A Truth Untold

Chapter Two

The cold metal beneath his fingers felt more like an extension of himself rather than the inferior material that it was. The familiar feel of its flawless surface was one he had once admired, the craftsmanship placed into its creation being something pulled from a dream, yet no longer did it entice his interest. Although it did feel a part of his body, the unnatural cold that it managed to retain reminded him that both were very much apart. His mouth twitched in distaste over the thought, as never once had he been parted from it, never once in so many a year had he been allowed to feel another’s existence. Looking down upon his hands, the skin deathly pale, veins intersecting in a web of deepest black, he wondered if he may become part of the metallic throne if enough time passed. I may as well be, he thought.

The metal he felt beneath his hands belonged to a great throne, towering over six feet into the air. The throne wasn’t decorative, intricate nor was it furnished. Instead, it was made of one solid block of metal unknown to all but its creator, which history had forgotten, and could neither be moved nor reshaped, the Ethereal Throne living up to its name. Its surface contained no tool marks, no signs of age or decay, and was perfectly moulded to the king’s body. It had not been created in this way, but shaped itself to the dimensions of its occupant. Beneath, hundreds of gears and small motors of machinery clinked and clanged, turning in order to sustain his life. Pulleys and ancient designs connected gears to winches, an endless network of mechanical life, burying itself deep through the cracked floor. Although a magnificent object, no soul possessed the desire to rest upon its ominous being. He had been its ruler past living memory, but although he lived upon the throne as such a ruler, he was destined to die upon its alien surface. The dark throne and the dark king. Who ruled who was a questionable matter.

However, now was not the time for reminiscence. The king, though thousands of years old and feeling the strain of time upon his limbs, was fully aware of what awaited in the future. So much understanding was waiting to be unlocked behind invisible doors within his mind, yet reality dusted over the paths required reaching them. The desire within his mind clawed at his every emotion, dominating his sight and commanding every action he made. His hate for it was more than he could put to words, yet the prizes it offered exploited his every temptation. If this was what waited, should the massacre of New York have origins from……… the thought was beyond his comprehension, immediately making him aware to the sudden fragility that his mind had entered a state of. 

This was his last chance, his last ounce of imagination and effort in securing his sanity. Should it succeed, his mind would be free and nothing would stand before him. He would gain the knowledge of all things he wished to command, all things that presented themselves to existence. He would be able to satisfy his cravings for information, storing all he knew into a library none could access but himself. He would learn of the present, future, and the misty regions of his past. Oh, the joy and satisfaction of supremacy above any other. He could hardly contain his sudden flood of emotion in the thought of such an event.

But now, there were no steps he could ascend to achieve his dream. He could only sit, residing himself to just a few more moments of pain and anguish. His time was drawing near, and his actions alone would bear fruit of success. He would break free of this pitiful fate that had been thrust upon him, dealing swift punishment to those that had done so. Just a little longer, he thought, a little longer until greatness.

The dark king closed his eyes, leaning back against the ethereal throne, and began to dream.