It doesn't matter how much initiative is seized, how much might is procured, be it gallons of blood consumed. The hull, once chosen, cannot halt. I am able to assume still that "the spirit is in there," but a heart deprived of the living does not exist. Do you understand that, Eli? There is no returning after this. A silent nod. Eli, strapped, his posture does not aspire much confidence, yet he feels beloved.
Photo by Jan Kopřiva on Unsplash
The dark hall, mid of night, the silent ambiance that sees the reckoning at a distance. Crimson eyes, cold breeze flows through the crypt. Eli sighs mist, his spine shivers. The breeze carries a Requiem through the crypt, a lament in countless forms, yet the truest voice echoes from the hollows: the eternal song. Deep blood red, the color of hunger and violence, the blight makes him the epicenter and the winds blow around him. The teeth of eldritch pierce from the shoulder up to spine. The heart beats with that of vitae. The cold fangs and the breeze spread. The liveliness that requiem brought dissipates.
Eli senses the crimson eyes around him, like a predator around prey. It is the curse of Nosferatu that he feels bound by the eldritch lusts over the thrall. The immortality feels as though created not for Elis. He has become the vessel of blood; sacred and profane sustenance. He is in his nocturne, all and its surroundings. Eli wishes it to stop, the heart and the feeding. This ceremony does not inspire pain, though he cannot let go as well.
The blood sustains the body, yes. But it cannot resurrect what the Reckoning has claimed. There is no resurrection here, only prolonged descent into the abyss wearing a corpse's face.
29 April 2026, Freewriters Community Daily Writing Prompt Day 3088: spirit in there
