The Woken Lilium
There once lived a prince, a prince who every day basked in the warmth and reverence unparalleled by any other of his kind. Each day he would stand at the summit of his palace overlooking the many joyful faces of those subjected to his splendid reign. He would glide through the streets with a gossamer-like tread and colour the streets with scenes of praise and adoration reserved only for royalty. Each day he would be greeted by both old and new faces wearily travelled from far and wide.
The iron fists of Ramsville beat on the great oaken doors of the palace, often bearing gifts of gold and silver, gifts that would grace the halls with treasures of splendour and opulence.
The beauteous and mystical seraphim of Bowland that would so often come to bless people with bountiful lessons of love and wisdom, lessons obtained from countless generations of trial and tribulation.
Even further abroad would come the many hooded and mysterious ghouls of the never-world, these were spread far and wide throughout the land but were unified in a clandestine whisper hissing at the borders. These beings would impart wonder and fear in equal measure, leaving all that met them both stricken and spellbound.
All throughout the land each and every individual would venture on an exhaustive pilgrimage to hear the fair song of the Woken Lily, planted deep in the centre of the palace gardens. The wondrous and sensual tones of the flower inspired awe in all that heard it. And this was why above all else the Prince was admired and adored. Adored for his right to the voice that inspired the hearts and minds of all who heard its spell.
All that knew the prince doted on him whole heartedly, and whilst he never exploited a soul, he was perhaps ignorant to the experience of what it was to love another. However, one day somebody changed this, someone taught him the torture of desire, the pang of want and exposed him to the leech that was love.
She came from Bowland, a seraphim of particular differences. One of both enduring loneliness and unassailable beauty. She had no desire to charm the hearts of men or adorn her body with jewels and trinkets. Her skin was a priceless ebony and her eyes were the rarest of sapphires. The sun would bound across her skin and waken the colour in her eyes.
He saw her first as he'd seen many, stood before the lily with an unbreakable gaze and struck with a perfect silence. He stood beside her often equally enchanted by the dulcet tones. She spoke daintily yet sternly with her arms locked by her side and her face doused in the dim light of the moon.
The prince longed to speak to her, but he was stricken with silence, not even a quaver in his voice but a dumb hush. The seraphim grew quickly tiresome of the Prince as his silence trespassed on hers. “Why do you stand there dumb prince? Be heard or be gone”. And with this the Prince felt the wretch at his heart and the knot in his stomach. His voice was lost not just for her, but for all.
He was from that night onwards torn with an intense longing. Every day busied with thoughts of her, every night wondering at what notes struck in her heart besides those of the soul lily. Love lorn and wretched the prince was most often bed bound and ill seen outside the palace walls. His subjects stirred with ponderings of his whereabouts and as his absence permitted, their admiration of him wore and rotted.
The days lulled on by at an aching pace, each sunset unwantingly staining his homeless prison. Further and further he descended into a self deprecating madness, he would languish at his reflection as he saw the shrivelled, decrepit man that was once a prince.
With the print of his body etched into the sheets and the smell of idleness staining the air, the prince one day dreamed a dream that would bring resolution to his now aimless life. A dream narrated by a child, a voice that was erratic and cherubic, and so captivating that it possessed the qualities of hypnosis.
A flower was plucked from the ground by a mighty hand.
You will force the flower from its roots.
As the flower was raised it splintered into leaves of a deep red.
Seeds will scatter across the land, their colour will bleed into the earth.
From the earth rose angels adorned in florid robes of glistening white.
Witches spoiled with virginity will steal the hearts of men.
The leaves embraced mankind with sprigs of blossom
Branches will snatch at their fists and tear at their throats.
The angels cradled man's head and mopped his brow.
Witches will rouse at their genitals and lech at their tears.
Man held their breasts and stroked their face.
Man will rape the virgin and break her skin.
Man and angel slept cheek to cheek.
And they will live and bleed together.
In the dead heat of the night the Prince wandered into the palace gardens. Between his thumb and forefinger he held a match, a match that spotted the deep greens of paradise with flecks of mortal red. Far into the garden he trod until he stood before the Woken Lily, the place where the fire of the match was etched into the black of his eyes. The fire that dimmed, that scorched his finger tips and that died away. The garden was dark.
Beings from far and wide traversed the land to stand before the gates of the palace. For high above the gates hung the china white contour of a once loved Prince. A frail, naked body draped in a spoiled crimson robe, unmarked and unmoving the Prince seemed to look upon the fruits of his empire. But with a steadfastness in his eyes that characterised the dead. The stem of a flower was looped about his neck whilst the blossom of the Woken Lilium lay rotting against the garden floor.
