Illustration by BellaBergolts on DeviantArt (original) (raw)

Illustration to fanfic "Light of the damned stars"

Illuminating the endless white marble steps of a spiral stair fire rose to the very top. Flame reddened on the walls causing shadows reflected by stucco molding and bas-reliefs, to dance to their own music forcing their own theme.

“Fire is blessing,” she who carried a torch, thought. “Live coals in a fireplace warm a house in frost, boil water and fry meat.”

Light went out quickly behind, the white steps melted in the gloom like ice in a warm spring river which is still dark and cold, but already destructive to snow.

"Fire is a healer, able to stop spill blood."

Shadows pounced on pulling through deadly light.

“But fire is an executioner.”

Her hand with the torch trembled, faces on the walls were distorted horribly as if approaching rapidly to unwanted guest, opening their mouths terribly and bulging eyes-dips, stretching unnaturally thin long hands with crooked fingers.

“Leave me alone!” she who is carrying the torch, shouted. “Away! This is my land! And this tower with all its ghosts is also mine! Obey!”

A flaming cresset spitted, sparkled, fire shuddered, and shadows shifted chaotically like alarmed bees. The white steps looked pink.

“Fire is a killer,” a thought came again, “it has mercy on some victims depriving them of life asleep, in unconsciousness, poisoning them with toxic smoke sweetly. Doomed ones won’t know that they are fated... Others are tormented by fire. You can die from burns for a long time screaming with pain night after night... "

The stair ended off. Ahead, a round platform with the same balcony appeared.

“What happens to those caught in the ring of flame? Anyone turns into fuel and no two ways about it. Some are enough for a long time; others break up to dust instantly... only one who’s... flame himself can survive”.

Her hand with the torch drew an arc closing the ring. Everything is made from stone here; there is nothing to set fire to. Unless she can call from below those who accompanied their mistress-slave and make living fire out of them. Only it’ll do no harm Five-finger. Faces, faces, faces... The walls are looking with eyes reviving in reflections of fire and shadows, whispering with the voices of the night. They are all the same. Going out onto the balcony, feeling the sky, a lake and a forest becoming blurred from tears, Oeruil looked at the steps, where there were no more bloody footprints but her memory painted them too clearly.

“I came here to think about my father’s letter... Why to Earinel’s Tower? Why do I remember unfortunate naive Lepasur? I... still can’t leave. I'm... flame."