On the fifth night he slid into my workshop to watch my work. The carpets ripped and the stone churned as it carried King to the depiction of Gloria; his favorite. Her eyes were opened, witnessing all. Her mind’s eye was closed, veering ever inside. A book in one hand, a sword in the other, law and order.
‘Oh, Gloria, to bask in your radiance. Fill me with your bliss. Relieve me of this pain, this longing, this decrepit body, this filthy existence.
‘Did you know, Belial, the great tale of our goddess? She was but an orphan, once. Our land had not yet existed. Fragmented and fragile, humanity spread across the land in the wake of young civilization. No, humanity was not always civil. It was these days that were instrumental to that cause; The first wars.
‘Little orphan Gloria walked those bloody battlefields. Doing what she could to survive, she looted her first sword; in truth a dainty dagger, but it proved deadly in her hands. Through the years, she arrived at the dawn of war, and in time, bannermen rallied behind her. The word glory was derived from her name, even in our times. We housed orphans in our small temples and churches, preparing them to walk her path. There was some… glory in this, some success.
‘Do you understand, Belial, what caused her to ascend? She, the most holy of the Trinity, the first true god of humanity. Clearly, it was war, but what aspect? Was it the followers, or the sacrificed?
‘Belial, show me more of her. Reveal her blessings to me. Don’t you think she’s watching our struggle, pining for us to triumph in our personal wars, waiting for our noble escape of this hellish pit? Yes, yes you do. Oh the gods are surely scheming to return us to the remains of humanity. To restore our right forms. Our deal with Ashe must stand even the test of time. We must be owed at least a hundred years more, don’t you think? Speak to me, Belial, what are the gods thinking, you imagine?’ The stiff grimace had turned down into a droopy half moon. He had a madness about them, the way his gravelly voice cracked with strain as the loss seemed to choke him. ‘Tell me, Belial, I need to hear your reassurance, my sculptor, my priest. You are my last connection to the gods. I can’t even FEEL them anymore.’
It would be this way, often. He’d be ecstatic for whatever reason, his body pressed against the wall, drooling on Gloria's hips. Then, he’d crumble. He filled me with sadness. This great man, reduced to this state, withering away like me, drowned in self pity.
Once, Anite and Tess had tugged at the wool before my eyes, ripping it off to show me there was still life to live. I would tell King that the gods adored and loved him, but I couldn’t. Lately, my heart has felt too full to lie to him.
‘I think we’re dead to the gods.’
King stayed deadly silent and turned around to regard me with his four beady eyes.
‘What… What did you say?’
‘Or the gods are dead. All of them. I feel there is no in between. I’m sorry, King, I feel no divinity from my sculptures.’
He said nothing. His massive shape deflated, seeming fragile despite his bulk. It was as if he were frozen, for a moment, a hush settling into the room. He didn’t answer my statement. The earth simply rumbled to twist and turn him around, carrying him out of my workshop, leaving me in eerie quiet.
---
Chip, chip, chip away. That’s the only thing that would go through my mind. Maybe it was the only thing I understood. Perhaps that was happening to my mind.
Under the guide of my deft hands, the chisel turned rough stone into edges, turned edges into curves, and brought life to the curves. The statues seemed captured in an eternal prison, capturing their final movements along with them.
Ragon’s draconic features ripped through the thunderous clouds, edged deep into the walls, to smite down a tiny castle. This scene in the Rage of Ragon was arguably the last one, and although I lived to survive the incident, this specific scene came entirely from imagination. Who knows what Ragon did to vent his rage at us, we were no longer there.
How long did it take to carve this, I wondered, wringing my sensitive ears in a painful twist. My work was spent in a haze, and it showed in its quality; it was spectacular, as if my confession had stirred something within me to grasp a truth at last, a painful truth.
Though, I might just be delusional. In all honesty, the depiction looked blurry through my eyes. A faintness dragged on my eyelids. How long ago did I last eat anything? How long had I hacked away without sleep? The answers filled me with dread, and I couldn’t keep myself from crying.
The statue was so large.
My arms felt so gaunt and atrophied.
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Where were my friends?
I stumbled weakly through my atelier, falling against the centerpiece where the holy trinity whirled in its dance of power. My stomach grumbled as I continued to crawl its circumference to come face to face with the exit, and a stranger. Three strangers in fact. Little black rat heads turned curiously around the corner, regarding me with big eyes.
‘Huh.’ I said, and couldn’t help from giggling. How far gone was I? Strangers; there couldn’t be any here. We were the only ones in this castle. One of them smiled, and stepped into my atelier. ‘Hey, no kids allowed in my workshop!’ I cackled, followed by a fit of coughing.
The small rat ignored me and walked up to me, helping me to sit up straight before handing me a stone plate with raw meat. On closer inspection, there was a white, thorny line of fur running across the girl’s forehead.
‘King says you should eat, or you’ll die.’ She said to me, and in my haze I accepted it without question. That did sound like something King would say, and if they had food, well… Anyway, the kid walked away from me and I focussed on the food. It was definitely mother’s, but it tasted so good. Through my delirium, I heard the kid speak to me once more, but I paid it no mind. ‘What a dreadful painting, but I guess that’s properly what happened. Poor Ragon.’
---
When I awoke, the wrongness dawned on me. What happened while I had worked. Slowly, I got up, fighting off a headache, heading out of the atelier. I needed to confirm what had happened. Weakly, I stumbled through the stone halls of the castle, following the low chitter and chatter of words up ahead in the mess hall.
It had never been so crowded before; over a dozen little black rats filled the dining area, their little bodies covered in white markings and edging patterns, playing, fighting, eating.
‘Who are you?!’ I demanded, The rasp on my throat tearing me up. The rats stilled to look at me, their eyes big and cautious.
‘Who are you?!’ They yelled, and started laughing.
Some rat came to me and took me by the hand, leading me into the fray where another rat had already gotten me a plate to eat. In my stupor I followed the girl, seeing it was the same rat as earlier, the one with thorny branches marked around his pate. ‘You should eat.’ She said, and I sat down to accept the plate. ‘I volunteered to care for you. You must be confused about me and my siblings. They’re confused about you as well.’
‘Who are you? Where did you come from, for Gloria’s sake. You can’t be real.’
‘We don’t know. We were just born, I think.’
‘Where are my friends? Where is King.’
‘King is in the throne room. No one is allowed to enter.’
‘Where are my friends? Where are Tess and Clementine?’
‘...’
‘Where are they?!'
‘I… think they are in the room.’
‘Show me, now.’
The girl seemed nervous, but she led me out of the dining area, a horde of little rats waving us goodbye and asking us questions as they walked along with us. The girl with the thorns sent them away and brought me along. It made me sick. I felt like I was going crazy. I had been feeling it for a long time. This was… expected.
We reached a large hole in the wall, leading into a room I didn’t recognize. I noticed that the girl stopped walking as we grew closer to the crevice, and as I turned around to look at him, I felt from his eyes that he did not want to enter this room. Swallowing a lump, I turned around to enter, digging my nails into my arms. There was something about this room, the way it loomed over me.
---
I woke up in my atelier.
I don’t remember how I got here, but I must’ve gotten here a while ago, because there were stone plates littering the floor, and I noticed a lot of my art was broken, utterly destroyed. Faces had been edged out, seemingly by my chisel. The smaller free standing statues had been tipped over. In front of me lay a fragment of Ragon’s head. I picked it up, and dropped it. It felt hot for some reason.
I got up to my feet, and picked up the hammer that lay beside me. I wasn’t as faint as I had been. Evidently by the broken plates, I had been eating, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember. The last thing I remembered was walking into that looming room. That room where I’d find my friends.
The picture from the Rage of Ragon caught my eye. Not because of how stunning it was, but because it was different somehow, changed. In the clouds of Ragon, I’d edged an entirely different painting. I’d gone into that room, and then I created this.
‘NO!!’
Was that my scream? It must’ve been. In my heart I rejected the painting. It could not be what I saw in that room. It was too sad. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I cried as I reached out my hands to the image. Just seeing it drove a stake through my chest. It couldn’t be. I must’ve gone crazy. Finally, I must’ve been pushed over the edge to imagine something like that. After all, I’d blacked out and created this. How decrepit am I?
I caressed the curves I’d edged into the wall, and looked at my hand. It was my right hand, the hand in which I would hold the chisel to change my world, to create a reality in which I could live. The only hand that could’ve created this picture. I looked at my left hand that held the hammer.
A loud crack sounded, and I saw the hammer hit my right hand. Pain flared through my body and I screamed in agony as I fell on the broken stones littered around. I shivered as I lay on the ground, looking at my mangled hand. If I’m going crazy, I thought, I just have to inflict myself with pain. The pain had never failed to bring me back.
I began to laugh.
Pain exploded from my hand as the hammer cracked it again, breaking bones, rending flesh, and again, and again. I kept laughing through the streaming tears, though others might mishear it for howling. I would never be able to create such hideous lies.
I sat there for a while, looking at the bloody stump where my hand used to be.
I really had gone crazy.