Time is not always a great Healer (Part I)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Forgotten Realms, Dec 22, 2011.

  1. Forgotten Realms

    Forgotten Realms Human Version of Drizzt

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    This is the first part of a shortstory written in Gothic Novel Style. Gothic Novels originate from England's 18th till the 19th century. They always have an effect of slight horror and are written from the perspective of the teller.


    Time is not always a great Healer (Part I)


    Because I am only thirty years of age and still young, I am not going to report of my time. Morever, I feel moved to tell about the time and life of one of my friends. This friend, a certain Karola Greifswälder (how she calls herself now), has my age, is still very young as well. But always when we have met again I have had the misgivings that she would be thirty eternally. The arisen uncertainty stayed not unconfirmed for long for she has told me her life-history. I have a lot more clarity in many things and one thing is quite sure: Karola Greifswälder is the only living example I know for that time heals not all wounds but even slay still more of them! I feel myself called upon to record here a part of her biography and her emotions. There are only little episodes out of it, because her life would for sure fill ten or several volumes like a reference-book:

    People admire a lot of characteristics I own: my beauty, my everlasting youth, my intelligence, my wealth, my wisdom. But why? Are those all criteria that are worth an admiration? In my life I met a lot of people and the most of them were afraid of death. They all wished to become as old as Methusalem or just reach the limit of 100 years. But I, who I have all this, wish nothing more than to rest in peace. How willingly I would like to swop my eternal damnation for the short life of a mortal. Even for my aquaintances and my friends I must be strange because I talk in riddles to them and quote a lot of historical events to justify myself. Only a few know my history, but to you, my dear friend, I will open myself, because you are the only one who can help me to die peacefully.

    My time goes back very far, but perhaps I should start with how it all began. By the time I reached the age of thirty when I was quite well-to-do and held a title of nobility: in the year of the Lord 1128. At that time I was still Chlodwiga, Duchess of Griffswalde (the nowadays Greifswald). Then the inquisition had been introduced, the famous witch-hunts, of which I became one of the first victims. When she was 24 years of age, my younger sister was married with a "little" count who was grudging my property.

    Yes, everything came to a point of an embarrassing scandal for one evening a group of cisternian monks appeared to carry me away. They tried to make me clear that they needed my statement for tribunal. Konrad von Marburg distinguished with particular ardour at the hunt for people so that he was appointed general inquisitor of Germany according to an agreement between Emperor Frederick II and Pope Gregor IX. I was presented to him and he elucidated me that I was accused of heresy. Of course, I wanted to know who had spread those mean calumnies about me, whereupon, after a wink of Konrad, my brother-in-law and my sister appeared as accusers. I affirmed my innocence because I really was pious and godfearing. The general inquisitor flang into my face that I would be a heretic and that he would have witnesses who were able to confirm this. According to my request, he ushered the witnesses in. There were ten people of different gender, all in a pitiable condition. They all gave evidence against me on request. They accussed me of blasphemy and being member of the katharic conspiracy. But I knew that they had been forced to give evidence against me by the means of torture. They denounced me to save their own lives, no matter if they knew me personally or not at all. By the way, some amongst them knew me a good and religious person. Again and again I affirmed my innocence but they needed my confession to have a reason for murdering me. They put me on thumbscrews and crushed my fingers to the extent that the blood produced under my nails. Because I still insisted on my innocence, they bound me on the rack and dislocated my shoulders. My rank, my name, my innocence made no difference. You were a nothing in the capture of inquisition. At last, I was condemned to death by being broken on the wheel without my confession.

    On the public execution place four wooden pegs were driven into the ground. I was bound on them with outstretched limbs. In my troubles I whispered a prayer but they only told me not to blaspheme God. My executor appeared with an immense wheel which he could hardly hold himself. With this, he started to smash my bones. I was filled with ineffable agony so that I could not stifle cries of pain. Mostly, people were dying during the procedure of being broken on the wheel. Perhaps they lost their conscience because of pain and never woke up again. I did not die. After my bones being smashed, I realized that they wound my wrecked body through the spokes and after that they lifted this wheel with my human remnants on a pole. But even up there I did not die. It was impossible for me to defend myself against the carrion birds because I was not able to move anymore. They devoured my flesh, picked out my eyes and the pain was growing more and more unbearable. This way Prometheus in the Greek mythology must have felt after Zeus made him chain to a rock. At last, I was succumbed by my agonies after two more days on the wheel. My mortal remnants consisting of a skeleton with twisted and splintered bones were burried hurriedly by my catchpoles at a little crossing in the forest.

    After some time had passed - I did not know how much time - I regained conscience. My hands moved nearly automatically and I digged out myself. It was a pitch-dark night when I came to the surface. First I thought of a bad dream but then I touched my face and looked down on me. I could see that my bones were filled with flesh again. That was the beginning of the last eighthundredseventy (870) years.


    (to be continued)
    (Comments and Analysis are wished and could be helpful)
     
  2. Druid of Lûhn

    Druid of Lûhn The Little Lamb.

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    don't have time to read now, but it's in the reading list. Tis is exactly what's needed at Christmas, as we english seem to like to tell gothic stories on Christmas eve (Turn of the Screw for example).