Once Upon A Crowned Heart

Fourteen

Heathrow Airport

London

Private airstrip

The ambulance sirens wailed with a dissonant melody, their piercing notes shattering the fragile slumber that draped the city of London in a false sense of tranquility. To the unsuspecting onlookers, the arrival of the emergency vehicles in a frenzied procession towards Heathrow Airport was nothing short of a surreal spectacle.

 Little did they know that nestled within the chaotic whirlwind was the Prince of Wales himself, teetering on the precipice of sanity, locked in a battle of life and death. The once regal halls of Buckingham Palace echoed with a cacophony of silence, a deafening void that sealed away all whispers and shadows of the outside world.

Clutching his phone in a white-knuckled grip, Charles, his clothes singed and tattered, wore the scars of a deranged symphony performed by the flames. Beneath the remnants of charred fabric that clung to his tormented flesh, a half-melted plastic case whispered sinister secrets. Reginald, broken and unconscious, his body bearing the grotesque artistry of burns and a fractured skull, hovered precariously on the precipice of oblivion.

 The doctors, their faces etched with both weariness and trepidation, fought against the relentless current of his deteriorating condition, their efforts a futile resistance against the tempest of madness that enveloped them all.

But amidst the gloom, an embodiment of malevolence lurked, reveling in the chaos he had sown. "Your Highness," the doctors murmured, their voices tinged with an undercurrent of fear. "Their conditions remain critical, hanging by a thread. We can offer no promises of salvation." 

The man, his eyes ablaze with lunacy and delusion, regarded them with a chilling detachment. "Ah, my dear doctors, you too are mere pawns in this grand game of fate. But worry not, for I implore you to summon every ounce of your feeble mortal abilities to save him. After all, he is a prince, a jewel of our crumbling monarchy."

The chief physician, a mere puppet in the hands of the deranged orchestrator, hesitated before speaking. "Shall we inform Princess Mary of the dire situation?" The man's lips curled into a manic smile, a grotesque parody of joy. "No, no, leave that burden to me. Focus your energies on their salvation, for in their survival lies my twisted triumph." With a dismissive wave, he sent the chief physician scurrying into the shadows, consumed by his own doubts and fears.

As he ignited a cigar, the smoke swirling like a dance of demons around his unhinged countenance, the man reveled in the dark tapestry he had woven. "Oh, Charles, my dear prince, how I have longed for this exquisite moment. You danced to the tune of my madness, a puppet in my hands. But oh, how I wish the tragedy extended to all four of you, your meddling girlfriend and her conniving advisor. They dared to poke their noses where they didn't belong. And now, as you lie on the precipice of annihilation, she soars above the clouds, blissfully ignorant of the impending darkness that will devour her soul. She, too, shall pay for her treachery, for joining forces with you."

With a twisted satisfaction, he dialed a number, his voice laced with a wicked delight. "Prepare everything, my loyal servant. Let the great performance of torment commence upon her arrival. Ensure her tears flow like a river of despair, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of her own naivety. Only then shall my insatiable hunger for vengeance be quenched." As he

severed the connection, the man sauntered past the smoldering wreckage, a testament to his unyielding madness. Gloved fingers traced the remnants of destruction, a macabre caress bestowed upon the remnants of a shattered world.

"Such a shame, such exquisite beauty reduced to ashes. This masterpiece deserved a more deserving fate, Charles. Alas, you have stripped it away, just as you have stripped away the boundaries between royalty and the commoners. Your audacity knows no bounds, your disregard for our revered traditions an affront to all that is sacred. But fear not, for the time of reckoning has arrived." His gloved finger pressed against the wreckage, an unholy communion with the remnants of his delusions.

"Ah, the sweet whispers of madness guide me," he murmured to the void, his voice a chilling echo lost to the winds. With deliberate steps, he retreated into the waiting abyss of his chauffeur-driven car, its steel shell tainted by the malevolence of its occupant. The door creaked open, a gateway to damnation. 

"Where to, sir?" the trembling voice of the chauffeur quivered with trepidation. A deranged smile stretched across the man's face, his eyes gleaming with a madness that defied all reason. "Home, my dear driver. My lady grows impatient, waiting for my return. She lies alone in our bed, unaware of the webs we have spun, oblivious to the horrors that await her."

As the car melted into the ethereal darkness of London's early dawn, it carried within its depths the seeds of despair, a vessel bound for a harrowing destiny. The fading silhouette marked the passage of an impending storm, cloaking the city in an impenetrable shroud of melancholy, cruelty, madness, insanity, and unyielding darkness. The echoes of his sinister laughter lingered in the air, intertwining with the silent cries of a world plunged into the depths of his demented machinations.

Word Count: 880 Words