Rise of the Æncients: Pers'efonie's Song

RISE of the ÆNCIENTS: DEMETRIA

God had only ever given Demetria one thing. Pers'efonie.

Her daughter of darling joy. The sun of her morning and the moon of her nights. Pers'efonie could coax wheat from the ground with her melodies. She could inspire the birth of fruit from barren trees with a caress and a kiss.

Demetria stood at the molded sink of her small cottage, gripping it with unrest, some of her locks settled around her shoulders, the rest cascading down her back. Her small, sad smile was in remembrance of the mornings when they'd wash the vegetables in preparation for a day of feasting. Living off the land was what people those days. It was the only way to live.

The land Demetria owned was a gift from her late father and mother, just a stretch acres salvaged after the Re-Imagining outside of Yoruba Sanctuary. It came with the cottage. The wood was hand-carved. The brick, hand laid. The roof and fixtures and furniture, hand-crafted. The land itself was once well-tended, and the forest beyond their property was abundant, a sturdy symbol of safety wrapping around them like a wooden forcefield.

Demetria had watched her, when Pers'efonie was here, frolic amongst the vegetation as it bloomed and blossomed, bright and loud and fun, like she...like she was.

On that morning of Day 57, the landscape around Demetria was no longer flourishing. A strange chill had set in, killing all it touched. From the abundance of grass, to the fruit trees, to the forests beyond the meadow, and the meadow itself.

She pried her fingers from the sink and stroked her hair in her methodical fashion. She was already humming that song, the one Pers'efonie had sworn the trees had taught her.

I braved the forest...and it sheltered me. What is love...but all...of Earth...in me...

Those were the words. It was a slow, deliberate melody, with lots of room for runs and vocal stretching, all of which Pers'efonie was magnificent at. When she was here. Demetria thought it was the anger about her daughter's absence bringing the heat to her neck. But it was something more unexpected, possibly even sinister.

A violent flame burst in Demetria's mind. She caught her breath and the edge of the stone countertop in the same swift motion, holding them both hostage in exchange for stability. Demetria closed her eyes and touched her temples with her forefinger, rubbing it in circles as if to clarify the image flickering inside the fire.

She could only see those monstrous flames moving and swirling and writhing. Nothing was palpable besides the heat on her skin, her arms and neck and face tingling as sweat arrived on them. Then, the fire faded to nothing as fast as it had arrived, leaving her cold.

Frigid, even.

Now all she saw was the condensation lining the window. The ice pieces forming in the corners and stretching toward the middle in a diabolical plan to join forces and conquer the whole thing.

Her heart still rapped against her chest. A passionless organ moving in swift involuntary rhythms.

The rusted device on her wrist chimed. Worthless technology. Something to keep the population connected...informed...accounted for. The chime was a reminder of the daily transmissions, tidbits of global updates to prevent the population from sinking back into the apocalypse they'd scarcely survived.

"We are now on Day 57, nearly two cycles out of the Re-Imagining. The council of the Æncients has announced their plan to restructure the remaining sanctuaries in favor of their own perceived jurisdiction. Protests are sprouting up all over in opposition, claiming these creatures are abusing their genetic advantage by exerting their will under the guise of restoration. Many believe this is conquest. Of who? The remainder of the human race."