#paxposting

It was as if nothing else was in the room. No sound, no light. Just the image of Paxelia, his twin, his other half, bleeding out on the floor before his feet. Her warm, violet eyes stared not at him but the ceiling as her blue skin ran cold. Amore could not hear his mother screams of anguish, nor the madman’s speech as he cleaned his blade of sin. All there was, in that sunlit terracotta room was him, and the last memory of his sister. He knelt down, and gently placed his hand on her cheek. She was still warm. He gently closed her eyes and ripped her sleeve to wrap her neck. “You can’t lose anymore blood,” he whispered to himself. “You’re getting cold, I have to get you warm.”

He picked her up in his arms and walked towards Salem, who was trying desperately to stop screaming. “Momma, she’s getting cold. Help me warm her,” he said. Salem covered her mouth and shook her head. Amore tilted his head. “We have to keep her warm, help me! Heal her neck before she loses more blood!” His voice was still playful, as if gently asking her to stop tickling him. His eyes were welling up with tears. “Momma c’mon! We don’t have time for this.”

“Fog-weavers cannot bring back the dead,” Zipa spat. Amoré turned to the man. “Dead?” He repeated. “Dead…” that is when the vibrating green jewels in his ears cracked, and blood trickled down his neck. “Dead.” Every time he said the word, the room became brighter. “Dead. Dead. Dead!” He shouted maniacally and suddenly, he was not in the terracotta room. Nor, the garden of Inferi. He was somewhere else. It was a building made of white marble, ill lit and wet from rain. The smell of petrichor filled his lungs as he explored the strange place. It appeared to be a ransacked temple, as broken statues and torn paintings littered the floor. He could not discern whose temple it was, as many of the tapestries were ruined. He took a deep breath and blew onto his fingertip, causing a small flame to appear. In the center of the temple was a grand painting of a lionlike man. His was snarling, his green eyes glaring daggers into Amoré skull. His wild red hair was down his back, with tusklike fangs and foam at his mouth. “This doesn’t look like Ketz…” he whispered to himself. “Because it is not me,” something whispered from behind him. He turned to see his father — or what appeared to be his father. “You’re hurt, my son. Please, let me handle it. You’ve gone too far. “ Amore tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“You’re scaring your mother, Amore. Please calm down—“

“Momma isn’t here, she’s trying to heal Pax!”