The doors locked to Lordnol Hall, I stood outside adorned in my yellow gown and crown, a bright spot against the barren and dying land. I was the golden sun in the night that returned to bring life to death, not only for Clementine but the sullen landscape around me. The wealth and nature of this accursed ground were sapped from the wealth inside, the treasures that awaited mortals and appeared enticing with frivolity and success. Yet my treasure, my wife, was beyond that of any corporal pleasure or measurement put to the human mind, and these iron doors would not stop a King.
My hand thundered across the surface of the door, abandoning the ring attached as my hand seeped with blood and drenched the hooped sleeve of my robe. The moon shone brightly above, the wind blowing softly as if to mimic a calm ocean across the plains.
The gears of the locks shifted loudly, my attention returned to the door as the attendant peered at me incredulously.
“It is the middle of the night...”
“Indeed it is,” I replied, waiting patiently. He did not open the door further than the size of his mortal body, examining my golden attire and crown before respiring deeply.
“Name and business?”
“Hastur,” I smiled generously, “and I am here to collect my bride.”
“Of whom do you speak of?”
“The Queen of Yhtil, Cassilda,” I announced. Dear readers, my flare for dramatics and art never cease, even past the point of mortality. “You might know her as Clementine, the sweet fruit of the tree...”
At this moment the wave of recognition washed over the attendant, perhaps my stance or tone of voice reminding him of the man I once was. He paused, his hand clenching to the door before allowing me inside cautiously with a pallid expression.
“I will let her know you have arrived,” the attendant lied. I nodded in allowance, for while I knew he was to gather Ellandor from his slumber, I could not fault him as a man to follow orders. He was a captive of men and could not see past that vision, as I once could not- and no shame would produce him out of it. If anything, my greatness of presence might be the divine power or persuasion, not my reckoning hand.
Waiting in the lobby I recalled days earlier, full of song and glorious depictions of holy wars in this great Hall. I admired it as the old painter I was, the colors and techniques amongst the ceiling creation reminding me of dear Quinn. His effort was not in vain and what was left of God was nothing but a memory of my mentor. God meant nothing else, nor was he a challenge to my resolve anymore.
“What in heavens are you doing here, Henry?”
I watched Ellandor descend the stairs angrily, his eyes widened at my presence and spectacular attire. His dress robes of sleep tangled at his feet, almost causing him to stumble down before motioning the attendant to depart.
“It is unlike you to curse, Patriarch Ellandor,” I remarked, shifting my body toward him. The yellow robe draped over my head and my body moved fluidly with my motions, covering my face in darkness in certain angles. His eyes glazed over me in fear and confusion.
“...What are you wearing?”
“My flesh,” I shrugged innocuously. “Has my bride been summoned?”
“Henry...tell me you did not read the book,” he whispered. He voiced a strange and nuisance tone of earnestness that I did not appreciate. I held my anger and impatience at bay, for while Hastur is not a man of forgiveness, I granted him time to stand in my immaculate presence without haste.
“You were right in that I was running away. It is clear that your God had some divinity to give you such wondrous insight... as your King, I may find use for it.”
“King? Christ, Henry, you are out of your mind! Insane!”
Anger boiled within me as I stepped forward to him. I was not insane, nor was I out of my mind. I never felt more in it, alive as the words of the anonymous author had granted me at last my rightful title amongst this mortal plane.
“My bride, where is she? You are to bring her to me.”
A flash of grief washed over the Patriarch, a resolved understanding of deep pain that he appeared to resonate with me strangely. His hand came to my shoulder, a firm grasp on my robes that felt soiled by his false divinity and power. I attempted to disguise my shudder away from his grasp as disgust.
“Henry, Clementine died...shortly after you left.”
I paused momentarily before the halls of Lordnol were blessed with my laughter, bellowing into the lifeless marble that once held such light and worth. He stared incredulously, watching me as if I were a creature of examination under the glass, a number on a list to disseminate amongst the wealthy masses: a monster in which we cannot control. I heard the utterance of a prayer on his lips, taking his hand from my shoulder into mine.
“Patriarch, it is a sin to lie,” I reminded. “Twice you have sinned in my presence! A curse and then a lie- surely God must smite you down here as you stand! Shall it be a marvelous strike of lightning or perhaps a bolt of fire from the heavens? How shall the everlasting, powerful Patriarch be sentenced?”
“It is not I to be sentenced, Henry,” he rejected sternly, his pacing heading back towards the stairs cautiously. “You have read a cursed play and now place yourself at center stage, pretending to be this king above God, paraded about in a costume and false crown. You were nothing Henry- this performance changes naught and certainly does not bring Clementine back to life. Leave, or I will force you from this land.”
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“With what? A stern reprimand of my place in society? There is no weapon brandished in your gowns, Ellandor. Your words do not frighten me nor stall me from my purpose here. You are now in my way and shall be removed henceforth.”
“My servants were called upon,” he threatened, “and they have contacted the proper authorities.”
“Proper authorities? Your high and righteous God cannot strike me where I stand? I know not a God that requires the assistance of others, for I would be more than pleased to lead you to your destiny with Death.” Laughter bellowed out of my lips once more as his face paled with trepidation, his sweat reeking and staining his precious halls with repugnance. I saw his mind race to thoughts of a brandished weapon under my gowns, for only one of us wore the attire to conceal one so. I wondered what he thought I had...a knife? A pistol locked away amongst the folds of my fabric? Poisonous claws that would paralyze him with a single cut?
“What a dreadful tease you are, Hastur.”
The pair of us looked up at the staircase, the most heavenly beauty descending the first set of steps to the inner landing. A gold mask covered most of her face, leaving only her plump lips and tan chin emanating in pure radiance. Her red gown covered her body, her arms draped under as if she wore a blanket for warmth as her skin was too blessed to shine upon us. I watched as Ellandor turned in horror, frozen in tumultuous fear that his wife was no longer deceased, no longer covered under the white sheets tainted with his sin. My bride had arrived...soon to be my queen, and I knew she would be far more fearsome than I.
“Clementine...how can this be?” Ellandor breathed.
She imagined her mortal husband would motion for his sign of the cross if he was free with the ability to move, and she was in awe of the power of her stance... a man always enamored in authority to be rendered numb. She relished in her authority over him, tilting her head as if to observe him with judgment.
“Blessed are the youthful children marked for glory in His name, raised in reverence above all that they might see....” She descended the stairs in frenzied motions, her knees unbuckling with each step- slow but calculated- a predator in the sight of her prey. “What was it you told me at the altar when I saw you adorned with God’s adoration but my abhorrence?”
The Patriarch could hardly speak, mumbling incomprehensible words as my bride stepped close to him, the reek of death accosting him to tears. His gaze could not look at the dark eyes beneath the mask, gleaming against the bright candles of the halls, wax melting swiftly from her heated hate. His eyes met the tile floor to avert his gaze from her, only to find the shadows in the reflection consuming their very image.
He answered her response but not to her liking.
“Speak up, Patriarch!” she screeched.
“God loves you... but not like I will,” he shuddered, falling to his knees in her reverence and splendor. She looked down upon him not of pity, nor any feminine grace she was instructed to have in her youth- it was the observation of Death in which she surpassed by his god. The years of torment and loneliness spent in these halls echoed around her in memory. Her eyes blazed with vengeance as her right hand slid under the back of her gown.
“He is nothing, my bride,” I echoed in sentiment, outstretching my hand for her to take. I longed to return home... reunited in her warmth and love to be seated in Carcosa and feel the sea mist as her kisses on my skin. “Let us go home.”
“Yes, yes! I give you my permission to depart,” Ellandor agreed, only out of panic about the consequences. I sought no personal vengeance against this man, for it was not I that was a prisoner to his fate, nor his God. His eyes might hold judgment for those beneath him, but we were no longer the ones on our knees, gazes to the heavens in hopeful prayers of rescue.
“We do not need your permission,” I reminded, “and we shall not thank you for it.”
I looked towards my bride once more, my hands once full of mortal life begging for her presence. The halls and lobby above us echoed the dying flies, released from her room as they buzzed invisible amongst our heads. The whispers of her dying prayers echoed, some words hardly coherent other than desperate screams. Her gaze did not depart her husband and I understood that despite her immortal flesh taking over her body, her soul remained imprisoned.
“Oh, King in Yellow, Hastur.”
I heard this man’s pleas, his widened blue eyes begging as he turned to look at me. He stood up suddenly, rushing at me with grasping arms at my elbows, his knees giving out as his feet struggled to keep him afloat. My heart jolted with distress shortly, confused by his actions and clinging hands.
“My lamb, the chosen of God,” he announced. “You shall deliver us, yes? I will be your most faithful servant, sending your word amongst the masses of your arrival onto this mortal plane! To speak your unspeakable horrors amongst the masses- It shall be done as you will it, my King.”
I watched as this man transformed into the very accusation of which I stood accused only moments before: a performer in robes of conceit and lies. This man was not yet free from the insanity of my words, for he only followed this path to save his soul from the destruction that remained. He begged for his life, adjusting his fickle stance of who God was to him. At first, it was family as a boy- then reverence of holy acts amongst the commons, to being God himself with wealth and status, attaching a beautiful wife to his treasures. Now I too was his chosen God, and yet I would not accept his deceit nor punish him for it.
As it was not my place nor my resolve to free my bride-for she had the power within herself, first freeing me from my mortal chains. Now it was time to free herself.
“Henry...Hastur! Please!”
His pleas came too late as he could hear Clementine stumble behind him, a broken body strong enough to plunge the hidden dagger into his heart. His breath caught, blood depleting into his lungs to drown him. His eyes attempted to turn over his shoulder to gaze at her once more, but she denied him that finality as she removed the dagger with an ancient agility. She whispered in his ear before his body collapsed.
“To know violence is to know your god.”
His body seeped onto the white tile floor, tainting with red and drenching the edges of our robes. Behind her mask, her eyes gleamed with anticipatory excitement, her warm hands conclusively taking my hand swiftly. Her eyes did not leave mine as her feet flew over her captor’s body, the two of us embracing in tumultuous glee.
“My darling bride, you are nothing short of wonder,” I whispered, kissing gently behind her ear to which she echoed in laughter and pure song.
“Had I known I had the power of freedom, I would have done this long before,” she responded, squeezing me with all her strength. “It was your paintings that reminded me.”
My hand went to her mask, holding it carefully against her face as I kissed her with the passion of my former self, her power no longer stirred by contempt or hate but purposeful ecstasy. The world before us grew silent, the halls of his god seeping with rot and blood before his attendant stood ready at the door.
Clementine-Cassilda...stood in my arms as she glanced at the man who followed his orders of her imprisonment. One hand opened the iron door, the other carefully holding onto her copy of The King in Yellow. Her head leaned against my chest, the two of us watching him cautiously before she resolved into action. Taking my hand, she leaped towards the door with rejuvenation.
“Pallid, you were once a stranger but now have a higher calling,” she announced to the servant, to which he nodded fervently. “Tell the others the time has come.”
I was a master of creation, paint being my chosen medium- and yet Clementine has written what is now to follow.
This work is a letter to the masses- to those who know the word of their King. May they rise to meet me in our place amongst the stars, a reclamation of sanity. Come find me and my bride, for not many can speak that they have been reborn twice. May you, my followers and gentle audience, discover a similar fate.