie with the stars.” He lunges forward thoroughly impaling himself on her thin sword. As his writhing body falls to soak the earth, she catches him and lays him softly upon it. Stooping downward, her silver locks cascading to shield her face, she presses a soft kiss upon his brow and whispers a secret to him. A single glistening tear slips, unnoticed, to caress the crimson pools below.

Once a long time ago, there, far in the mountainous trees, sits a happy thriving village of elves. Yeran lived in a tree across from a lively beautiful little elf. Much like all the elves, who lived there, their homes were made interwoven into the trees. All was merry and laughter could be heard tinking amongst the great oaks. Elven years were much longer than that of their human brethren, so there were plenty of opportunities, see, for Yeran to go to Cillia and tell her how his love grew for her as each millenia passed.

For them, the years swirled by like smoke, and as the passing of time came and went, Yeran continued on without telling her his heart. One day there came another one worthy of it, a human by the name of Horst. Horst, a man who never withheld his heart- nor thoughts from others, told Cilia his feelings. She embraced him and the two were wed the next fortnight.

Even though Horst would only have a few years when compared to Cilia, he wanted her regardless, and she was in agreement. She was young for an elf and hadn’t yet experienced love. He was as good a man as any, especially as humans went, troublesome beasts- humans. They were married and within the year she was carrying his child. During the last 100 years, the elven peoples struggled to get with child and bear the child to fruition. For some reason elven wombs were barren- empty. Things became more and more bleak for them. Crops died, hunting became scarce, and the nights darker-colder- and longer. It was their love that allowed them and their people great happiness. Many of the peoples surrounding their forest came to congratulate their union and later their child as well.

Their tragedy came to be, because of Cilia’s spurned lover. While Cilia was happily married and with child, her life long friend and brother of heart, Yeran, was nowhere to be found. On the night that Horst made his heart known and Cilia announced her feelings in turn, Yeran in a rage left the village planning never to return. In his haste to get as far from the woman he loved and the choices she made unbeknownst to her, he stumbled upon a witch’s hut.

The rickety door slid open on eerily silent hinges and a voice beckoned him inside. Steeling himself he went in. Inside he found a rotten woman, the literal decaying body of a woman, face half gone. One eye was there and appeared as a dead one might, while the other was an empty socket. Bone peaked through her mouth as her teeth were revealed as sharpened points. Her home reeked of dead things and looked grey and white in color. Not many things adorned her hovel, just a rickety table and some straw for, Yeran guessed, her bed. Terrified, Yeran asked what she desired, “Why simply my youthful fool, I want your hand in payment for what you desire.”

My hand in marriage in exchange for Cilia, thinking this a fine deal indeed, Yeran hastily agreed and left the hut. Or he tried to, before the hatefully disgusting wretch demanded, “I take my payment upfront.” Slightly confused, Yeran nodded his head and waited for what the witch would suggest on how they prodeed. She gave a horrifying grin and then lunged. Yeran in all his millenia of training to fight could not stop her as his hand was gripped vice-like and painfully hard. His hand was thrown onto the peeling table beside the door and pinned there. Yeran’s breathing becomes staggered and labored as he sees what she means to do.

She started madly cackling as she hefted a rusted axe above her head. Widened eyes and a male scream emits, as the rusted metal fell. She continued to madly cackle, as if crazed, as he fell to the floor cradling his stump of an arm. She ceased her mirth, just long enough to pick his hand up off the table and she drug a finger through the blood seeping into the now stained table and licked it. She rolled her eye back in her head in what could only be undeniable pleasure and moaned. Yeran felt his gorge rise at the depraved wickedness he stumbled into, all because of his anger at the woman he loved. Sick threatens him as his disgust becomes written on his face.

The witch waved her hand at the door, it swung open and she said, “You’re free to go, I think upon your return to your woman in the human realm, you’ll find she’s more than ready to see you.” Yeran picked himself up off the coppery floor of the shack and tried not to shudder as she bit into his severed hand and began feasting on his flesh. The door slammed into his back on the way out. It was a day’s walk back to the human realm and Yeran found several months had passed whilst he was in the witch’s hut, hidden deep in the darkened cursed woods.

Cursing his stupidity at the deal he’d made, he made his way back into the village to find he had been tricked once again. He assumed marriage when she spoke of hand, and naively thought his woman would fall in love with him when he arrived. Yeran was wrong, oh so very mistaken. As he walked into the village, it was to the wailing and the passing song his people sang whenever an elven child was lost to the stars. Strange to hear in a human village, Yeran made his way through, looking for his woman to take her home, where she belonged.

Some round ears pointed him to the edge of the village, queer he supposed as he continued his stroll. It dawns on him as the small farm comes into view, that he had been gone for several months. Long enough for that blasted wedding to happen and worse still a child to be made. He comes to a door made of wood and opens it without consideration of others. For there were others, fae, warlocks, dwarves, and other elves were crowded around the house- inside too. Thickest being the cluster around a small cloth bed.

Yeran’s face pales as he worries his woman is dead. A druid reads his thoughts nearby and says, “No elf, she has not joined the stars of Ebillus. She will want your life, for what you have done, child.” The throng parts as frail thin hands push them aside and there she is. Beauty that could burn the world to ashes, Gods blessed she is. She looks exhausted and close to death.

She looks weakly to the druid who had spoken. Yeran looks to the druid as well, disgust spoils his face and Cilia sees a different side of the man she grew up with. She sadly listens as the druid sifts through Yeran’s head and he tells Yeran’s tale of how his jealousy drove him to the dire lengths he did. Not once did Yeran let guilt ride him, nor did he attempt to stop the druid from telling what he had done.

Perhaps Yeran thought she would be moved by his great deeds- terrible as they were. She listens without speaking and no emotions play across her face. Then as if a goddess stood before them, she drew herself upwards and a great strength gathered her within its grasp. She said as color returned to her cheeks, “Yeran, you shall pay for what you have done. You have endangered us all by your deeds and me and mine the most. All for what? To possess me? It shall not be and I have been eagerly awaiting your return. Not for the reasons you thought, either as the wicked witch led you to believe. I have awaited your return for revenge. Come let us go to the clearing of Morat and fight. We will war you and I, only one shall walk away from it.”

Yeran’s face paled even more and he silently walked behind her to the clearing of their ancestors to fight the woman he still loves. The druid quipped, “Tis not love, you sick thing.” Yeran growls and without thinking he pulls his thin rapier out and lunges swiftly to end the troublesome druid. His woman lunges forward quicker than the gathered humans could see, to intercept his blade.

“I will not fight you, Cilia. Please, I did it for you. I love you and that blasted feeble human said it first yes- but wait, where is he?” He looked to the gathered crowd in search of the Horst man. Whatever he said was enough to send her into a rage that was already barely restrained up until that point and she set out to kill her best friend with a fury unmatched. She was a blur and after a few moments Yeran began to tire, it was a simple matter for her to disarm him.

Once his still warm body slumped into her arms she told him his price. The lives he had so foolishly bartered to win her, were the lives of her unborn child and that of her husband. Both deaths were sudden and without warning, happened days ago, but she knew in her heart Yeran was to blame and she waited for his imminent arrival.

She at last whispered her new hatred for him and how he foolishly thought he could just claim her, no she would lie with her loves once his heart stopped beating. A tear fell and her sorrow was not for her lost friend- no it was for those she had lost, for those she would join. Once Yeran’s heart stopped pumping she spat on him and gathered herself once more to walk to the edge of the glass lake beside the clearing. There was a cliff looming over top the docile waters below. Beautiful, she thought as she took a single step off the cusp.

Short Story

Mikayla Decker

Read next: Golden Skies

Find us on social media

Miscellaneous links

  • Explore
  • Contact
  • Privacy Policy
  • Terms of Use
  • Support

© 2022 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.