If I was destined to be nothing, why have I been called up for such an ending? The Crown is mine, yet there are none to rule.
But if I could bring you back, I would do it once, twice, thrice times over and so, so, so much more. I know who I am and w...
A lone figure erupts from blackened, desecrated soil, gasping for dry air as her lungs inhale with a hollow breath. Her skin is charred, and her eyelids, lips, and feet are torn. The air craves sacrifice when there is none to give, giving off its atmosphere of red and the scent of rotting iron.
A mound appears in the distance, showing a silhouette of inexplicable despair in the wake of her corruption. The charred figure felt compelled—she started crawling towards the mound. With brittle bones and broken ichor, hands swept the legless thing she called a body when reality knew it only as a carcass.
She reached the mound, touching strands of... hair. The figure stared at it, and her jaw dropped as she found her own reflection written on the visage of this corpse. They were all corpses! All of her corpses. She stumbled back, but she was still compelled. Her exposed teeth chattered, shaking as if opposing the gums that held them.
She began climbing.
She began climbing the hill of her corpses. But the further each hand swept itself, the taller the height appeared to be. Gravity maladjusted, and the blood trail followed, yet she still climbed. Breathing became a labor—the acidic burning air proved that well.
It was difficult to tell the state of the figure, for her face had little to paint expressions. But one thing was clear—she could not escape her fate.
Slowly, step by step, she would see her agony unshackled once more.
As she ascended the peak of the mountain of corpses, eyes saw it all—what could be comprehended and all that shouldn't.
As she ascended the summit of the corpse mountain, her eyes took in everything—both what could be comprehended and all that defied understanding.
The precipice had long since been breached, and the tree had fallen many moons ago. Yet, this single fruit drew the lamb's gaze to her, the sheep. And so, it was known to the On High—she could bear no fruit again.
Two entities, defying Euclidean geometry, loomed above and below, locked in a silent contest of malevolence and might. Between them, a dialogue unfolded.
