When Mara fell, her wretched countenance did as well. The cracked, grey outlines of a pair of eyes that hovered violently over powdery white skin covering sharpened cheekbones crumbled into dust and lay in silence on the carpeted floor next to a young, vibrant, healthy woman who wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. The dagger that pierced her chest satisfied her desire for rest. Now she would have slumber eternal.
Queen of Vampires. A title without meaning. Mindless brutes who wear gas masks and conduct urban warfare in the rustic countryside. Whoever wrote the script for those “vampires” must have been doing a lot of drugs. Heaven knows there are plenty of them out here in the fields, just waiting to be found and ingested. Horses know to avoid them, else they end up wandering in circles for three days straight and die of dehydration. Why old Mosul wants to preserve these stories, I’m not sure. He was once the stone in the mountains, he says. Stone endures, people fade. Moss will soon cover the metal trees and square caves made by humans. When we’re gone, we’ll be remembered in stories.
I’m trying not to remember anything I’ve done. I’ll probably burn this diary after I write my last entry. I’ve learned to shut off my emotions as I go about my business with other people. This secret world isn’t secret at all apart from the secrets we keep from others. The barricades we throw up around ourselves, our hearts, our inner world, ringed with barbed wire, surrounded by walls, marked with signs reading intrarea interzisa and Eingang gesperrt – all of these things fade, in the end. They are of no use, as are these words.
On the path coming down the mountain tunnel into the wintry hills of a place the more fantastically-minded locals call the Carpathian Fangs, I carved a short poem into the dirt with the point of a serrated cooking knife I found in a camp of abandoned supplies. An image had appeared in my mind as I walked softly past the familiar glow of the entrance to Agartha:
Once upon a moonlit sky
Your reflection appeared to me
In the still waters
Of another world’s caress
As if in dreaming
The thought of waking
Would be enough
To bring you back to me