Role

Chapter 8

The pile of black basalt slabs that was his failed attempts was not a small
one.

When his hand had shaken. A line imperfect. When dust had entered his
throat, a cough jolting his hand to scratch her face. Each a far greater
pain than the recent loss of his profane spear.

Unacceptable.

But now he held her. As close to perfect as he could be. Her face carved in
stark relief staring back at him. Her black skin, the stone so dark. Her
large eyes, still empty, but accounted for. The sun glared down upon him as
he sat atop the Pyramid of Azhan, but the heat in the centre of his chest
was far greater.

With a tenderness not given to any other this last century, he gently
placed the two shards of emerald into her eyes. The green was dull to his
sight, but that was alright. She could never be dull to him, no matter how
his eyes lied. The dwarf villager had tried to keep him from his work, so
one of his kinsman had died to supply the stones. There was something about
that which pleased Vlalkon.

But something was still missing.

He studied the image. Every feature was perfect. He had made sure of it.

But something...

Her hair. Her hair had always been the greatest part of her beauty. Red as
blood and shining in the light of the sun.

He reached for paint. He could fill the cracks. It would be the easiest
part of the entire work. No room for error.

His hand hovered over the paint.

She deserved more.

He took up his sharpest blade, and his blood began to fall like sanguine
tears.