The Blood-Letter

Once upon a time, in the city of Wazarick, lived a fine young knight. He was beautiful and gallant both: the perfect man young maidens yearns. And the lasses of Wazarick took notice of this. In the city also lived a plain commoner girl. She, too, was among the lass who harbored feelings for the youthful cavalier. But she understood he was far beyond her grasp, and so, she barred her feelings away — buried deep within her heart.

One day, the adored knight marched off to battle, only to return with grievous wounds. His beside saw an endless parade of well-wishing gals keen and eager to tend to his injuries and needs. Their intention was less to remedy the injured knight's body than to snatch away his heart. They bickered and shoved, argued, and spat, forlorn words of desperation formed around the young knight. The lasses of Wazarick were desperate to claw their way ahead in the line to see him. Intense anxiety struck the plain girl. By no means wealthy, the girl lacked the means to procure even a fitting get-well gift for the feeble sire. Perhaps some flowers would suffice, thought she. And so she went afield — to the verdant meadow of Yudisith. She crawled on hand and knee to find the loveliest and brightest blooms, her garments caked in the muck while doing so. With a bouquet in hand, she set off for the young sire's abode. But the sight of frolicking gals froze her in her footsteps. A crowd of lass wreathed him, eagerly nursing the young knight to health, each one comelier than the pretty flowers she had found. She crumpled the blossoms she had toiled to gather underfoot. Streams of fury and exasperation washed upon her. At her plainness, at her indecision, at her shyness. She cursed everything about herself. Why am I born this way? She asked, but none replied. Hung in the air — Her words fell to deaf ears. Suddenly, she faced a second spellbinding sight. Blinding light filled her eyes as she looked upon a strange floating brilliant flower. And it spoke.

'You curse your flesh; you despise it. It is weak, It is homely, and you will be bound to it as long as you breathe. Offer it to me,' it said. And so, the plain woman did. She opened her veins, slashing the flesh she so detested and spilled her blood upon the earth. Where her blood pooled, soon the soil begins to writhe horribly. Distorted spirality occurred on the pool of blood — only for flowers of sparkling gold to spring forth. She repeated it, again and again, and observed the outcome of this magic. The gal swiftly understood the power she had attained. Her blood granted life to whatever it touched. That's was how she was able to conjure blossoms from but a patch of barren dirt. At first, the woman did not understand why the flower granted her this magic. Surely other abilities would be more appropriate to win the young knight's affection. She plucked an aurous bouquet to present as a gift. But then she stumbled upon an epiphany. She had a far more splendid gift to offer, she thought. This power she'd acquired must have manifested to grant her deepest desire. And she was correct to assume. The lass realized that this was an appropriate power to bear — The knight she loved was injured. The gift of her blood would make the finest of medicine than any apothecary could dream.

But the grim course of action of her pure affection spurred was unimaginable — A pure love turned sick. A harsh reality that pushed her to madness, that she is not enough — A passion blossomed into a malign obsession. The lass used tools to extract the blood from her body: sharp-edged calipers, saw, daggers of different sizes, and more; All of it to expose the crevices of her organs in hopes to fill buckets, another after another until she was satisfied. It is complete. The only thing left to do is present her blood to her beloved. She went to the young knight's abode. Not wanting him to see her blood-smeared face, she wore an iron mask. Yet, in her furor, she had not realized what she has done on her body. She had not recognized the effects of torture — it had ruined her: her head hung precariously from her body by a scrap of flesh ready to fall off. Even her bones popped out of his flesh. Carrying her bloody vessels in tow, she came before the sire.

At first sight, the only greeting that the woman ever heard was a scream of abject terror. The shock at witnessing her torn, mangled, and bloodied form was greater than the ailing sire's heart could endure. Its beating stopped, and the man left this world forever. The woman had failed to win his heart; Failed even to share one conversation. It is all she wants, to be admired, to be loved by the man she loved. She cried and wailed, losing what sanity remained amid her lamentations. Everything about her was destroyed, even her fragile heart. That was the last star as the few remaining flesh holding her head to neck tore. Though dead, she pursues the ghost of her beloved still, leading him to the fortress of Arikhar — watching anyone that steps foot within with blood-streaked eyes.