Our Sinful Dirge

In dust and darkness do our lament ends, for such is the truth when heaven’s throne lay vacant, and all the devils are here to stay, bereft of that extinguished hell. Cease the dreaming heart, for in ambition, let the malice within be awaken. To sleep is to falter, yet to rise is to march the lonely road.

There the Prince walked across the hallway, alone with only the echoes of memories, a white spectre amid the encroaching, sickly gloom, his fingers curled around the kriss of his office, tucked amidst the folds of his imperial regalia, blade sheathed and hidden, a quite howling sealed by gold and lies.

Dusk fell, the world slowly sinking into black, the sprawling palace turned dim and eerie. The last light of day slanted through the high windows, washing the gilded pillars in a red glare. In altars at every interval, candles flickered whilst deep shadows crept across the marble floor, oblivion rising from the depths of origin, and thus he walked into the heart of the night.

“There has to be another way!” Was it desperation that broke the voice of remembrance so, or was it another anachronistic myth of royal fidelity? He remembered his words that day, but he did not, could not remember how his voice shattered so.

The Grand Vizier could only look at him, sorrow pooling in those hooded eyes. “You and I know that he would stop at nothing short of absolute destruction.”

He remembered looking away, staring at the window overlooking the capital, fighting back tears, all the strength he was so proud of crumbling away. “He is my father.” He whispered, helpless. “I can’t do it.”

“And how many more will die, just because of this blood you share with him?”

He whirled around, eyes flashing in anger. “Let them all die then. Why should I care of the suffering of the people? What do they know of a ruler’s pain as he makes a choice? What do they know of doing the right thing?!” He swept his hand to encompass the entire city below, the great city in august splendour, a golden phantom mocking him. “They care nothing but themselves. Why should I cater to their liberty, when all they care is their spite?”

Rage animated his countenance. The Prince too held lofty dreams, of freedom and self-determination, yet he had awoken, and the reality he saw was sickening, revulsive, and now he only desired the innocent slumber of the ignorance once again. But too much had been done, too many had been slaughtered for the vanity of imperial sovereignty.

The Grand Vizier recognized his dream, and realized the pain of waking up, but what could he do but tell him the truth. “Do the right thing then.” He said. “Seek your heart.”

No words need be spoken. The crown must pass to him, one way or another.

He stood now before the colossal doors of the throne room, golden in sinful mirth, emeralds and sapphires a gleeful crest upon so sombre a realm. The prince could hear them cawing outside, the crows, through thick walls and bastions of gold, circling the spires of the Imperial Palace, a great shroud of night in sojourn upon the crimson dome, broiling a storm of carrion. His kriss felt heavy in his hands, the weight of the wicked steel just as stifling as the one brooding in his chest, growing heavier still with every beat.

Do the right thing, even in the face of ruin.

He pushed the doors open, and stepped into its red embrace.

The throne loomed before him, titanic, all consuming, the golden chambers shuddering before its immensity, the living seat of the abyss, eternity’s misery and forever shall be the heart of an everlasting empire. Upon the throne, between the gold and the emeralds of the accursed peak, there his father sat, the Emperor.

“So you came.” The Emperor’s gravelly voice rose to fill the silence.

The Prince did not spoke, his stillness was his answer as he walked to the throne, the shadows of the throne swallowing him, ambition and sorrow at one.

His father understood. A tyrant he was, a conqueror and a murderer, but he was a father first. He had always been an adoring parent, never forsaking his duties to his family. He stood, spreading his hands, baring his chest to the kriss.

The Prince remembered his father’s gentle touch, remembered his care, his love, a child desperately seeking his attention, and the demon gave it.

“I can’t.” The prince said, as tears streamed down.

“You can.” His father smiled. “A hero does the right thing, even in the face of ruin.”

And his eyes turned to stone. The Prince drew his Kriss.

#shortstory