Prelude: A Fault Not In The Stars
Once upon a turmoil, there was a great person who fell from glory. One of the conspirators that worked against him was dear to him. And yet the conspirator killed him, without reluctance. But after the great person was dead, the conspirator’s entire life became a question: how could I have done so? He wondered and suffered until he let himself die. Did the conspirator really love the great person? Which death was in vain?
Dale.
Then meticulously crosses it out. Drags the quill through the paper. It rips. He balls it up, throws it on the ground. It’s too late. He has secured himself a place in hell just for what he’s done to her.
It’s all set up. His death will not stop the tragedy. The Prince and The Raven, those damned creatures of loss, are safely locked up within their story. He doesn’t have to think about it anymore. He just has to unbolt his door and wait for them to come. So easy.
And yet his hand is shaking, sending ink skittering across the page. It hasn’t shaken like this since he last touched her. Since he carved himself up like a prize turkey and left only table scraps.
He closes his eyes. The words materialize in his mind, slinking out of the shadows, falling onto the paper with the tears that he will never shed for her.
He sighs deeply and crosses that line out.
But the people did not wish to be characters, and so they came for him to take his stories from him. To kill him.
They did. They chopped off his hands and bled out his passion. He died on the street next to an abandoned warehouse, alone and trying to be bitter. He did not stay dead for long.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that his entire life has been to spite her, that he has never had a friend that didn’t hate him in their heart, that he is about to be ripped to pieces by a crowd who is sickeningly, unjustifiably right.
The words are wonderful.
He grins. Lightyears from this dusty room, his star-eyes burn. His hand flies across the paper and the story continues.
Waiting for him was not a fire-and-brimstone pit, but a carefully constructed town-machine, filled with gears and pulleys and ways to still weave narratives. He had beat them after all. He would spend eternity here, bringing his plans to fruition. The townspeople thought he would never manipulate them again. But in killing him—ha!—they had given him complete control over their fates and lives.
FIN.
He laughs deeply, then. He knows it will not be the last laugh, and he laughs because no matter how much he suffers, no matter what they do to him, tragedy is in the hands of the writer. And there was only one writer in Kinkan now.
He shakes his head. Useless to keep on hurting. He’s had more than half a lifetime to look away. He must let go, turn, and face it. The destiny is predetermined.
She will be in her coffin. He will be in his machine. Forever is beautiful.
Slowly, he rises and saunters over to the door. His hands, in their last second of belonging to him, flip the latch up and throw the door open wide. He will wait some time, but not long, for them.
Once upon a turmoil, there was a great person who fell from glory. One of the conspirators that worked against him was dear to him. And yet the conspirator killed him, without reluctance. But after the great person was dead, the conspirator’s entire life became a question: how could I have done so? He wondered and suffered until he let himself die. Did the conspirator really love the great person? Which death was in vain?
He sits at the writing desk, hand clenched around a quill as if to strangle the language out of it. But there is no anger in his face, just haggard wrinkles and eyes that burn with an emotion he shouldn’t be able to have. Star eyes, while the rest of him has fallen to earth. Supernova will.
He’s going to die today. He can feel it in his hands, touches of realization stroking his fingers, trembling up and down his skin. It makes him stronger. He slowly raises the quill to the paper in front of him, and writes…
One name. Four letters. An eternity of guilt.
He’s going to die today. He can feel it in his hands, touches of realization stroking his fingers, trembling up and down his skin. It makes him stronger. He slowly raises the quill to the paper in front of him, and writes…
One name. Four letters. An eternity of guilt.
Dale.
Then meticulously crosses it out. Drags the quill through the paper. It rips. He balls it up, throws it on the ground. It’s too late. He has secured himself a place in hell just for what he’s done to her.
It’s all set up. His death will not stop the tragedy. The Prince and The Raven, those damned creatures of loss, are safely locked up within their story. He doesn’t have to think about it anymore. He just has to unbolt his door and wait for them to come. So easy.
And yet his hand is shaking, sending ink skittering across the page. It hasn’t shaken like this since he last touched her. Since he carved himself up like a prize turkey and left only table scraps.
He closes his eyes. The words materialize in his mind, slinking out of the shadows, falling onto the paper with the tears that he will never shed for her.
There was once a wonderful storyteller, a man whose visions took life. He found many stories in a town, and told them all, without a care to whether the townspeople wanted to hear them or not. What mattered was the stories, the great tales of heroic feats and the tragedy that followed
Everything wonderful is followed by tragedy, a familiar dogging at the heels of
Everything wonderful is followed by tragedy, a familiar dogging at the heels of
He sighs deeply and crosses that line out.
But the people did not wish to be characters, and so they came for him to take his stories from him. To kill him.
They did. They chopped off his hands and bled out his passion. He died on the street next to an abandoned warehouse, alone and trying to be bitter. He did not stay dead for long.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that his entire life has been to spite her, that he has never had a friend that didn’t hate him in their heart, that he is about to be ripped to pieces by a crowd who is sickeningly, unjustifiably right.
The words are wonderful.
He grins. Lightyears from this dusty room, his star-eyes burn. His hand flies across the paper and the story continues.
Waiting for him was not a fire-and-brimstone pit, but a carefully constructed town-machine, filled with gears and pulleys and ways to still weave narratives. He had beat them after all. He would spend eternity here, bringing his plans to fruition. The townspeople thought he would never manipulate them again. But in killing him—ha!—they had given him complete control over their fates and lives.
FIN.
He laughs deeply, then. He knows it will not be the last laugh, and he laughs because no matter how much he suffers, no matter what they do to him, tragedy is in the hands of the writer. And there was only one writer in Kinkan now.
He shakes his head. Useless to keep on hurting. He’s had more than half a lifetime to look away. He must let go, turn, and face it. The destiny is predetermined.
She will be in her coffin. He will be in his machine. Forever is beautiful.
Slowly, he rises and saunters over to the door. His hands, in their last second of belonging to him, flip the latch up and throw the door open wide. He will wait some time, but not long, for them.
Profile
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
poetoffire- poetoffire
Syndicate
