Obsessions of a Shattered Psyche.
Chapter 6: Death
Trembling. Mircala shuddered as an ominous chill seethed within that icy breeze of the midnight hour. Shivers ran down her spine. Soft, tender skin bristled as waves of macabre energy caressed and enveloped her vulnerable, naked body. As she stood quivering, daemonic life seemed to skulk in the dark shadowy recesses of the deconsecrated church in which she now found herself.
A tiny gasp for breath escaped Mircala’s deep red lips. The threat of suffocation was all too immanent. Concealed, behind her graceful, bare back, wrist over wrist, firmly her hands were bound. The sturdy rope restraining them entwined with a noose that embraced her slender, pale neck. She dared not relax, for fear of being the catalyst of her own asphyxiation.
Between her firm breasts, a gleaming dagger was held in place by an unseen hand. Its’ sharp kiss, spawned a minute drop of blood. Petrified, she stood motionless, like an erotic gothic statue of the goddess Ishtar. Her pulse raced. She could only imagine what dangers might lay ahead, for she could see nothing through the velvet hood concealing her strikingly black outlined eyes. Mircala’s nipples hardened. Quivering in dreaded anticipation, she hungered for what lay ahead.
Earlier, she’d rested at home, eagerly, contemplating this night. Despite Nehemia’s objections, she refused to decline this intriguing invitation her fellow gothique princesses had bestowed upon her. He’d begged her not to go. But Mircala could not resist this summoning, for it was now one year and a day since first she sought their acceptance.
Originally, it was Nehemia who’d brought Mircala to these stunning, femme fatales when first she’d debuted amongst the creatures of this dark community. T’was he who’d lured her from the shadowy, deep recesses of the night clubs, out of the smoke machine haze, to render her visible. Yes, it was he who’d introduced her, but it was she who’d now won their approval. Or so she hoped.
Be it acceptance, or cruel, sadistic rejection she was to face……..or even worse, Mircala would risk all to find out. Standing now, in sacrosanct, arcane space, her attention jolted back to the present, and those perils which lay before her.
“Know ye the Wiccan creed?” A honey drenched, deep, womanly voice enquired of Mircala. “Do what thou wilt, as long as it harm none,” she replied without hesitation.
The High Priestess continued, “That you may start life afresh, it is only meet and right that you start with such a name of your own choosing.”
“Have you such a name?” the menacing minyan of twelve demanded in unison, their feminine voices reverberating and bouncing off the old ashlar stones in the abandoned church they presently shared. “I have,” Mircala proudly exclaimed, straining the noose as she attempted to throw back her head in defiance. “It is Lilach!” By her own words, her fate was now sealed.
Tonight, Mircala, as the world had once known her, would be no more. Chalked upon the cold stone floor, a pentacle encircled with ancient mystic runes lay before her feet. Into this sinister sphere stepped Mircala. Two alluring, malevolent maidens brought her to her knees before Morbid Angel, the High Priestess. Suddenly, the hood was removed and the ropes severed.
Mircala’s hands fell limply to rest upon her thighs. Numbness gave way to the prickly sensation of pins and needles as life’s blood returned to circulate again. Her mind was spinning. Straining to focus through the flickering, candle lit dimness, she was bewildered. Like a new born emerging from the murky confines of the womb, she gasped deeply for that first unimpeded breath, as a primal scream echoed through her psyche as if to wake her from a long, spiritual slumber. Squinting through stinging eyes, Mircala focused upon the imposing silhouette of the sizzling, Morbid Rose.
She confined her countenance to a small, cautious smile. Rapturous energy filled the void inside Mircala. So ecstatic was she at being so near to her desire to become as one with her dark, gothique sisters that she could barely hold onto consciousness. No longer would she be that trembling, wide-eyed nymph, peering through the shadows at the minions of the lost and damned. That vulnerable, young, fourteen year old was to be no more. Upon this anniversary and a day, and now a full fifteen years in age, she yearned to be reborn within the mysterious, gothic, Coven of Darkness Visible. Surely, this was to be her initiation, rather than a blood drenched human sacrifice.
Mircala glanced at the immaculately manicured, black polished toenails of Morbid Angel. Briefly she glimpsed the golden rose embellished upon one nail and without hesitation, kissed the High Priestesses feet. “Blessed be thy feet, that have brought thee in these ways,” she exclaimed. Mircala remained kneeling. Stretching up, she rubbed her naked body along the High Priestesses magnificent, shapely legs. As her delicate hands clung tightly to the back of Morbid Angel’s long, slender thighs, she averted her gaze downwards and kissed Morbid Angel’s knees. “Blessed be thy knees, that shall kneel at the sacred altar.”
Slowly, Mircala rose to one knee. She pressed her left breast hard against Morbid Angel’s lace sheathed thigh. Clinging tightly, the deep pounding of her heart pulsated through her body as she tilted her head back enrapture. A warm, salty tang she’d never before experienced delighted her tongue as she caressed the textured, moist folds of the High Priestess’s furtive, inner sanctum. “Blessed be thy womb, without which we would not be.”
Morbid Angel’s hands lightly supported Mircala’s upper arms whilst she raised the neophyte to her own level. Mircala gently cupped the High Priestesses breasts, caressing Morbid Angel’s dark red nipples. The tip of her tongue lightly flicking and teasing each momentarily. “Blessed be thy breasts, formed in beauty.” The two passionately embraced, long black nails digging into each other’s backs as they held on tightly. Kissing deeply, tongues explored soft warm mouths, darting back and forth, occasionally entwining and struggling to dominate. “Blessed be thy lips, that shall utter the Sacred Names.” As the night enfolded, Mircala became as one with each of her new sisters in turn, and they too bonded with her. Thirteen immaculately iniquitous sisters, each daringly individual yet all united as one.
Was this truly being unfaithful to Nehemia? She knew she’d soon, have to return to face him. Between them, life could never be the same again.
He’d always taken it as self evident truth that every moment of her existence was to be lavished upon him alone. He’d taken it that she’d always look only toward him for guidance and protection. He’d taken …. yes, he’d taken. He’d taken her for granted.
Though she was his consort, and the two had lived and breathed as one, they’d exchanged very few words. When he was present, the need for verbal expression dissipated. They’d always communicated on a far deeper level. To Mircala, Nehemia seemed so mature and wise in the ways of the world. And thus she knew that he’d soon start to hunger, for the time was drawing close when he’d no longer be nourished intellectually and spiritually by a mere innocent. He needed more. Had their old paths continued without intervention, then fate had already decreed him dead. She’d have suffered, watching him waste away to naught but a walking corpse in search of its’ own grave.
Mircala didn’t bother searching her soul for answers, for that little girl was now dead. A magnificent new being had been born in its’ stead. Now enjoined with the sisterhood, she was at one with the goddess within. Yes, Mircala had betrayed Nehemia………. but Lilach never would!
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