Dark Tower Dreams - Part Seven
[OOC: Dark Tower dreams are not worksafe and often contain sex, violence, gore, death, rape, etc. Also, having them is completely voluntary. These are more like visions that strike your character when asleep (if not asleep, your character will be cast into a trance-like, unconscious state). If you like, you can log character reactions in the post, but please reply to the last post!]
The Dementors suck out the last of Rion's life in the graveyard, the demons laying waste to his thin corpse. Elena throws herself from the roof of the Shin-Ra building when Val turns into a zombie, her head splattering on the pavement below. The world rocks and turns, the earth splits and erupts. Cerberus attacks the Church, dragging Wrath away in his wake, laying waste to everyone in his wake.
You stare at the man and he just smiles as he watches from his little house in the woods, as the world begins to crumble all around. He lifts you into his lap and begins to hum.
Once upon a time, there was a wise and well-loved king who governed a small world, a hopeful paradise rich in beauty and the pursuit of knowledge. As The Wise King knew he was gaining in years, he called his six apprentices before him and asked each in turn what they wished of his inheritance.
The First, an ambitious and visionary apprentice, spoke without hesitation.
"Your throne and your name."
"Very well," said The Wise King, with a proud approving nod, for he had hoped that his ward would succeed him. "My title shall be yours to claim."
"Your summer estate" The Second requested close behind. He was a wild-eyed apprentice who rarely took matters seriously, and The Wise King gave a rich, knowing laugh as his wish.
"Very well, it shall be yours to enjoy." The Wise King then turned to The Third. "And for you?"
"Your treasury" the diligent apprentice said, for he was cynical of the worth of anything too abstract to be appraised.
"Very well," The Wise King agreed, trusting his third apprentice would tame the budget shrewdly. "all my wealth shall be yours to manage, to keep the kingdom prosperous....and for you?" he addressed the next.
The Fourth Apprentice cast a haughty look down the line at the remaining two. At least he could claim proud seniority over some.
"Your research notes, and all your scholastic materials" He requested, brisk,smug and certain.
"Very well, my libraries and-" The Wise King paused thoughtfully, for there were a few secrets of the trade he wished forgotten, rather than passed on. "Yes, a selection of my dissertations shall be yours to peruse and understand."
With that, an uneasy silence fell across the six apprentices, as The Fourth pursed his mouth and stepped back while the others snuck expectant glances to The First. The King's ward merely gazed at the slanted row of their shadows, and quietly regretted his choice. But now it was another's turn. There were two more chances.
Though the aging king was renown for his wisdom, he was not wise enough to to think this unrest any more than the usual petty rivalries for favor. And so he stepped before his Fifth, a broad-shouldered apprentice. "....And what would you like for your own, when I am gone?"
"Your gardens, for which our world is proudly known." murmured the man who dwarfed his master, after a long moment's consideration. The decision sounded resigned, but content.
"Very well, They shall be yours to till and grow." said The Wise King with a smile, for he knew this apprentice would steward the earth stalwart and steady handed, better than any other.
Finally, attention turned to The Sixth and last of The Wise King's Apprentices. He was also the youngest and the cleverest of all, calculated in his judgment and cautious with his craft. Unlike the others, the desires of his heart were not so deeply forged, or perhaps their balance was held subtler and hidden. When The Wise King gave him ear, he spoke quietly at first, bowing his head.
"I would ask nothing."
The others scoffed amongst themselves. They knew their peer to be too cunning to pass up such an opportunity, even if they had already taken prize pick of the inheritance.
"My dear boy," The Wise King smiled kindly,"surely there is something I can offer you."
"There is nothing more of your legacy I would dare ask." The Sixth Apprentice shook his head, politely insisting. "Already I have received the gift of your patronage, the riches and pleasures of the court and land, the guiding wisdom of your tutelage. Only..."
"Only?"
Prompted, the apprentice spoke freely.
"Only the assurance that when you are gone, we will have adequate space to expand upon your teachings, and pursue the fruits of our research, " And with words spun too fine for children's tales, this young schemer crafted an elaborate case for a laboratory unrivaled among worlds, a grand-scale hall of research set in private chambers beneath the castle,
"My dear boy," The King chuckled some time later, impressed by his aspirations."There is no need to wait until my passing for that wish. I will begin planning and construction on such a facility immediately."
At loss for his better wisdom, and indulgent for his young apprentice's avid plans, his attentions drew away from the dark dreams of his First, Thus, as the enigma and the prodigy had agreed upon in secret, the mysteries of the heart would be sought.
And so began the kingdom's end.
You smile as you watch them run, humming along to your father's tune. Kairi slits her throat with her keyblade before the monsters get her too, the bodies of her two best friends at her feet. The Missionary stabs Morgana through the heart, removing it from her still dripping body. The Hunters dive for Gabriel and rip at her back, sending flesh and bone every which way they can.
Your father chuckles softly. "It is a good night, son. Did you like the stories I made for you?"
Light Yagami laughs as you do, hugging your father. "Oh yes, Daddy. I did, ever so much."
"That makes me glad."
The lights of the city seem unusually bright. It might be atmospheric conditions, dry air leeching the humidity out of the air. Most likely, it is just a project of your frustration and anger, seeing insult where none is intended. The world should be darker. It should stop turning. Life should pause in its cycle. And it does not.
The world keeps turning. It keeps running. It remains bright and shining. What you can see beyond the window is proof of that. Life continues ever onward, stopping for no one and nothing.
You lift a hand. You could dim those lights. You could halt the world on its axis. You could make it stop. All of it. You could hold it outside of time in one eternal, endless moment.
“It’s okay.”
The sound of his quiet voice halts your hand, freezes your fingertips a fraction of an inch above the glass.
“No, it’s not.” Not a denial. A statement of an immutable fact.
“You can’t stop this.”
You glance over your shoulder, meet his eyes. “Yes, I can.”
"You knew it would happen.”
You have no answer to that. Of course you knew it would happen. This moment has been haunting you for decades, plaguing your sleepless nights, casting a pall of fear over your perfect moments. But that does not mean that you have to like it. That does not mean that you have to accept it.
Your entire life has been a refutation of rules and practices. You will not bend now. Not when it actually matters.
“Come here.”
And you go to him, abandoning the window and the wretched world that will not stop for the one that cannot continue. How long has it been since he waltzed into your life? Thirty four years, five months, eight weeks, three days, nineteen hours, and forty-two minutes. Every moment, carefully stored away, each memory preserved as if it had happened just seconds ago.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. You lay a hand over the one resting on the top of the comforter. And you take one final moment. One final memory.
The minutes pass, each falling grain of sand a lifetime. You reminisce about the days gone by, the worlds you visited and the people you knew, of memories both extraordinary and mundane. You relive your life together, until he can no longer speak. Until the task of forming words, pushing them from his throat, is too great. And then you sit in silence, together one last time.
Minutes, hours, the time is fleeting. The time is eternal. You sit there for days. You sit there for seconds. And then the time comes when the hourglass is nearly empty. When the last few grains of his life are dropping through the air, one after another.
“Goodbye,” you whisper, brushing a kiss over his lips. As you pull back, you see that his eyes are closed. Your hand trembles as you touch his face, a light caress that ghosts over his cheek.
Not gone. Not yet. But soon now. Too soon. You can feel him fading, drawing away from you. You can hear the beat of his heart winding down, the air barely inflating his lungs.
His voice is so quiet when he speaks your name that you hear him only because of what you are.
“Yes?”
“Wanted you to know...”
You stop breathing, make no sound. His eyes open. The last spark of light is burning out.
“You lit up my life.”
Then he is gone. The light dies as his eyes slide closed. No more air enters his lungs. His heart is still and silent. And the presence that you have felt wrapped around the essence of your being since the day he etched his name into your soul slips away.
You withdraw your hand. Stand up and take a step backward with none of your usual grace. Then you collapse to the floor as your knees buckle beneath you, the weight of your grief too much to bear.
Everything ends.
Everything except you.
The Reapers take their time on Naoto and take what's left of her to the square, where the last survivors begin to fight for their lives. Reno puts a bullet through Rufus' head on command and takes himself out as well, while Hanyuu shrieks as she watches. Zant laughs even as his Twilight crush him, turn on their master, and make off with the carnage. Blood floods the streets moving up to the center, the monsters piling body upon body up into a pile.
The Regenerators are the last to arrive, dumping the bodies of Konan and Roxas by the fountain, their flesh punctured as if by a thousand needles, sightless eyes hazy.
COMMALA COME
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom of white winged people, ruled by a king and queen. It was a small kingdom, but the people were happy and content, for they loved their king and queen. They were wise and just people, following the laws and codes that had been set upon their kingdom for it to flourish and their white wings reflected their purity and goodness. Time passed and the king and queen, like any mortal, grew old and died, leaving their children the kingdom. The people mourned their passing and the new king and queen vowed to rule as wise and just as the king and queen before, upholding the law for the people. They too, grew old and passed, and so the kingdom was handed into the hands of a new king and queen; this continued throughout the centuries and the kingdom quietly flourished under the rule of its rulers, each one following the laws and codes to ensure its prosperity.
Until one day, a king and queen betrayed their people.
In this kingdom, children were born wingless; they remained so until a certain age, when they would grow pure white wings. But on that day, the eldest child of the king and queen grew black wings. They were struck with horror, for black wings would mean the destruction of the kingdom. And thus, all black-winged children were struck down for the good of the kingdom.
But in a moment of weakness, the king and queen instead sent the child far away from their kingdom, lying to their people that the young princess had died. But the seed of calamity had already been planted, for the continued existence of the child of black wings would be the doom of the kingdom.
Twice the black-winged child returned to her kingdom. After her first visit, the king fell ill, poisoned by a growing evil force. On the second visit, the only royal heir was lost forever to the family, sacrificed to be trapped forever in the form of a great bird.
When the child returns for a third time, the kingdom of Wyndia will fall.
"Come, Joshua," the man rumbles, picking up you up onto his shoulders and leading you outside. "It's time." The moon illuminates every inch of the blood red town, easily visible from his shoulders.
You smile. "What are we going to, Daddy?"
He chuckles. "The feast."
( be careful of what you have done in the past, lest it return to HAUNT you )
The raven caws a warning, a triumph as it takes flight, darting towards the shadowed clouds. Yet it does not fly-merely circles above-coarse black wings almost invisible against the sky.
But to you, it is all too obvious, and you smile even as you don that mask (which really isn't one now, considering) which you always wore, bowing to the one standing in front of you even as you know this is nothing but a mockery.
Not of you, because there is nothing left.
Because it was not so very long ago that you stood here, and there was something there, beating with fear and hope and anger and such foolishness that has-like magic-disappeared.
Died.
The ending?
The future is a different story.
( the last PRINCE is always the one who is written about )
Wisps of clouds drift outside the window, blurred by glass which has begun to melt with age. But the sun still manages to shine through, brightening the russet tousles of the boy-no, no longer, he is a man now, and it is only the light which makes him seem otherwise-gazing out. Books are scattered around his feet, some open to this page or that, some closed with such finality dust has already begun to settle on their covers. They are about history, about war, strewn on the floor in the pattern of someone who knows he doesn't know what he's looking for.
"Of course. He means to break him," the not-boy says at last to someone just out of sight, though he does not turn his eyes from the sky. "I always wondered why he did not simply send someone to kill Father if-"
A gasp, and something falls to the floor with a rustling of paper. "Your Highness, you-I must advise you to watch your words more carefully," comes the unseen voice, not quite as composed as it would like to be. "If anyone should hear-"
The addressed prince turns, brows arched in annoyance but the words far too light.
"I'm trying to save the life of the king, not put it to an end. Surely I, as his son, should be allowed at least that much, even if it is considered treason to speak of the possibility of him dying."
His voice does not falter like it did once, and he turns back to the window.
"It is past the time to cling to convention. He will not pull his blade, so there is no reason for me to."
( do not BREAK promises to fairies )
The ring scrapes against the staff, belying her impatience though her face remains that of one confident that everything will go her way. "Oh? But it is far too late for you to amend the terms, dear boy." she replies, her voice lazy but containing a trace of harshness like the bird hovering above.
Small details. Discrepancies. It is too amusing, that she should boast of so much power and yet cannot control herself.
"I think I've been more than generous to allow you this much time to keep your word, have I not?"
And she extends a hand forward, as if to receive payment. But you merely incline your head, feigning respect.
"Quite. And I already have," you say, laying the palest shadow of stress upon the last word, just enough to twist its meaning. "It can hardly be considered my fault if you cannot hold onto the payment."
Here you pause, aware of the slight tangling of darkness as she seeks to rip the true meaning from you, letting the realization sink in.
"Or is the messenger to blame?"
Clothing can be changed, one does not have to arrive using the dark corridors. But you cannot pretend that you still have a heart.
It is one masquerade you would gladly end yourself.
( names have POWER, so do not throw them away )
The boy tumbles head-first into the red blaze of the rosebushes, heedless of the sleeves of his new clothes as he shields his face from the deadly thorns. Yet it is they who stop him from rolling in deeper, their long sharpness catching on the rich material and practically pinning him to a stop.
But he hardly dares to breathe, for fear of them digging into his skin.
"Come, little brother-you shall not defeat me if you stop to pick flowers!"
The words and the laughter floating in through the ruined petals is innocent enough, but the malice laced delicately into them is what prompts him into action. Slowly, carefully, he starts to untangle himself, trying not to let the thorns draw blood-
But there isn't another way, he cannot escape if-
He blinks, aware of eyes peering in through the warped gaps left by the flowers. Then a hand, extended to help? That is when he realizes that he has made so little progress that his brother has had time to walk back, and he bites his lip in a mixture of anger and shame.
The pride of a child is easier to hide, and he lets himself be pulled out. But even as he grasps his brother's hand, he has to try hard not to fling it away. I don't need help, especially not his. And when he's standing on his feet again, he does let go, reaching up to wipe off whatever it is dripping down his cheek while he stares up into those eyes defiantly.
He is met by only a smile, though there is something that snarls beneath at the defeat, challenging.
"You're braver than your name. I thought for certain that you would cry."
Bright red smears the back of his hand.
( do not venture into STRANGE places unless you know what is inside )
"So. You are one of them now."
Though clear with spite, her voice has lost its conviction. And you know it will not be long before she loses altogether.
"Correct. And you should know that our contract has been unfortunately severed as a result," you reply.
Stating the obvious perhaps, but her yellow eyes still narrow. She is not one to accept defeat easily, which makes you toy with the thought that maybe it was why he sought her out in the first place. The memories are indistinct, and you are unwilling to admit even to yourself that you do not know why some of them linger longer than the others.
As if sensing that, she laughs-a high, cruel sound. "Try not to be so delusional, boy. The affair is not finished yet, and I will have what is mine. A rose by any other name, after all..."
She trails off, leaving the implications stark and too close for comfort.
( set no conditions with your HELP )
The tree has grown. It is taller, branches spilling out in all directions and almost hidden by the leaves, both its own and those of the ivy twisting around it. But whatever sunlight there is casts more shadows than illuminates, and none of the two figures can be seen at all.
Only heard, and the first voice is an icy one.
"You will leave my presence and gather your possessions. You are not to take anything from the castle other than what you have brought with you, and you will pay whatever you may owe to the castle steward. You will also inform him that you have been dismissed.
"And you are not to return in the future."
The second voice is quiet, in the tones of someone who already knows the ending but still has to watch the story play out to its bitter end.
"If it pleases your Highness. And-since I will not have the chance to say it in the future, may your fortunes prosper when you become King."
A pause, and the first speaks again.
"If my plan works, I will never have to be."
( NEVER think of only yourself )
The flap of wings like stained pages announces the return of the raven as it lands on her shoulder, and it is that more than anything which indicates the ending. And she knows as well, for she settles for nothing more than a hateful smile.
You lift a hand, and tendrils of darkness swirl up from the ground to float before you. "If you have nothing more to mention than musings of the past, I've no time for tarrying. Should you actually have legitimate business with the Organization, however, I would suggest that you contact the Superior instead of seeking out other channels," you say.
But she won't. Not until she has more to fall back on than a few so-called pure hearts.
Yet she is apparently discontent to let you have the last word. "Loyal to the last, are you?"
And to that, you say nothing, because that is all she knows in the end. Another bow, and you are gone.
The Dementors suck out the last of Rion's life in the graveyard, the demons laying waste to his thin corpse. Elena throws herself from the roof of the Shin-Ra building when Val turns into a zombie, her head splattering on the pavement below. The world rocks and turns, the earth splits and erupts. Cerberus attacks the Church, dragging Wrath away in his wake, laying waste to everyone in his wake.
You stare at the man and he just smiles as he watches from his little house in the woods, as the world begins to crumble all around. He lifts you into his lap and begins to hum.
Once upon a time, there was a wise and well-loved king who governed a small world, a hopeful paradise rich in beauty and the pursuit of knowledge. As The Wise King knew he was gaining in years, he called his six apprentices before him and asked each in turn what they wished of his inheritance.
The First, an ambitious and visionary apprentice, spoke without hesitation.
"Your throne and your name."
"Very well," said The Wise King, with a proud approving nod, for he had hoped that his ward would succeed him. "My title shall be yours to claim."
"Your summer estate" The Second requested close behind. He was a wild-eyed apprentice who rarely took matters seriously, and The Wise King gave a rich, knowing laugh as his wish.
"Very well, it shall be yours to enjoy." The Wise King then turned to The Third. "And for you?"
"Your treasury" the diligent apprentice said, for he was cynical of the worth of anything too abstract to be appraised.
"Very well," The Wise King agreed, trusting his third apprentice would tame the budget shrewdly. "all my wealth shall be yours to manage, to keep the kingdom prosperous....and for you?" he addressed the next.
The Fourth Apprentice cast a haughty look down the line at the remaining two. At least he could claim proud seniority over some.
"Your research notes, and all your scholastic materials" He requested, brisk,smug and certain.
"Very well, my libraries and-" The Wise King paused thoughtfully, for there were a few secrets of the trade he wished forgotten, rather than passed on. "Yes, a selection of my dissertations shall be yours to peruse and understand."
With that, an uneasy silence fell across the six apprentices, as The Fourth pursed his mouth and stepped back while the others snuck expectant glances to The First. The King's ward merely gazed at the slanted row of their shadows, and quietly regretted his choice. But now it was another's turn. There were two more chances.
Though the aging king was renown for his wisdom, he was not wise enough to to think this unrest any more than the usual petty rivalries for favor. And so he stepped before his Fifth, a broad-shouldered apprentice. "....And what would you like for your own, when I am gone?"
"Your gardens, for which our world is proudly known." murmured the man who dwarfed his master, after a long moment's consideration. The decision sounded resigned, but content.
"Very well, They shall be yours to till and grow." said The Wise King with a smile, for he knew this apprentice would steward the earth stalwart and steady handed, better than any other.
Finally, attention turned to The Sixth and last of The Wise King's Apprentices. He was also the youngest and the cleverest of all, calculated in his judgment and cautious with his craft. Unlike the others, the desires of his heart were not so deeply forged, or perhaps their balance was held subtler and hidden. When The Wise King gave him ear, he spoke quietly at first, bowing his head.
"I would ask nothing."
The others scoffed amongst themselves. They knew their peer to be too cunning to pass up such an opportunity, even if they had already taken prize pick of the inheritance.
"My dear boy," The Wise King smiled kindly,"surely there is something I can offer you."
"There is nothing more of your legacy I would dare ask." The Sixth Apprentice shook his head, politely insisting. "Already I have received the gift of your patronage, the riches and pleasures of the court and land, the guiding wisdom of your tutelage. Only..."
"Only?"
Prompted, the apprentice spoke freely.
"Only the assurance that when you are gone, we will have adequate space to expand upon your teachings, and pursue the fruits of our research, " And with words spun too fine for children's tales, this young schemer crafted an elaborate case for a laboratory unrivaled among worlds, a grand-scale hall of research set in private chambers beneath the castle,
"My dear boy," The King chuckled some time later, impressed by his aspirations."There is no need to wait until my passing for that wish. I will begin planning and construction on such a facility immediately."
At loss for his better wisdom, and indulgent for his young apprentice's avid plans, his attentions drew away from the dark dreams of his First, Thus, as the enigma and the prodigy had agreed upon in secret, the mysteries of the heart would be sought.
And so began the kingdom's end.
You smile as you watch them run, humming along to your father's tune. Kairi slits her throat with her keyblade before the monsters get her too, the bodies of her two best friends at her feet. The Missionary stabs Morgana through the heart, removing it from her still dripping body. The Hunters dive for Gabriel and rip at her back, sending flesh and bone every which way they can.
Your father chuckles softly. "It is a good night, son. Did you like the stories I made for you?"
Light Yagami laughs as you do, hugging your father. "Oh yes, Daddy. I did, ever so much."
"That makes me glad."
The lights of the city seem unusually bright. It might be atmospheric conditions, dry air leeching the humidity out of the air. Most likely, it is just a project of your frustration and anger, seeing insult where none is intended. The world should be darker. It should stop turning. Life should pause in its cycle. And it does not.
The world keeps turning. It keeps running. It remains bright and shining. What you can see beyond the window is proof of that. Life continues ever onward, stopping for no one and nothing.
You lift a hand. You could dim those lights. You could halt the world on its axis. You could make it stop. All of it. You could hold it outside of time in one eternal, endless moment.
“It’s okay.”
The sound of his quiet voice halts your hand, freezes your fingertips a fraction of an inch above the glass.
“No, it’s not.” Not a denial. A statement of an immutable fact.
“You can’t stop this.”
You glance over your shoulder, meet his eyes. “Yes, I can.”
"You knew it would happen.”
You have no answer to that. Of course you knew it would happen. This moment has been haunting you for decades, plaguing your sleepless nights, casting a pall of fear over your perfect moments. But that does not mean that you have to like it. That does not mean that you have to accept it.
Your entire life has been a refutation of rules and practices. You will not bend now. Not when it actually matters.
“Come here.”
And you go to him, abandoning the window and the wretched world that will not stop for the one that cannot continue. How long has it been since he waltzed into your life? Thirty four years, five months, eight weeks, three days, nineteen hours, and forty-two minutes. Every moment, carefully stored away, each memory preserved as if it had happened just seconds ago.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. You lay a hand over the one resting on the top of the comforter. And you take one final moment. One final memory.
The minutes pass, each falling grain of sand a lifetime. You reminisce about the days gone by, the worlds you visited and the people you knew, of memories both extraordinary and mundane. You relive your life together, until he can no longer speak. Until the task of forming words, pushing them from his throat, is too great. And then you sit in silence, together one last time.
Minutes, hours, the time is fleeting. The time is eternal. You sit there for days. You sit there for seconds. And then the time comes when the hourglass is nearly empty. When the last few grains of his life are dropping through the air, one after another.
“Goodbye,” you whisper, brushing a kiss over his lips. As you pull back, you see that his eyes are closed. Your hand trembles as you touch his face, a light caress that ghosts over his cheek.
Not gone. Not yet. But soon now. Too soon. You can feel him fading, drawing away from you. You can hear the beat of his heart winding down, the air barely inflating his lungs.
His voice is so quiet when he speaks your name that you hear him only because of what you are.
“Yes?”
“Wanted you to know...”
You stop breathing, make no sound. His eyes open. The last spark of light is burning out.
“You lit up my life.”
Then he is gone. The light dies as his eyes slide closed. No more air enters his lungs. His heart is still and silent. And the presence that you have felt wrapped around the essence of your being since the day he etched his name into your soul slips away.
You withdraw your hand. Stand up and take a step backward with none of your usual grace. Then you collapse to the floor as your knees buckle beneath you, the weight of your grief too much to bear.
Everything ends.
Everything except you.
The Reapers take their time on Naoto and take what's left of her to the square, where the last survivors begin to fight for their lives. Reno puts a bullet through Rufus' head on command and takes himself out as well, while Hanyuu shrieks as she watches. Zant laughs even as his Twilight crush him, turn on their master, and make off with the carnage. Blood floods the streets moving up to the center, the monsters piling body upon body up into a pile.
The Regenerators are the last to arrive, dumping the bodies of Konan and Roxas by the fountain, their flesh punctured as if by a thousand needles, sightless eyes hazy.
COMMALA COME
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom of white winged people, ruled by a king and queen. It was a small kingdom, but the people were happy and content, for they loved their king and queen. They were wise and just people, following the laws and codes that had been set upon their kingdom for it to flourish and their white wings reflected their purity and goodness. Time passed and the king and queen, like any mortal, grew old and died, leaving their children the kingdom. The people mourned their passing and the new king and queen vowed to rule as wise and just as the king and queen before, upholding the law for the people. They too, grew old and passed, and so the kingdom was handed into the hands of a new king and queen; this continued throughout the centuries and the kingdom quietly flourished under the rule of its rulers, each one following the laws and codes to ensure its prosperity.
Until one day, a king and queen betrayed their people.
In this kingdom, children were born wingless; they remained so until a certain age, when they would grow pure white wings. But on that day, the eldest child of the king and queen grew black wings. They were struck with horror, for black wings would mean the destruction of the kingdom. And thus, all black-winged children were struck down for the good of the kingdom.
But in a moment of weakness, the king and queen instead sent the child far away from their kingdom, lying to their people that the young princess had died. But the seed of calamity had already been planted, for the continued existence of the child of black wings would be the doom of the kingdom.
Twice the black-winged child returned to her kingdom. After her first visit, the king fell ill, poisoned by a growing evil force. On the second visit, the only royal heir was lost forever to the family, sacrificed to be trapped forever in the form of a great bird.
When the child returns for a third time, the kingdom of Wyndia will fall.
"Come, Joshua," the man rumbles, picking up you up onto his shoulders and leading you outside. "It's time." The moon illuminates every inch of the blood red town, easily visible from his shoulders.
You smile. "What are we going to, Daddy?"
He chuckles. "The feast."
( be careful of what you have done in the past, lest it return to HAUNT you )
The raven caws a warning, a triumph as it takes flight, darting towards the shadowed clouds. Yet it does not fly-merely circles above-coarse black wings almost invisible against the sky.
But to you, it is all too obvious, and you smile even as you don that mask (which really isn't one now, considering) which you always wore, bowing to the one standing in front of you even as you know this is nothing but a mockery.
Not of you, because there is nothing left.
Because it was not so very long ago that you stood here, and there was something there, beating with fear and hope and anger and such foolishness that has-like magic-disappeared.
Died.
The ending?
The future is a different story.
( the last PRINCE is always the one who is written about )
Wisps of clouds drift outside the window, blurred by glass which has begun to melt with age. But the sun still manages to shine through, brightening the russet tousles of the boy-no, no longer, he is a man now, and it is only the light which makes him seem otherwise-gazing out. Books are scattered around his feet, some open to this page or that, some closed with such finality dust has already begun to settle on their covers. They are about history, about war, strewn on the floor in the pattern of someone who knows he doesn't know what he's looking for.
"Of course. He means to break him," the not-boy says at last to someone just out of sight, though he does not turn his eyes from the sky. "I always wondered why he did not simply send someone to kill Father if-"
A gasp, and something falls to the floor with a rustling of paper. "Your Highness, you-I must advise you to watch your words more carefully," comes the unseen voice, not quite as composed as it would like to be. "If anyone should hear-"
The addressed prince turns, brows arched in annoyance but the words far too light.
"I'm trying to save the life of the king, not put it to an end. Surely I, as his son, should be allowed at least that much, even if it is considered treason to speak of the possibility of him dying."
His voice does not falter like it did once, and he turns back to the window.
"It is past the time to cling to convention. He will not pull his blade, so there is no reason for me to."
( do not BREAK promises to fairies )
The ring scrapes against the staff, belying her impatience though her face remains that of one confident that everything will go her way. "Oh? But it is far too late for you to amend the terms, dear boy." she replies, her voice lazy but containing a trace of harshness like the bird hovering above.
Small details. Discrepancies. It is too amusing, that she should boast of so much power and yet cannot control herself.
"I think I've been more than generous to allow you this much time to keep your word, have I not?"
And she extends a hand forward, as if to receive payment. But you merely incline your head, feigning respect.
"Quite. And I already have," you say, laying the palest shadow of stress upon the last word, just enough to twist its meaning. "It can hardly be considered my fault if you cannot hold onto the payment."
Here you pause, aware of the slight tangling of darkness as she seeks to rip the true meaning from you, letting the realization sink in.
"Or is the messenger to blame?"
Clothing can be changed, one does not have to arrive using the dark corridors. But you cannot pretend that you still have a heart.
It is one masquerade you would gladly end yourself.
( names have POWER, so do not throw them away )
The boy tumbles head-first into the red blaze of the rosebushes, heedless of the sleeves of his new clothes as he shields his face from the deadly thorns. Yet it is they who stop him from rolling in deeper, their long sharpness catching on the rich material and practically pinning him to a stop.
But he hardly dares to breathe, for fear of them digging into his skin.
"Come, little brother-you shall not defeat me if you stop to pick flowers!"
The words and the laughter floating in through the ruined petals is innocent enough, but the malice laced delicately into them is what prompts him into action. Slowly, carefully, he starts to untangle himself, trying not to let the thorns draw blood-
But there isn't another way, he cannot escape if-
He blinks, aware of eyes peering in through the warped gaps left by the flowers. Then a hand, extended to help? That is when he realizes that he has made so little progress that his brother has had time to walk back, and he bites his lip in a mixture of anger and shame.
The pride of a child is easier to hide, and he lets himself be pulled out. But even as he grasps his brother's hand, he has to try hard not to fling it away. I don't need help, especially not his. And when he's standing on his feet again, he does let go, reaching up to wipe off whatever it is dripping down his cheek while he stares up into those eyes defiantly.
He is met by only a smile, though there is something that snarls beneath at the defeat, challenging.
"You're braver than your name. I thought for certain that you would cry."
Bright red smears the back of his hand.
( do not venture into STRANGE places unless you know what is inside )
"So. You are one of them now."
Though clear with spite, her voice has lost its conviction. And you know it will not be long before she loses altogether.
"Correct. And you should know that our contract has been unfortunately severed as a result," you reply.
Stating the obvious perhaps, but her yellow eyes still narrow. She is not one to accept defeat easily, which makes you toy with the thought that maybe it was why he sought her out in the first place. The memories are indistinct, and you are unwilling to admit even to yourself that you do not know why some of them linger longer than the others.
As if sensing that, she laughs-a high, cruel sound. "Try not to be so delusional, boy. The affair is not finished yet, and I will have what is mine. A rose by any other name, after all..."
She trails off, leaving the implications stark and too close for comfort.
( set no conditions with your HELP )
The tree has grown. It is taller, branches spilling out in all directions and almost hidden by the leaves, both its own and those of the ivy twisting around it. But whatever sunlight there is casts more shadows than illuminates, and none of the two figures can be seen at all.
Only heard, and the first voice is an icy one.
"You will leave my presence and gather your possessions. You are not to take anything from the castle other than what you have brought with you, and you will pay whatever you may owe to the castle steward. You will also inform him that you have been dismissed.
"And you are not to return in the future."
The second voice is quiet, in the tones of someone who already knows the ending but still has to watch the story play out to its bitter end.
"If it pleases your Highness. And-since I will not have the chance to say it in the future, may your fortunes prosper when you become King."
A pause, and the first speaks again.
"If my plan works, I will never have to be."
( NEVER think of only yourself )
The flap of wings like stained pages announces the return of the raven as it lands on her shoulder, and it is that more than anything which indicates the ending. And she knows as well, for she settles for nothing more than a hateful smile.
You lift a hand, and tendrils of darkness swirl up from the ground to float before you. "If you have nothing more to mention than musings of the past, I've no time for tarrying. Should you actually have legitimate business with the Organization, however, I would suggest that you contact the Superior instead of seeking out other channels," you say.
But she won't. Not until she has more to fall back on than a few so-called pure hearts.
Yet she is apparently discontent to let you have the last word. "Loyal to the last, are you?"
And to that, you say nothing, because that is all she knows in the end. Another bow, and you are gone.