Images of a Deity: Chapter One
A bloodcurdling scream in the night. The mind-numbing echoes of it heard throughout the city. Every creature, every infant, every soul stirred in their peaceful slumber. It was a scream so blaring, so deafening, that even the eldest cadaver turned and quivered in their graves.
He awoke in a small crimson puddle, a cold sweat dampening his skin. Rising to stretch for a brief moment, the young man yawned and grudgingly wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. The unpleasant dreams from which he awoke weren't a nightly occurrence, but were certainly frequent enough that he hardly noticed let alone remembered them anymore. In fact, he saw them as a sort of arcane grandeur. A wicked gift carefully placed into his lovely hands for more purpose than just safe-keeping.
The young squire extended and cast his coverings to the side, reaching to light the candle setting so sweetly in his porcelain chamberstick on the bedstand to his right. As he presumed, promptly after he had touched the flame to the wick, his naive, blundering parents managed to barge their way in.
"Flynn, dear, what troubles you at this hour?" His mother exclaimed, presently and tenderly dropping the ends of her gown back to the floor. His father's worn and exasperated expression said all it needed to and more.
Flynn. A name he saw contemptible and revolting. The purely agonizing simplicity of it was an insult (to say the least) to his incomparable, irrefutable beauty. Nevertheless, it was the name his adoring and incompetent parents had burdened him with--and he had yet to fall upon a name quite fitting anyhow. So, Flynn his name remained.
His mother's inquiry was one he was all too accustomed to answering and as always, although he was past the point of mere annoyance, he returned with a polite smile accompanied by the same explanation:
"Mother, it was no more than another dreadful dream. My deepest apologies for waking you both once again."
To this his father nodded then retreated to his chambers. Flynn's stout little mother stalled a moment, a look of concern for her only child ever plastered on her face.
"As you would wish, my son." Her voice was sullen, as per usual when he gave this answer, but it was also lined with anger and incertitude. To his relief and regardless of his mother's underlying emotions, she slowly tip-toed down the hall to join his father in their quarters.
Turning to the mirror hanging on his wall above the writing desk, Flynn stole an especially long gaze at his own flawless profile (as was a part of his nightly regime).
He felt delicately along his skillfully chiseled, defined jaw, down to the minute dimple in his slightly squared, strong chin. To match, he bore a defined but endearing button nose. His large and rounded moss green eyes played well off his slim cheeks and high cheekbones. Flynn's fingertips brushed lightly over every hidden contour in his face until they came to his full lips--perfectly poised in their typical pout. He stroked them lightly, admiring the way his mouth sat slightly larger and wider than most. Dusty brown hair fell in slight waves just above his jawline (a length generally longer than most, but unique and forming to his face). The beginnings of fresh facial hair were apparent, but not overwhelming.
Flynn grinned smugly as he examined his formidable brow and wiped a smidgen of dry blood from the corner of his mouth. It was then that he was so rudely interrupted by a sudden downpour of rain and a crack of booming thunder.
Not seconds after the downpour had begun and Flynn had successfully been distracted the storm, another more helpless and urgent scream sounded through the halls. It wasn't his own mother, no. This scream was much too high-pitched, much younger and much more disconsolate. The scream wailed on, and Flynn grew not only testy, but curious as well.
There was some strange, soothing way in which the tone hit his ears. At the same time, the sheer eeriness and continuance of it was more than enough to set his temper off.
By the time Flynn had reached his parents' quarters after convincing himself to investigate, the wailing had ceased. Still, the unsettling fact that it was a happening out of the ordinary compelled him to question his parents.
"Mother, sir," He addressed them after they had risen "Haven't either of you heard the storm raging outside these dreary walls? Or the increasingly annoying wails sounding the city?"
His mother and father peered at each other first, clearly befuddled, before turning to him and shaking their heads.
"Haven't heard anything besides you all night, dear. Are you quite sure nothing is troubling you?" His mother furrowed her little brow, shooting Flynn an even more concerned glare than she had before.
Flynn stood stunned for a moment, attempting to dismiss his apparent hallucinations as he caught a whiff of lavender and delicate wisteria. His sun-kissed skin rapidly grew cold, though he slowly nodded and exited the room.
The scent remained in his sinuses long after he drifted into sleep, the cold remained on his skin no matter how many overlays he smothered himself in. Flynn told himself to control his unruly imagination; explained repeatedly why matters could get out of hand if he paid them too much attention, explained why insanity did not correlate in any way with beauty.
What he neglected to explain, was why he was the only one who heard a woman's wails in the middle of the night.