Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2131 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Title: KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17/AU
Pairing: everyone and then some more
Betas: Flowers and thank yous go to Hannelore_K & Ketene

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Part II. The Mark Has Been Made
Chapter 14.

I run until I get out of the house and stop there, on the stairs. I sit on a step, while looking at the dark skies. It's so cold.

It has been so cold since the Sun disappeared. First the Sun, now this. At least about the Sun we didn't give much shit. We were working in the mines, underground. And we were getting up so early in the mornings to go to work. We would cross the woods and climb down into the pitch-dark mouths of the mines, and we were spending all our days there. By the time we got out, crossed the woods back and got home, the day was over already. Only that once the Sun was gone from the skies, the forest transformed into a bunch of dried wooden tree trunks. All the leaves were gone, making the trees look like giant hands with long claws, frozen as if they were trying to grab the clouds in the sky.

“Maybe she overdosed on gold,” comes this soft and sad whisper. It's Flake.

“No shit, Sherlock!” I blurt out, but I don't even bother to turn and face him.

She was the sense and all the reason of our existence. Now what?

We should go get that stupid Sun. Weren't we supposed to do that from the start?

“I know you are very upset, Till, I know you love her just as much as we do, and you don't want to show it too much, but please be careful, the others are already very...” Flake starts explaining, but as I finally turn to face him, his voice becomes gradually weaker and softer. “Treating them like that only makes things worse,” he adds.

This sudden explosion in my chest warms me for a second, but I refrain from snapping at the tall, slender guy in front of me.

Since that day - the day the Sun went away - the skies turned into this metallic gray color with shades of green. The ground turned from brown into black, the wood of the trees became gray with blue shades. Even the light coming from the heavens was cold gray and dusky. The only spot of color was from that one apple hanging from the branches of an old, lank tree growing on a small hilltop not too far from our house.

I look in that direction and see both hills. Through the dusky light I see the huge shape of that guitar resting on the other hill. No one could tell what was with that guitar there. Richard and Paul wanted to make it play, but it was not only too big for their small bodies, but they couldn't even make the strings resound. The legend went that it was left like that by some giants, stuck in the tough rock of the hill, and that there could be only one person in the whole world that could play it, a special person, and only at one special single moment in time ever.

“Get inside, Flake, you're freezing,” I tell him, trying to make my raspy voice sound rather gentle. I am freezing too. Yet, I feel so numb. So numb inside, as if this fist is clenched over my guts and doesn't want to let go, doesn't allow me feel it. The sadness. I crave so badly to feel the sadness.

Paul had given up trying to make that guitar sing, but Richard was spending a lot of time in the shadow cast by the immense, made of stone body of the guitar. Not one of us said to him anything about it, but everyone knew that in his moments of sadness and when he was upset he would run there, to that hill, sit near the guitar, whisper to it and caress its cold body with his palm.

I follow Flake inside the house; we go to the eating room where we find the others sitting around the long table of yellowish wood. We all sit on both sides, keeping the seat at the head of the table empty. That's where she used to sit, on her big chair.

Paul isn't crying anymore (thank God!), they all sit in silence, avoiding looking at each other. Their eyes are red, tired and swollen. Right where I'm sitting, on the table, under my hands, there are some black old lines on the wood. My glance follows their pattern – I am like a giant looking down to the intricate bodies of roads carved in the yellowish mass.

“We have to build her a coffin of crystal,” I say. “And we will put the coffin on the hill, under the apple tree.”

All I can hear are some stifled comments. The bench I'm sat on shakes a bit, as the others sitting on it are moving. The table quivers a bit under my elbows too, but I don't look at them. They know I'm right and they will do as I say.

The purest crystal for the coffin, the softest and finest white silk for the sheets and the pillow on which her beautiful head will rest for eternity. True beauty never dies, I murmur as the six of us struggle to carry the heavy casket to the top of the hill. Under the old and scrawny apple tree. She will remain there forever, sleeping, under the crystal lid.

None of us says anything as we prepare everything, as we place the coffin under the tree, but I know that the others shed a tear from time to time. There's even this icy breeze carrying scattered snowflakes between the dried dark silhouettes of the trees, only in my soul there's this stillness. I don't feel any different, just calm. I think of the missing Sun as I look at the others bending over the edge of the coffin, one by one, to place one last kiss on her marble white forehead. She appears as if sleeping the most peaceful sleep, ever. Her beautifully shaped eyebrows don't frown anymore that simple gesture having the effect of causing havoc, and panic among us, her clear blue eyes don't get shadowed by anger nor by her drugged state, anymore.

But I can't. I can admire her beauty, I can feel for the others for being so sad, but it's like I can't force myself to feel upset and bothered by her death. We remain all standing around the coffin. All, but Richard, who runs toward the other hill. The hill with the giant guitar.

We are all tired, we haven't been sleeping for three days, and we haven't been working or doing anything else. All we did was to prepare everything for this funeral. But in a way it was good, because all that work kept our hands and our minds busy so we wouldn't sink and be drawn into the darkest pain and despair.

I look again at her young body between the white silky linen. We didn't even have flowers to put with her, red roses to match her undying beauty. Since the Sun disappeared, all flowers disappeared. She used to eat all those red apples Flake was picking for her from this very tree; he would wash and dry them for her. But then, one day the Sun didn't rise anymore, and everything that was alive and colorful died slowly. It was like even the gold nuggets we were digging out for her dried out, turned into the darkest earth.

Something makes me raise my head suddenly. I look at the others. I'm thinking that somehow I should feel guilty for not thinking of her, for not feeling that sadness so profound to bring tears into my eyes. It's not that I don't love her, I love her just as much as they do, but it's like I'm all dried out of any feelings, any tears, and any sadness.

We used to gather around her, embrace her body, too tall for us, and she would caress our foreheads and shoulders. We were all venerating her because she was the reason of all our existence in this land of hills, mountains and enchanted forests.

First I sense it as a gentle quiver of the frozen ground under our feet. Then, as if a second wave crosses the world and makes the dead apple tree shake a bit. A dark and grave pitched but constant note. We all twist our heads as if on command – on the hill we see Richard standing behind that guitar. It can't be true.

But, yes, it is! A new note, a higher and stronger note - the guitar has come back to life. But as it plays another note, the sound is so loud, making our little world quiver again. Richard, though, seems not to notice that, as he continues playing this sad and dark as a threat song – all that pain gathered, all the suffering, all those things one wouldn't put in words. And his song becomes even louder and stronger, like a lament of the whole world, while the whole world shakes and shivers. All the dead trees in the forest wave slowly, in the rhythm of the song, rocks detach from the curved shape of the hill and fall, the breeze turns into a strong gasp of wind that whips our faces with icy snowflakes, the apple hanging on the contorted and lank branch balances dangerously and the tree shivers as if crossed by flashes of life.

“It will break the coffin!” I yell at the others, my voice swallowed by the loud sounds of the song.

We can barely stand too, as the earth moves under our feet. I reach out my hands, I see Olli stretching his hands too to catch it, but the shiny red and yellow fruit falls right between our fingers. At its impact the crystal lid cracks, thousands of white icy lines spreading over its surface. It looks like an ocean covered by a crust of ice and now the ice is breaking into millions of shiny sharp pieces. And the millions of shiny sharp pieces are flying everywhere – tears of an angel in agony. But Richard continues his lament, his song undisturbed, not seeing what I see – her eyelids fluttering, her blue eyes regaining color and focus as she looks at us and realizes who we are.

“Oh, fuck, she's gonna be so pissed! Oh, fuck!”

But we can't run away from her anger. We remain there, stunned, as if our feet have been glued to the ground. We watch her as she rises slowly in her coffin, shaking her head to get rid of the pieces of glass that have fallen in her hair and on her shoulders.

She will break us! She will destroy us!

But I can't move. We can't move; we all watch her, terrified, how she pushes away the white transparent veil that was covering her body and her face.

Richard! Richard doesn't know!

The page! I'm thinking in that moment.

She looks straight to me, her eyes filled with hatred and disdain.

Turn the page! My mind yells, probably my mouth does too, but the song; the voice of the huge guitar of gray stone is covering my words and is shattering this world to pieces. Millions of shiny and broken pieces, flying like snowflakes in a snowstorm.

Under my horrified glance I see the dark, gray with green shades sky splitting open, and the Earth is shaking so violently we all fall. All, but her, as she stands up in her crystal coffin, taller than ever, her skirt yellow even more than the gold we used to dig for her, her blouse, bluer than the sunniest summer sky, her lips redder than all the blood in the world.

“The Sun can be brought back only by a living person, but you all, fools, you are all dead! Dead, you fools, all six of you are dead!”

Her laugh and her voice are louder than the song, than the moans and the grunts of this world deafening me as I'm falling down, as I'm falling fast while my mind asks desperately for the page to turn.

The damn page!

~ To Be Continued ~
- 13
- 14
- 15
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)