Madara could barely struggle as Menthu dragged her through the underbrush. She had lost so much blood from the horrible wounds that Menthu had inflicted she could barely make out the outline of the dead tree that she was being dragged to. The huge, ancient, oak was devoid of leaves, and had bark the color of coal. But most disturbing about the tree, thousands of skulls hung from the tree's branches, still quietly moaning after millenia of suffering. Menthu walked boldly towards the tree, and as the skulls looked on, slammed Madara's broken form against oak tree's massive trunk. Her arms lifted of their own accord it seemed, and Menthu drove two iron stakes through her wrists. Her feet followed. Madara struggled weakly, but the stakes held her firm, and prevented her from using her Disciplines. Its work done, Menthu turned and looked towards the eastern horizon, where the first glimmers of the sun broke the horizon.

The night came again for Madara, though she knew not how. The sun had risen, and with its rays, she had burst into flame. But she had not died. Even as her flesh had burned away. She still lived. All through the day she had burned, writhing on her make-shift cross and screaming in pain. By the end of the first hour she had begged for death, any release from the all consuming pain. But death never came for her.

When night came, Madara opened her blistered eyes to find that her body had been restored as it had been the night before.
"How....?"
"The Slayer's will is all, here." Madara weakly turned to see the Countess Katerina standing before her. She still wore the dark evening gown Madara had had crafted for Amalia, along with a dark cloak that seemed to blend into the shadows. "How was your first day Madara?" Katerina smiled, as she shook her head. "Not very pleasent I would imagine. But fear not, I bring word of your love."
Katerina wove her fingers in front of Madara, and a ghostly image formed.
Prince Reynold was standing, crawling from the rubble of the wall through which he'd been thrown. His potent blood had healed him quickly, but not quickly enough, for Menthu the Slayer stood before him.
Reynold, to his credit, screamed, drew his sword and attacked without hesitation. He brought his blade down in a massive overhand chop, that merely bounced off Menthu's armor. Faster than the eye could follow, Menthu's blade flew from its sheath. Drops of blood sprayed across the walls as the War God cleaved Reynolds heart from his body. Madara seemed to watch in slow motion as the heart flew out of her love's body, and a monsterous, shadowy maw burst forth from Menthu's helm, gulping down Reynold shriveled heart. The Prince screamed in agony, and Madara saw a pale, luminescent haze flow from the Prince's body into the monsters mouth. She heard the sickening crunching as Menthu devoured her love and former prince.
Bloody tears flowed down Madara's cheeks, but she was too weak to speak, too weak to even sob.

"Here, don't close your eyes," Katerina said, her voice sickly sweet. "Let me show you that again. And again. This is what your arrogance has brought to you, Madara. You will suffer like this forever, Madara. Burning through the day, and watching the death of your one true love all through the night." Katerina smiled again. That wicked half smile, that had started wars, and seduced nations. As she turned to leave, she spoke one last time.
"Enjoy eternity."

Weeks pass. Months. Years. The endless repetition is maddening, time blurs into a meaningless jumble, and still Madara hangs nailed to the tree.

The sun slowly sinks below the horizon, and Madara is whole. But the vision returns, and Reynold is swallowed by Menthu.

When the vision ends, she expects to see it begin again, but there is only blackness. Cold hands cup her face, then smooth over her eyes, and as she blinks she can see Amalia standing before her, face illuminated by the large moon hanging low in the sky. The skulls hanging from the tree begin to chitter and moan, but Amalia silences them with a wave of her hand.

"Oh, my poor Madara," she says, face a mask of concern. "How long have you suffered! Alone, here, with none to hear your cries. If you had but called my name..." Amalia trails off, then looks to the castle in the distance.

She turns her gaze back to Madara, eyes boring into her former lover's face, all signs of sympathy gone. "But you cannot call my name, can you? For your lying tongue has been severed and now you do not have the power to restore it." She laughs, her eyes cold and dead and emotionless as she taunts Madara.

"Do not fret, precious," Amalia continues, her voice thick with scorn. "Your Amalia has not forgotten you. Though you may wish she had. I have come to bring you a present."

Amalia turns, looking out into the darkened landscape. She gestures with one hand and turns back, her face graced with a predatory smile. "How cruel, that you were ripped from Reynold's arms so soon after discovering the pleasures a man can give. I know how you must long for it. Well my pretty, tonight you shall have company."

She moves aside, and Madara can see two forms slowly lumbering forward. As they near, she can see with horror that they are corpses, rotting flesh filling the air with a putrid stench as they drag themselves closer. Their skin is mottled grey and green, eyes glassy and near to bursting. One lets out a low moan, and Amalia smiles fondly at the creature, beckoning it closer. They stop just short of Amalia, heads hanging respectfully.

"To think, I would have been content with nothing but you," Amalia mutters to Madara. "I was a fool. Here, I am Queen! Queen of the Undead. See how they worship me?" She gestures and the two corpses bend in an approximation of a bow.

"These two are not the finest," she says aside to Madara apologetically. "I'm afraid I need my best for more important things. They might be a big clumsy..."

She moves closer to Madara and smiles again, showing her wickedly long fangs. "Perhaps if I have time, I shall visit you again. But don't count on it, love."

As she walks away towards the castle, the two lumbering bodies begin to shuffle towards Madara, hands outstretched hungrily. As their fingers grope her flesh, she can feel the sickeningly soft skin surrounding their rotting bones, and the stench is overpowering. Ripples rise up from the flesh of one of their forearms and Madara knows that maggots writhe within. As they press against her, she can only struggle helplessly against the stakes and pray that they will finish soon. But the dead do not tire...

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