▬▬▬ thy salvation, conducted by tragedy

You were the most beautiful flower of Kálíkhaan, the most adored lily of the lands.

As the lily among the thistles, so was your existence among the unenlightened.

NOW, THE SEASON CAME TO PASS: fall arrived, a time for harvest.

It was a tradition to put on your royal apparel to thank the celestial beings for all of the fruitful and lush harvests. You were summoned by your father, Tula the king, and there you stayed in the inner court of the king's palace, where the banquets were held.

The servants had brought you to the banqueting area of the palace, and the banner over you was their loyalty. They stayed you with flagons, comforted you with fruits: for they thought that you were sick of solitude.

The king sat upon his royal throne, and it was so, when the king saw you, thine princess, having not fellowship to anyone, you obtained rapport in his sight. Then said the king unto you, "How about my beloved princess, thy daughter, what thou desire? It shall be given thee."

You could have said anything, yet the first impulse of your mouth was to answer, "Nothing."

Your response went through your mind. It didn't make any difference; nothing was going to make you jovial, that could make you desire for something. But you were also congenitally unable to refuse anything offered to you, no matter how little it might suit your tastes.

"If it seemed good unto the king," you paused. You were aware that your father wasn't satisfied with your answer, thus you added and replied, "Thy safety and well-being of thine family—thine father and thine mother, as well as to thine brothers—only matter to thee, I desire nothing else."

Your father reacted to your expectation: be flattered by your nonsensical and farcical words.

"My servants, my people, listen very well!" Tula the king suddenly exclaimed, garnering everyone's attention. "To my daughter's delight, every place whereon the soles of thine princess's feet tread will be thee: from the wilderness of the east and west shall yours be. Everyone here is thou witness!"

Everyone cheered afterward, joyous laughter followed next along with the gleeful and heartfelt applauses.

You felt almost as if your inner flesh churning, almost vomiting everything out of your cunning mouth. It made you feel utterly wretched, yet you had a life you need to live up to, so you smiled, extending your genuine gratitude.

So sickening.

How beautiful you were, thine Highness, thine priestess, how beautiful, so pleasing beyond words.

Behold, your eyes were like doves' eyes within your locks. Your hair was like the veil of the night and lips that were like a thread of scarlet. Your speech was comely and your smile was flawless. Your exterior was fair, just an artisan whose creations were expressed through ornaments and studs on your hazel skin.

You were altogether beautiful, beautiful in every way.

Nonsense.

How mistaken they were to adore you.

You sneered.

You sat down under the shadows of the great sacrificial temple with utter distress, and its gloom was ghastly to your taste.

Lo, a new season had come. The winter was past, the rain was over and gone. The trees put forth their green canopies, the flowers appeared on the earth, and the time of the singing of birds was being heard once again.

It was a beautiful beginning, as far as your comprehension could imagine, only for the crimson tides that were meant to greet your eyes.

Fire. Screams. Death . . . War.

You gazed through the lintel of the temple pyramid, trying to fathom your significance on the palm of this dreary world. You laughed when you fathomed nothing.

Evil-doers from an unknown country were coming up from the wilderness like a column of smoke, scented with blood and despair made from all the life force of the mortals. The glowing embers scourged like a dusking sun, it was as though a purification had fallen on this defected land. Your mind was relishing the image of crying people bathed with blood and fear. It started from under your feet, crawled through your bloodstreams, and it engraved right from your very lungs up to your head.

A city was ought to fall, being basked and suffocated with billowing smoke, only to wait for its demise, its end.

You would see people begging, pleading, desperate of saving. They would gather to your sacred place, bowing in deep wailing, face meeting the dirt of the earth.

"Priestess, my priestess!"

So they called unto you. Their tear-stained faces dulled you out; they were pathetic under the gaze of your upright eyes.

"Save us, thine priestess! Pray for us, priestess! Only thou the blessed one could commune with the gods! Please pray for our lives to preserve!"

How repulsive.

Save them?

Couldn't they see? You were no god. And if such gods existed, they must be cruel to have these mortals suffer from the moment they received their first breath up to the moment of breathing their last breath.

Pathetic souls, for thy salvation hath not found.

Writhe, writhe . . . And wither against the dying of the light.

How deserted lied the city, the one once so full of people, was great among the nations. The roads we full of mourning people and all of the gateways were desolate: the priests groaned, the children grieved, the land was in bitter anguish. You saw the desperate plight of your people: little children and tiny babies were fainting and dying in the forsaken streets.

The enemies had brought grief unto this nation, because of the many sins it had spawned. All the splendor had departed from the domain of Kálíkhaan. Those who fled were like deer that found no pasture, and in weakness, they had hasted before the pursuers.

The enemy laid hands on all the treasures, and you saw the other pagan nations entered the sanctuary of the temple pyramid—those you had forbidden to enter your assembly.

You chuckled. You mocked. And you scoffed.

The gods had rejected all the warriors and people in your midst; instead, a great army was summoned against this country to crush the young and old, men and women. And in the footstool of the enemy, Kálíkhaan was trampled like grapes in a winepress.

Then your eyes averted on the incoming carriage.

Well, well, it was your father's carriage, escorted by the warriors, the noblest and most valor of Kálíkhaan, all of them wearing their spears and shields, all experienced in battle, prepared for the terrors of the night.

They brought the king inside the temple, hoping to tend the wounds he received in the war. You didn't know where did the king get his principles to lead the nation through this seasonal war as he dealt with the loss of many of his sons. Since you were the treasured princess, the priestess, you stayed inside, hoping that you would comfort those who were weary in hearts.

. . . In which you never did. Instead, you gave mockery upon their fragility and absurd beliefs.

Now, the king's time had come.

An enemy must have strung his bow and slain the king with horrid arrows in his arms, in his legs, and his bowels. Yet Tula, the king, was still breathing. Blood bubbled on his mouth as he bared his teeth in agony.

His end was certain. He smelled rotten, incensed with death.

Your mother, Harbona, ran to his aide and cried and wept until her words would no longer come. Her heart was broken and her spirit was poured out in agony.

You came to their side, kneeling, painting a deceitful sadness before the eyes of the tragic king and queen.

He was your father, you could feel the sadness as you became aware that he was about to get perished, yet you couldn't shed even a single drop of your tears.

"M-My daughter . . ." he groaned as he reached out to your hand. "Thine king knew how my daughter's heart grew faint . . ."

Your face almost twisted in disgust, yet tried to remain still as you listened to his dying words.

"I called to my allies, but they betrayed me," he cried. "My men and my sons perished in the ghost of the city while they sought their way out to relieve their souls . . .

"Behold, my daughter, how distressed I am! I am in torment within, thine heart . . . Outside, the swords bereaveth; at thine temple, there is only death . . !"

Deep beneath the mortal king's eyes were filled with fear. He was devasted, ruined, and trapped. Tears were streaming on his face, it would not stop, because of the destruction of his people. His heart was broken to see the fall of the men and women of Kálíkhaan, his affliction and misery, forever would be engraved even in the afterlife.

"S-Such bitterness beyond words . . !" He grieved. "My soul hath this awful time in remembrance, as thine king mulled over the loss, yet I still dare to hope when I remember my beloved princess, thy priestess!"

His whimsical proclamations galled you. His words were in vain, it should return null and void.

"It is of my daughter's devotion, praying that we will see a new morning, because thine priestess' compassion fails not . . !"

Your foolish father didn't cease his indiscrete talks. It must be the cause of standing in front of the death's door, and you wanted to take a blade and silence him immediately.

"My beloved daughter, who art blessed one, is my inheritance; therefore will I hope in her!" His bloody hand gripped yours, depicting a strong emotion about his empty testament.

Such lies and absurdness did prevail in the king's mouth; his destination would be straight to the underworld.

And even so, it happened, the king had gone from existence.

He died.

Once the king took its eternal rest, everyone in this sacred temple lamented. Then your mother, Harbona the queen seconded the king's manifestation.

"Behold, hearken ye, my people!" Even though her breaths were rasp and short, she also didn't waver to spout nonsense. "Cast all your trust and hope to thine priestess, Kálíkhaan's beloved daughter!"

Your blood started to boil with rage. You held still, staring at your delusional mother. She was drenched in desperation, blinded to see how incapable you were to bring redemption unto your forsaken clan.

"Come now, my awful people, our only hope resides on our priestess, mine most adorned daughter! Trust in her, she will save us! Go, now go, my gallant warriors! Doth let not thy king's hope go in vain! Declare to all our people to give our hope in our thine priestess!"

In her hollowing pain, now she had made a desperate call to her make-believe god, you. Assuredly, the warriors and the servants were compelled by your parents' trifling and insignificant woes and followed their examples.

The warriors did spread the word unto the pitied people outside to put their hope on you. The servants bowed down as they lifted your name higher, murmuring their heartfelt faith in you.

Your mother had gone mad. Her face was contorted in hopelessness, and she forgot her grace and elegance.

It was like a vex in your soul when your parents' declaration was not human, it was twisted, blurred, and fiery. It flamed up so bad, the rage was lacing your being, creeping up to your spine.

Sacrilegious people.

Hadn't they realized? You had rejected your own altar; you despised your own sanctuary. Lo, you even gave Kálíkhaan's magnificence to its enemies . . . How could they still hope in you?

Waves of fury curled in the pit of your stomach. The word rage barely described your breaking point. Your mind went on overdrive, filled with irrational thoughts.

Then you picked up a lightweight blade as if it was designed for your hand.

With your other hand, you caressed your mother's face and smiled dearly at her.

She looked up unto you, her miserable face etched in your mind.

"Yes, thy mother, the queen," you spoke with comfort in your voice, attempting to lull her great troubles. "Surely, your god will hearken thou tribulations."

Once her voice was alleviated, as fast as your hand could make, you slashed her beautiful neck with the blade.

Her blood gushed in a constant flow out of the huge slit on her flesh, spraying all over the floor.

She fell on her back.

The servants shrieked at the sight of it.

You watched your mother eyed you confusingly while gurgling incoherent words to you.

Why, why? Why thine beloved Highness, thine daughter?

It was as though you heard your mother.

The cold look on your face reflected your smile. "Worry not, thine mother. Thou daughter, thine princess and thine priestess, will save thee." You knelt beside her, still gripping the base of the blade, then you ran your fingers against her wound where her blood oozed out thickly. "Thou illusionary gods will listen to thee . . . Only if thine mother must be sacrificed."

You seemed to lose your sense of humanity. The blade was sharp, and your hand was strong. You stabbed your mother in the chest. Again. And again. Again and again. Multiple times. You heard the cracking of her bones and felt the thickness of her flesh against the blade. Her blood splattered in every direction, even decorating your beautiful, unholy face. Your mother's eyes remained open as she would never forget the evil glint on your eyes as you mercilessly killed her.

As soon the body went unresponsive, you watched her, body lying on the puddle of cold blood. Her hair had messily tumbled on her face, so you swept it back, feeling the still-warm temperature of her skin.

"Sleep now, mother, thou sorrows will be forgotten now," you told her softly, before kissing her cheeks.

The screaming and horrors of the servants never stopped. You averted your eyes at them. Then you smiled.

"Thou shan't be afraid, thine servants . . . Thou gods wilt hear our pleas, my people shall be saved!"

You displayed an amiable expression. Instead of making them be stilled, they only feared you more. How could a mortal being still smile after intentionally finishing her own mother?

One after one, the servants scrambled on their feet, seeing the queen bled out, dead eyes staring out to their souls . . .

You were a murderer.

Time to run away from you. They had to run away from you.

You scoffed.

You ever so hated it. You ever so hated your people, your parents, your brothers. They were dirty. Their ways were filthy. They were fretful, yet they had no morals.

You only sighed. The chaos outside was persisting, the enemies were approaching near the temple.

This must be the end. For you as well.

You started shuffling your feet, walking mindlessly towards the stairs, towards the apex of the truncated pyramid.

This night was full of terror. It reeked death. You listened. You listened very well. Then watched how the enemies swallowed the habitations of Kálíkhaan without pity. This nation was now covered with blood and ashes. On their affliction, their enemies had triumphed. They must have believed that the king's death, as well as his people, would spark a great success, but in fact it created not a single demonstration, only widespread mourning.

Presumptuous of you to say that; the blame was also meant to be yours. You let foreign people roam free in your land, to take the convenience of its advantages. You even stole your mother's breath! How much a spiteful person you could be? How black your heart was.

And for the sake of what, anyway? Your objectives weighted nothing, it was as if chasing after the wind.

Yet . . . You gained no sympathy to your eyes, soul, and mind.

Humans were fragile creatures. There was no anticipating how and when they might die, or for what reason, thus you decided their deaths on your own. Unrighteous, certainly, your sins couldn't be forgiven, nor be paid by an atonement.

You were never an enemy, yet you looked at your surrounding and laughed at the destruction. Such filthiness clung to the dying land and the future was no more. What an astounding fall; there was none to comfort those who grieved.

"Maybe, thine Highness, thine priestess, could tell me."

You heard him. Then looked back.

He stood there.

— as the night smelled like death.

He stared at you with an equal pair of vacant gaze. His cold stares between you two had contradicted the flaming tides glowing evanescently in this intoxicating place. The heat here was horrible, and the airlessness infested your lungs.

And your presumption of him was right: a man of valor and strength. He was dressed in his warring attire—a scale armor. His hand was carrying a long—range weapon and a dagger and short-curved sword were on his belt.

"Thine humble guest." Your smile was didn't falter as you greeted him. "What wilt thou, thy Mykerinos?"

"Doth this thine Highness, thine priestess, desire?" The emotion in his eyes seemed to grow distant, unlike the ones he gave you before.

He must be pertaining to the fall of this nation. Fear and snare had come, brimming with desolation and destruction. These foes chased your people sore, like a bird, without cause. Great and small, they lied on the ground in the streets, fallen by the weapons of suffering. Everyone was slain on this night of anger, was killed, and was not pitied.

"Certainly, not thine Highness desire," you spoke quite serenely. "Yet I knew in thine heart that I started a small thing. It mayest not worth significantly, yet thy gradual change will eventually rise to a new age—a slow—driven process."

Yes, an age without indecent aspects—a new prologue.

"Thus why? Why doeth thy Highness hath exchange people's lives for a self-centered purpose?" he reprimanded. "Art thou could hath prevented thy turmoil."

"Be anxious not, thine humble guest." You tried to console him. "Humans will stay as humans after all, even if often not feel that way."

"Verily, thine blessed one could say such," he said again, then he looked at you and smiled weakly. But behind his words loomed dismally. "Using deceit and exploitation for thou own benefit art thou defining traits—it is thine Highness who she is. Remorse and regret findeth not in thee."

His appellation held a hint of the bitterness of someone who had turned her back on the humanity, thus his words failed to strike you as they might have.

After his statement freed out of his mouth, he wielded his spear and pointed it to you.

"Thine princess, thine blessed one," he called unto you, "pray thy last words."

You were standing on the edge of the stepped pyramid, there was nothing to protect you if you fell. Your hair was dancing along the course of the wind, whilst your mind was far out into the wilderness.

Then you lifted your face towards the night sky as though you were praying.

You didn't cower away, nor cried out and begged.

As the moon had wept its silver tears upon your ghostly figure, the obvious stare of death emerged over your face.

A woman of growing darkness, who turned out to have a deep set of lovely eyes.

Oh, the nobleness of thou form, the dazzling beauty of all.

"Mykerinos, thine humble guest . . ."

Your voice sounded so brittle—

"If thou must kill me . . ."

—yet you put your heart into a smile and expressed it to him.

". . . Rejoice in thine place."

wah... you're still reading this?? i felt so disturbed while writing this chapter ngl. should have i put warnings at the beginning? XDD idk.

and as i continue to writing, i learned that i made a lot of mistakes while writing in the 2nd pov lmao. it's my first time writing one, so pardon me. *whispers* im too lazy to explain, so if u spot those mistakes, comment em here XD i'll take them as a constructive criticism <3

btw, I DID IT!

that banner in every chapter HAHSHHS im so positively jealous of the other fanfic writers, who can create aesthetically pleasing chapters, while me nawt lawl. and i always say this: im dumb in being creative and using editor apps.

begging u pls to help me. latom

bc the colors and themes of this book are so all over the place. and i think i need to make a new book cover naskcndkfj sighhh

-ˋˏ handthe;rend ˎˊ-