The crimson veil weighs heavy upon Hettalies’s gazes as the morbid design of her industrial city corroded to an unbearable extent. The steam no longer exhaled from those long pipes—no longer did the repetitive cycle of her contraptions produce the blood she craved evermore by the passing year. She turns to her dimly lit room, where the women are stretched, drained of their essence—appearing more as corpses than living beings. The spider-like contraption pushes and pokes these women’s bodies, hoping to obtain a little of what is left.
“I knew this day would come…” Hettalies muttered to herself in defeat, “A fate of my creation, ambition of a greater future… My heart is, however, stained by that curious man. Karthuras—was this your doing? Did I succeed in bringing out the worst in you without the phantom by your side?”
She ventures out into the long halls where the pipes are scattered in intricate patterns reminiscent of webs. Almost impractical, flaws of décor for production. She is not guided by her will, only lost within her labyrinth. By pressing herself against the warm fetid machines, her hand opened the hatch, revealing a familiar sight: That abhorrent maiming of the virus—placed in conditions both living and dead. The many men and women uttered the soft—gurgling tone that echoed from their lips, only ignored by their Empress, whom they had adorned for many years. Only echoing that similar tune, with such melody, comes the prince’s courses. The burden of longing, craving oblivion from the delicate taste of fermented essence— ‘love,’ one might say. The phantom’s power weakens within his metal sarcophagus from lacking that drink. Together, they wither—together in codependency. Whimpering at the sight of his mother, she said:
“We had everything! Why must it crumble down like so? That—bastard took everything from me…”
The Phantom added: “Hettalies, you should have listened to me on that fateful night—we could have ignored this and created our ideal world!”
She did not reply, nor could she in her state of turmoil. Behind her eyes came only that familiar sight of her labor. The birth of her son, from his human form to the monster, she created using morbid artistry. Again, she had to walk away, always herself, to become trapped inside her maze.
Upon such desolation, her wandering leads her to the throne room. The servants lay helplessly on the ground, shivering, hacking until their throats grew sore. There will be no empathy shown; instead, they will express contentment. She pulls aside her black dress to then rest against her industrial throne. Staring lifeless into the darkness, she could faintly focus on hearing the whaling tune. The act of moving is well obscured.
Outside, not far from her place of solace, a being shambled upon the capital, wrecking the industrial parts that once held together in abstract harmony. This being goes beyond purity; indeed, it manifests malice and brutality of all living, including the contraptions of production.
Standing in elegance to the spiraling chaos before him, Karthuras remains with his mask equipped, hiding away his spiteful expression. The whim of darkness is all that transpires in his thoughts. Transversing the rubble and corpse, he eventually enters the castle, where the empress and prince remain. The faceless woman appears by his side, saying:
“It’s a shame this had to happen so… Commencing a tragedy that leaves this world in ruin.”
He replied: “As I had learned before—we cannot save these souls from their deeds of stagnation. This was my purpose, after all… Think I’ll of me, but there was no better option.”
Once inside, he finds himself alone in the dank room, engulfed by the shifting darkness, transversing the pipes and decadent furniture—of the many lives once kept within these walls does the sorrowful chasm weigh its heavy burden. The feeling was faint; he could see that familiar figure before him. Exceptional, her dress is in that moment—of the darkest shadow in the physical figure, her face, a swinging lantern that brings forth the burdened outcast. In her eyes, she stares at the masked man, knowing her end has come. She told him:
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“It's been a long while since we last spoke to one another, my love… The cruelty of your actions had left me wandering… wandering what had shaped you into the man you are now. Was it from your transformation? Or the phantom I had developed within you?”
He takes off his mask to reveal his skeletal face, “I had longed in bitter despair when you threw me into the gallows when I had not risen for revenge or any form of malicious intent. No… My infliction for humanity dissipated from this corruption! Why must everyone suffer from your influence? Were you not Sleeper’s chosen protector?”
She walked forward until she was close enough to hold his hand, “Why waste away in sadness, my love? It does not matter anymore, for we are the only ones who remain in this world. You had murdered our son and the entire kingdom. Now, you must forget and let us rebuild once again. And with a new child, stronger than the last.”
He pulls himself away, “Damn you!” He falters in despair, “What have I done to deserve this cruel fate… I don't want any of this to happen! I cannot bear to watch this world suffer…”
She stares deep into his darkened eyes, “Again, I can see the man I remain in love with… Embrace me forever, and you will—”
Before she could finish her sentence, her stomach was gutted by his fist. “There is no love between us… only desperation.” With his remaining hand, he grabs onto Hettalies head to rip it from her torso! In death, she finally parts from this world—removed from that growing burden. Allowing it to grow within Karthuras instead.
Such despair could only linger as his son and the phantom clung to their fading life, a beast of mutilated circumstance enriched by the industrial parts. He clings to the nearest rusted pipe as his father approaches. He could not speak or want to; his breaths were haggard. However, within that sarcophagus, the phantom opens the contraption that opens the seal to reveal himself and the complicated parts that run this machine. Fading within these final moments, he speaks:
“What will happen to us now, eh—the old body of mine?”
“There is nothing more I can say or do… Only observe my only son die in bitter defeat. Perhaps I can give you both a chance to finally rest…”
#
How strangely apparent the sun rises with its scolding gaze upon deadlands so, from the ray of flames—its persistent body can outlast most living things if correctly maintained. Like that of a human or Gramnorian, he breathes and grows.
Within the Phader’s arms, the phantom prince felt the malice of that spreading heat. Was purpose the cause of its eager motion? Could such a marvel be spiteful of any living organism? A lifetime of questions that are rendered unnecessary of an answer.
Answers—the prince wanted as of now. Why would his father take him away from his forsaken kingdom, succumbing to the desecration he caused?
Within this bitterness, that familiar instrument plays to their presence—that hollow tune the stranger is well practiced in, and no longer is he hidden. His head is clear to see: The shape is round as it is vast, imperfect, veiny with curves, and forward stretched. He said to Karthuras:
“My blood—thy blood my father named me; hence the name shall be…”
He replied: “It matters not who you are, only wish to pass through and give my son a proper burial. Then enjoy the everlasting solace.”
Blood continued: “You have all the time you need to contemplate and—manufacture your personalized hell… but for now, you must heed my words… The next cycle will begin, and you will become its protector as Hettalies had before.”
“I am no longer a man of good intention.”
“You are the one of chance and reason. Correcting the fate of stagnation so they will not succumb to its torment—thus is the reason why you are our best candidate. You must understand what these actions will imply; if not, then a demon who is far worse will take over. Allowing your vicious cycle to repeat. Do you not wish for the future generations to move forward with hope and pride instead of sorrow?”
Karthuras thought about his answer. “What do you need me to do?”
“You will know in time, as for now—I have a gift for you.” Blood snaps his fingers, then, from the ground, a steel capsule rises, when opened he says: “Place your son inside…”
Without question, he followed his demand.
Blood spoke further: “Before his soul departs from this world, I shall allow him to be reborn into the next cycle.”
“What about the Phantom?”
“He will always remain within your son, but not wrongly so. When the stagnation arises, you will release him into the new world, allowing him to commence the final tragedy or freedom. I cannot see the future, of course. As for the populace, there is still a large supply of humans and Gramnorians to enrich this land once more. In the meantime, life on the surface must grow… Now, what say you, my friend?”
“From this tragedy—this—circumstance of eternal infliction must I bear? Of gloom evermore will I again choose the populace destined fate… If this was my purpose from the beginning, I shall bear it longer if necessary. I only wish—for my son to have a full life in his rebirth.”
End
