ã€ŠThe Bride of the King in Yellowã€‹


 I. Rebirth

    Salt repleted my lungs the day I was reborn.

    Carried to shore I saw an angel who at first I thought bore wings of satin. When I opened my burning eyes she was nothing but a girl of youth, slender and small. Her brown hair traversed down the side of her tan neck, drenched in water along with the rest of her clothes. The two of us breathed in this renewal, my lungs choking in desperation for air and her breath steady yet strained. Her physique blocked the sun from my gaze but in my confusion I saw a ring of light around her head, shining as the brightest star on a black sky. As I looked at her attempting to blink the pain away, she merely smiled as if I were a miracle. There was a haunting mark of destiny in the way she stood over me, her hand caressing my drenched hair from my eyes.

    ¡°Welcome back, dearest soul. You are quite the miracle.¡±

    Her sweet voice put me to sleep in an instant and I neglected the fear I once held, knowing that if Death were to come for me once more, it would wrestle first with her.

    I know now, readers, that I almost failed to do the same for her.

    A boy cannot often boast about his guardian angel that stayed, but mine did. The entirety of the truth was it was rather I who remained in the Landor House through her charity. It was a large property on the highest of ocean cliffs, the water ravaging the stones beneath as the air was cleansed with a morning and evening mist. Through constant prayers and murmurings of the servants, I quickly learned this was a House of God, and admitted only his most willing disciples through a vast generational legacy. Landor was a prominent wealthy family of the Church with decades of priests, ladies of charity, supplicants of holy wars, and ministers of the truth. It was my angel, Clementine, who pleaded my purpose here, for they would have rather depicted my arrival as the mark of something sinister.

    My saturated clothes gave my position away as a diminutive youth of little means and talents. They did not ask from whence I came- rather if my parents were still bound to this mortal realm. I shook my head full of saltwater- a feeling that has never truly disappeared and continued to muddle my thoughts for years. They did not ask another question for a fortnight. There was talk of a religious blessing that might bestow a mark of propriety on my life, yet her Father never spoke nor regarded me as a person in his House, much less a servant. I was a ghost to all of the family and workers, but not to Clementine. My angel bid me rest but never entered the small quarters where I was stationed, and there I waited for the new person I was to be. It was a room of little consequence and while my memories were polluted, I acknowledged the sentiment of pride to have a space of my own for the first time.

    One morning I was eating the serving of figs the maids brought for my breakfast when a strange man appeared. He reeked of alcohol and animals, his mustache and beard devoured by grime. His countenance left me unsettled but I met his grim gaze, awaiting his orders.

    ¡°How old are ye, boy?¡±

    ¡°Ten,¡± I answered honestly, for this I knew. My name and recollection of memories distant in the stars were mine to recollect, but when put to focus they dissolved as a mere reflection over ocean water- never truly there or too far from my reach.

    ¡°Ye know about horses?¡± I shook my head. ¡°Ye don¡¯t know what a horse is, ye dumb-witted clodpate?¡±

    I soon realized my mistake but was given no chance of recovery. Before I spoke he grabbed me out of bed, thrusting me down the luxurious halls to the paltry stalls.

    My new life was admitted as a dense boy of little talent, of no consequence.

    Same as before.

    The brightest news was that Mr. Harren was not a monstrous man, but rather miserable and disinterested in life. He fulfilled the daily tasks of grooming, picking hooves, tossing the hay bedding, saddling or dismounting the Landor riders and guests - yet there was no fervent desire for anything. I saw him as a shell of a man, and as a young boy with a second chance at life, this troubled me greatly. I feared to become him- to become something so unlike myself that I had no love or desire in this life.

    Yet as I repeated his tasks and shadowed his methods, a part of my soul accepted this straightforward channel of an ordinary existence. There existed a peace in conformity, of knowing what was expected of you upon each morning.

    The other part of me was well resisted, as it seemed that Clementine was desperate to save my soul once more in an alternative plane, and often she would waltz into the stables to complete her profound and spiritual mission. Only it wasn¡¯t through God she did as such- no, her fervent desire for my salvation came from some higher calling that had no name or memory.

    Destiny haunted the both of us until the day we died.

    Clementine was the only Landor family member comprised of equestrian talent, even at her youthful age. She often talked of the stallions she would tame when older, although, with her determination and fire in her eyes, I knew she might succeed at the age of twelve. When the two of us were together there was a strange power in our beings that all our dreams could be accomplished, despite our prisons of status. Although one could argue her position gave her an abundance of possibilities, her birth as a woman and into a prestigious holy family left few prerogatives to explore the world outside these boundaries.

    Clementine rode every Wednesday¡ªperhaps a few extra rides if her studies were complete¡ªand Mr. Harren volunteered me to chaperone her on her journeys. I never fully absorbed the knowledge of caring for horses, let alone riding them, as it took a year to finally settle into the mare I accompanied my angel with.

    The first week I started with horses, Mr. Harren never spoke of Clementine nor of her habits, so I was pleased to be involved with them. Yet the horses took a long time to adjust to my presence. At first I thought they embraced those they recognized, but that first week even Mr. Harren expressed concern. He said they had sensitive souls and yet were also great judges of character ¨C I cared not for what the horses feared in me, other than I needed them to comply for the sake of remaining in the Landor¡¯s favor. Over time the horses would not hesitate upon my touch or soothing words, but their eyes never relaxed upon my presence, blinking and watching me intently.

    Clementine came down the cliffs one morning, happy with an adventurous spirit when Mr. Harren paused in the stables.

    ¡°Yer father said ye should not be riding no more, miss.¡±

    Clementine in her childish spirit rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at him. A howl of laughter burst from my lips but I soon caught it, my hands covering my mouth in quick regret. My angel smiled at me, amused at my enthusiasm for her disregard for politeness. I never knew Mr. Harren to be a man of wisdom, but this day he spoke something true, although I could not care at the time.

    ¡°One day, Miss Clementine, that spirit of yours is either gunna kill ye or get ye in serious trouble.¡±

    Mr. Harren expressed that horses were easy to handle and docile, yet Clementine was the most troublesome stallion of all in the family. The two of us were contraries in human form; Clementine tended to fight against the injustices placed against her as a woman and one in such a Godly household, intent on riding despite the societal rules that disdained her talent as promiscuous. She often spoke vehemently about the way I was treated compared to the other servants, given leftover food and sleeping a mere two or three hours a night, and despite the lack of change in her family¡¯s hearts, she ever persisted.

    I was quiet on my front, although curious at her sense of injustice. The strength she held seemed impossible for me to ascertain and grasp as my own. At this youthful age, I was more content to learn the ropes from observation, discerning what paths others followed before making a decision when I was older.

    Clementine discussed often her religion and God, how while the hymns and works of Him echoed into history, it was not witho<u>u</u>t the suffering of others. I knew naught of what she spoke but nodded empathetically at her constant articulations. While she was critically engaged with the world around her at the mere age of eleven, she maintained a bright smile and angelic aura on each of our equestrian rides. I admired her smile and I believe she admired my naivety of the world before me. Such was our relationship, one on my end that grew into a childish romance despite my limitation of house and rank.

    I remember the day she turned thirteen, a celebration of her future triumphed in the House as I remained in the stalls tending to the guests¡¯ horses. My heart ached to attend, a violent passion to intercede past the boundary of class to just watch her entranced with joy and music. Yet as I hummed the merry tunes and brushed the stalls, I turned to find her watching me. Clementine stood in the stable¡¯s archway, leaning against the frame in an outfit hastily put together as a riding ensemble. Our eyes met but her lips did not part to speak, nor did they grace me with her traditional smile. Brown eyes glazed like the ocean, but no tears fell with her great strength. It did not take words for us to communicate, as the pain absorbed the room and congested what little clean air survived there.

    ¡°If you are not engaged,¡± she started, as her gentle requests always do, ¡°I would very much like to ride.¡±

    Behind her the world stood dark and grey, the sea mist invading the land rather than occupying the complementary abyss. She observed my eyes gaze over her shoulder, aware of my internal turmoil to her unusual request- but I remained silent as I prepared her horse. The stallion she wanted most for her birthday never arrived- and there was an unspoken air that it would never come. Her childhood steed grew in age but depleted in strength, enough for her journeys but nothing more. She feared retiring him, for the way Landors treated animals at the end of their life was to expedite it, and it was the only time I was ever requested to manipulate a rifle.

    I still remember the afternoon when shots rang out for a retired mare and several cows, the taste of blood filling my mouth from harshly biting my tongue. I lowered the rifle slowly, examining this new profound sense, and discovered underneath the shield of ordinary disregard for human emotion, the smallest trove of delectation. Whether it was the violence disguised as a charity that originated from my hands, the power of such a weapon for a boy who had none, or the chaos of life and death- I know not which excited me most. No sooner had I examined this sentiment, that I then buried it swiftly to a small corridor of my soul and it has not attempted to escape.

    I desired but also dreaded if such a task were granted to me to absolve Clementine¡¯s horse; that to send him to the finality of the grave those dreary feelings would return as I hurt the one person I truly cared for. It was not that she would disregard my role- for at this moment in time the two of us understood each other in this world, and what we were destined for.

    ¡°You will ride with me?¡±

    I awoke from that dark rumination as I assisted her onto the horse, which steadied its legs to carry her augustly. A quick acknowledgement of her request led me to attend to my steedquickly and we trotted out of the stables and into the cool mist. The air was heavy and thick with the fog, often found on the forest floors but this night was strange indeed, as it rose above to our shoulders and shuddered us with a mysterious crisp.

    Clementine¡¯s thoughts remained unsounded at this time, a strange encounter compared to our customs of conversation and companionship. While we were close in age, we shared many differences and yet this did not deter her from seeking my company. Our horses matched tempo, but as we approached the barren pines stripped of color and life from the harsh coastal storms, the horses grew apprehensive of this dark contrast of their ordinary rides and slowed themselves. I looked around through the branches as if the trees would suddenly turn alive and swallow us whole. Clem appeared startled but for a reason entirely different, and I watched as her body mimicked a similar posture I once knew. She was running away from something I could not anticipate nor comprehend- yet there was a renewed fire in her eyes burning with hate.

    ¡°He¡¯s here,¡± she said, her brown hands turning white gripping the leather reins.

    ¡°Who?¡± I asked, observing the misty air for a sign of invasion.

    ¡°God.¡±

    There it was- a hideous presence in the air- the oxygen thickening as the land around us grew quiet. Our horses had stopped abnormally parallel to each other, and Clementine met my gaze. The hate evaporated from her when she turned to me, leaving a strange reverence that gleamed in the circles of her brown eyes. Her tan countenance turned red with embarrassment as she altered her sight to the barren ground. No sound could be depicted other than the breathing of Clementine, the horses, and I- for while our pace has been steady, our breaths heaved as if exhausted. Perhaps we were, as I never felt more drained, not since the day I drowned, struggling to keep my smaller body afloat amongst the waves.

    Yet as soon as the horror arrived, it fled from our unification as I touched her hand.

    ¡°I apologize,¡± she whispered, yet I was not sure if this was directed at me or God. Then she adjusted her posture and body as she was directed to, a stoic elegant presence devoid of emotion. I knew her as Clementine, yet the world wanted her to be Lady Clementine and berated her for a moment of innocence and laxity. She clicked her tongue and motioned her horse forward, and I simply followed behind uncertain of our destination. The third presence- God, a monster, or both- did not seem to follow, but I fear he latched onto me that night¡­forcing me down a path away from Clementine, but also away from my true destiny.

    ¡°My father granted me two choices today.¡±

    Her voice was flat and her body regal and tall for thirteen, saddening me greatly. I followed her in silence and understood the emotion I mistook prior: she was not running away but running towards something she had lost. Even though her hair, her attire, and everything about her was the same this evening before we departed, Clementine was no longer the girl I knew full of youth and vigor to fight against her limitations. My time was short to arrive at that similar destination, although not yet known to me.

    ¡°Should I be grateful to choose?¡±

    ¡°I do not understand, Clem,¡± I replied although it was rather like a shout ahead. She was a close distance but profoundly far away from my heart. Her horse hesitated into a brief stall, but Clementine did not allow the hesitation, clicking her horse forward. There was a quick but disappearing vexation tensed into her physique as she continued.

    ¡°Women of lesser privileges are not granted options, they simply fulfill their roles,¡± Clementine explained. ¡°Yet here I am with a choice- and I do not feel the better for it. I am to either serve man or God.¡±

    Without my comprehension or intent to act, I found my horse beside hers, although I did not meet her face. She knew from my deficiency of response I knew not of what she meant. At a time now as I write with further education, I disdain with sadness for the boy I was with little means of knowledge nor understanding of the complex thoughts of the human soul.

    ¡°I am to marry or serve the Church,¡± she clarified.

    ¡°Are you not rather young to marry?¡± I asked incredulously, and my face must have mimicked this sentiment as she erupted into sudden laughter. I feared she would not stop until sobs enslaved that dear sound of hers, but even now there was no innocent merriment to her laugh.

    ¡°Not as of now, silly,¡± she smiled, grateful for that opportunity to arise in her future. ¡°I am quite young.¡±

    After a brief pause, I responded with another question.

    ¡°Do you not want to marry?¡±

    Her chest heaved with a deep and sorrowful sigh, yet she did not respond as no answer came to her mind. I watched her wrestle with her ideas, her forehead scrunched into deep thought. The silence accompanied us on our journey with no destination, although the horses seemed compelled to their typical route as I recognized the way home.

    ¡°Your choice was not your own, to stay and work here,¡± Clementine clarified, explaining the motion of her thoughts but I could not follow. ¡°I feel...I know- when I pulled you from that water you were destined for something greater. And now I stand with you, feeling that same distant call to a purpose unknown.¡±

    It frightened me to hear the tremble in her voice, although it did not resemble terror but pure despondency. I heard at length every Sunday from the Landor House, as even all servants were required to attend, the sermons and lengthy rituals designed centuries prior. The power of Landors and God were one, and I often saw that in my Clementine when she pulled me from that water. I accepted her as an angel of this God, and while she often told me of this purpose she sensed in me, I always assumed this was an angelic foresight.

    Yet now I was not so certain...again I echo I was never certain of anything at this age.

    ¡°Is it not with God?¡± I queried into her heart and found resolution there. She nodded swiftly, our gazes meeting once more.

    ¡°It is beyond that...if such is possible,¡± she whispered. ¡°Something hidden in a cove of this world, waiting for us in the shadows. I do not feel God fight for me as if he acquiesces me to find this purpose alone- yet with these two choices I fear I do not know which shall lead me down this path. Is it easier, Henry? To not be granted alternatives- to be thrust into a future and design ourselves to fit appropriately to these roles?¡±

    I nodded in reply, yet something stirred inside me to open my heart to her. I could not confess the truth of young love to Clementine, to confuse her in this moment of her future. I was not a boy of any means to care for her nor allow her to diminish her qualities and talents for my simplicity. No- I trembled at the fact that I knew what I was to speak of echoed into that hidden corner of the world, that incomprehensible purpose...and I was now to run from it again.

    ¡°My head is brimming with ocean,¡± I recounted, to which she understood the reference to my occasional pain. ¡°I see black skies and stars but feel the waves continue me forward, as they did that day you rescued me. I follow their pattern, sense their motions, and comprehend the strength of the next pull and in my calculation, there is nothing but dread in my stomach as I wait for the next wave. Another wave follows, and it always will, Clementine. I know when I reach shore, perhaps I will find that purpose you speak of- but perhaps our fate is left best to those tides.¡±

    I sense I started favorably, my words spilling from my mouth from some divine reservoir enthralling her and shocking myself with such prose. In the end, I fear it did not soothe her troubled mind as I anticipated as the curves of her lips pouted gently.

    ¡°He who decreases the moon and stars to shine by night- who stirs up the sea so that its waves roar-¡± Clementine recounted. ¡°God moves the waters, Henry. I find doubt in them- with you and myself. If I am not a woman of God then I am not a Landor- what am I to be?¡±

    Her crises of identity depressed my heart. At this moment I knew there was no practicality to my answers, but in my honesty, I attempted to soothe her better than metaphors or poetry: truth.

    ¡°Would you not be a Landor should you marry? You would carry his name instead.¡±

    She paused to contemplate.

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    ¡°I suppose not...¡±

    ¡°And if you married, you would not be forced to a Godly role, yes?¡±

    ¡°Unless I married a minister or other congregational lead- then I must be a Godly wife,¡± she sighed. ¡°There are multitudes of choices within this option- layers of decisions that are once again decided for me yet open simultaneously. I can take the one prerogative I have to select God, and then there¡¯s nothing left but his divine plan to follow- or I accept marriage and the uncertain tides to come.¡±

    It took a few more moments of silence, just the gliding of our horses against the cold floor before the stables were back in sight. The mist remained thick and heavy and if it were not for the instincts of our animals, we might have been lost forever. I felt that Clementine wished that to be so.

    ¡°There is no answer,¡± she announced with a sarcastic pride. After I removed myself from my steed, I carefully assisted her off her horse. She held my hand tightly, even after her heavenly feet met the hay and dirt of the stable floor. The other hand stroked the horse¡¯s neck, gentle and kind before squeezing mine with equal warmth. ¡°I hope you at least find your answer, Henry.¡±

    She departed quickly and I watched her walk up the path toward the House before disappearing into the mist that seemed to follow her. I thought it all peculiar, the mist, the black skies with gleaming stars, the way the spires of the House stood tall...the way my Clementine so beautiful and above us all, was held a captive to all around her.

    It was a year later I stumbled upon a new path, one that might lead me to the answer Clementine and I sought. I did not know what she told her father that night- however, her visits to ride since grew scarce. Upon delivery of a neatly packaged parcel to the stables, I went up to the House to find the foreman- why this package was granted to me and not the House, I do not know, but I felt a purpose in escorting it to the proper hands.

    As I climbed the rocky steps up the precipice of the multitudes of cliffs the House stood upon, I ventured to think this deliveryman feared the journey, and there was a moment of glee that filled my steps in hopes that inside I would see Clementine, even for a brief passing. The wind blew strongly and the light was blinding as I turned to look out at the ocean.

    There amongst the distant cliffs roared the waves against a strange sight. I peered with stronger intent, a hand covering above my eyes to block the sun. Against the rocks appeared a wooden mast, mimicking an ancient shipwreck as the wood no longer looked brown but ordained by the sea water and moss.

    No matter how hard I attempted to study my past, it was an empty void. Even upon glancing at this shipwreck, no memory stirred, and no emotion warmed my soul. Perhaps this wreck existed long before I did, or perhaps this was all a trick of the light.

    It mattered not, only the thought of seeing Clementine once more filled my heart. I verified my shoes were as neat as possible before quietly traversing the House foyer when I spotted someone new and peculiar.

    The man was hunched over on his knees, grey curly hair spilling down his shoulders underneath an olive cap. His hand pressed the paintbrush against the wall, gently creating strokes of the landscape before me, a congregation of sorts with Saints and angels above them. It was certainly unfinished but I was more than impressed, quietly watching him from my corner. A servant passed behind the artist between us, glancing balefully my way before I motioned to the parcel in my hand. She appeared to understand and changed directions to find the foreman, as it was better for her to be seen around the House than me. I did not mind waiting, for while she was not pleasant, I was entranced by the way this man worked.

    While unable to witness his initial progress, his talent for creation paralyzed me as I looked at every feature possible. Many faces were fragmented, their clothes having more detail than their unformed bodies. The divine above this crowd were only distinguishable by their designated circle behind their heads, a dull yellow I knew would soon be bright and heavenly. I could see it all now the vision behind this painter despite the work necessary to continue, but the mere thought of his finished work brought tears to my eyes. It had nothing to do with the landscape or picture- I feared this man could paint horses or blades of grass and I would still comprehend the awe and treasure of his talent. There was something steady and controlled in his movements, his presence in the room superior and confident yet intimidating for my small stature.

    The foreman arrived and caught me off guard, my body startled before quickly handing him the package. He awaited with it in hand and motioned me to find my way back to the stables. I swallowed and nodded in disappointment, entering back onto the precipice aware there was not a window to spy from. When I looked back at the ocean, I did not recall if I ever noticed the shipwreck against the rocks then, or any time after. The ocean didn¡¯t seem as real nor inviting as this man¡¯s creation- I knew this was blasphemy against God but I almost seemed pleased by it on my way down.

    I conjured several excuses to enter the House and observe the artist from a habitual distance. The statue of God always greeted me entering the Landor House, watching my sin as I snuck down the halls. My heart still stirred in hope to find a moment with Clementine and share my enthusiasm, but she never appeared. I feared my angel departed without saying goodbye or that her father knew of my heart¡¯s secrets and strictly kept her veiled from my inferiority.

    Servants were less frequent during the afternoon, granting me ample opportunity to watch him. Strange and delightful it is to watch creation unfold before your eyes, as if I was a terrible and secret witness to an unfathomable act.

    I loved the silence in which he worked, for there was no music nor humming accompanying his duty to paint, just the sound of the bristles on the wall. In his patterns, I started to recognize the different techniques to create texture, the way his wrist would flourish or halt to find the right measure of perfection. Wonder encircled me each time I witnessed him, for I was curious if he was born of talent or trained- can one be practiced in creation?

    On the artist¡¯s palette was another inception of yellow hues and shades. I watched as he spent minutes crafting the perfect color, encircling the paint with white or alternatives until he captured his perfection. The use of every bone in his body- every move calculated and precise- and the mural even in progress stood in decadent splendor. The yellow he painted over the saint circles shone as the light intruded from the window above me, the sun breaking through the daily cloud storms above the ocean.

    I grew suddenly startled seeing my shadow plastered among his perfect display. It was a rotten black form of my head, as while I was a short and small child, I saw it grow across the wall and mural. My first and innate reaction all my life was to run-yet my feet did not follow my heart as I continued to stand frozen in place. My eyes met the artist¡¯s back, waiting for his eyes to catch this shadow marring his work, yet his body did not betray him. He persevered on in silence as if he did not see my grotesque blemish upon his majestic piece.

    My shadowed head remained, short of the line of priests and figures on the wall, too far to reach the angels and saints that climbed higher. Darkness rotted into the mural, destroying this artist¡¯s work with my mere existence in this House of God. The dread of my presence being known frightened me, more than the knowledge that what I was doing was immoral. Shame clouded over me like an ocean mist and tears silently fell from my eyes. My head understood that my place and status would not have a place for me in the Landor House....perhaps anywhere past this ancient crevice above the ocean. In return, my heart spoke about the crimes of witnessing creation as it happened, and there was that dreadful sensation of power. The memory of shooting the dying horse and cows, and standing in a line waiting for their execution, I now saw the priests on the wall lined up in correspondence. I assumed my disgust from that memory to be the power over death, but as I saw my shadow stain the painter¡¯s work, I realized it arose from the power of life. Whether to take or create, they were two of the same coin and I stood as a mere boy burdened with this thought.

    His hand lifted to the black shadow on the wall, his arm now shielding his creation from my stain on his world. His paintbrush was lifted yet stalled, as the ghastly yellow liquid was close to falling from the precipice. It was despicable, the wrong shade of yellow above his place of interest, the wickedness of my presence. A strange repugnance flooded me and I was again the target of its pain. I dirtied this mural, his creation- I was a plague upon this Earth.

    ¡°It is not right!¡±

    Whether I spoke of myself or this mistaken artist in his color choice- I dare not know. No matter what Clementine said I could not shake the weight of my insignificance. No matter that I was already granted a second chance at life, I was nothing.

    My existence in this realm also tainted those around me, and I was far the better to be out of their reach, especially my dear angel. The artist turned around curiously, as if all this time he knew I was there. His eyes spoke not of judgement, nor of any horror in my claims- they were alight with life and a strange pride.

    My feet finally grew wings, turning swiftly behind me to the open door as I flew out of House Landor, amazed at how the cliffs did not return me to a watery grave as I descended them swiftly.

    I awoke the next day refreshed but aware of a shame buried deep within me. My thoughts returned to Clementine, sweet Clementine who dreamed of a larger life than I had. Perhaps she was the source of this horror, that I was not the boy she dreamed I could become, or that our paths no longer crossed to that great destination she spoke of.

    It felt terrible to reject not only the idea of her vision but also her, but I thought as a boy it was wiser to distance myself from the vulnerability that arises as a mortal. I know now, readers, how terribly mistaken I was.

    As I cleaned the stables, I recalled once more the similarities with my experience in killing the Landor animals- the sharp aversion intertwined with pleasure. That pleasure in power- particularly authority over life and death. I now understood my deep desire for purpose and status in a world I was not encouraged to grasp. What fascination was there in destroying the creation I found beautiful, my presence a mere cloud of abomination, tainting that of God? What was I to Him that betrayed my rebirth with desolation and scorn?

    In my cloud of thought, I heard a sweet voice talking with Mr. Harren. I could not see above the stable wooden walls nor determine concise words but derived it was my Clementine. My sin returned, a strong feeling to reprimand myself and beg for her forgiveness for these terrible thoughts and feelings against her wishes.

    Before I could drop to my knees beside the horse, Mr. Harren walked inside. What a fool I would be! He looked my way with a benign disappointment, holding his hand for the broom I held tightly.

    ¡°The Lady wants to see ye,¡± he motioned outside. In his words were the strangest of goodbyes that I did not yet comprehend. I nodded eagerly but felt a strange twin tenderness in return as I passed him, feeling his eyes latched to my passing presence.

    Birds chirped around Clementine standing in what little grass remained around the property, her gaze upward to the sun. The heat and rays were harsh that day yet she basked in it as if it were a pool of liquid gold. Her skin bronzed with shimmer and beauty, her white dress swaying against the red flowers barely surviving in the ground below.

    ¡°Henry!¡± she smiled once she heard my footsteps. Her gaze did not depart the clouds, but her hand covered her brows to shade her eyes. ¡°My, the world is yellow today.¡±

    Upon her words, I thought of yesterday''s misfortune and swallowed my desire to burst forth misdeeds.

    ¡°Ye-yellow?¡±

    This time she looked at me, in the same way as her enchanted gaze at the sky.

    ¡°Yes silly, yellow.¡± She took my hand in her satin glove, undisturbed by the dirt and grime that might transfer. ¡°You have been requested.¡±

    We walked together up the cliff to the House, the sun burning with no wind nor breeze to soothe us. I gaped at how Clementine in a lovely dress with sleeves and some length would not suffer under this heat as I did with dull trousers and a working shirt. My angel was in her element full of radiance- for the sun was rare on these shores. She looked older beyond her years, not in an that ancient angelic way, but designed with makeup and attire to latch onto adulthood before her time. It saddened me to know this to be the plot of her parents and not of her desires.

    ¡°Requested?¡±

    ¡°Yes, for some work in the House,¡± she clarified. She turned to look at me with an unprecedented expression, one I could not decipher. Her eyes softened as she fixed a piece of my hair. Clementine did not adjust the rest of my appearance that sorely needed it, my clothes wrinkled and shoes worn out. Her eyes met mine with conviction when she completed her task.

    Clementine breathed deeply before she mirrored my expression of confession, yet I knew naught what she would dare confess, this angel who I believed could do no harm.

    ¡°I know the stables are not ideal to most, and while I could not have you leavesuddenly so soon after finding you, Mr. Harren always complained about not having help,¡± she admitted. ¡°The truth is... he never needed it, and I hope he did not make you suffer for his lackluster desire to work. He was my uncle¡¯s friend, another charity case and I thought perhaps you were mine.¡±

    ¡°Am I not still?¡± I pleaded, desperation dripping from my words. Yet she laughed heartily as if she was worried she had spoken falsely.

    ¡°Perhaps, but I pulled you from that ocean as an equal, Henry. I fear that perhaps our certain...indulgences with our time together have encouraged such sentimentalities....¡±

    When I did not encourage her desired response, dismay clouded her from me. I soon comprehended that a choice lay ahead that may depart us, but now she stood in the reality of our world that she was a Lady and I insignificant to the causes-and not even our deepest wishes would counteract the divine power of God¡¯s plans.

    This time her sorrow drowned her from the words she would often affirm to the pair of us- that there was some place where we stood as equals or describe the wonderous vision she had of me. When I stood with her in that vision, I felt it to be true, but I never once told Clementine that the feeling disappeared when we departed, and the absence of her presence grew a different emotion to her grand design: indifference.

    I loved Clementine more than anything- I knew the love of my distant parents and felt the tugging and swells of my heart with my angel- but as we stood before the ocean that decided our fate on the cliffs of Landor House, I decided that her vision buried itself in the innermost corner of my heart, a place my soul could not find nor align to. I loved Clementine but with my lack of comprehension of her grand design, I felt undeserving not in loving her but being loved by her.

    Tears formed in her eyes and I took her hand softly into mine, squeezing our fingers together so they would never pry apart, despite how I felt privately. Clementine composed herself well due to her training, the stoic nature of a godly woman not swayed to sentiment. Her eyes revealed that deeper secret to which she never conveyed to me, a sweltering ocean of tears she kept at bay.

    ¡°There is a painter who has noticed your observations,¡± she announced, revealing the work I was to do. I felt a mimic of that terror during my last surveillance of his work, yet in the presence of my angel, a mist of clarity and peace washed over me. ¡°Mr. Quinn is in need of assistance with some of the smaller details and thus requested someone petite. While I was to offer your services with his request, he solicited me for a shabby boy reeking of horses. Seems he had you well selected before I could even suggest it!¡±

    She began to drag me forward, hand in hand, the fate of our destinies continuing up the cliffs. The clouds of dust and grime covered the sun, small rays of yellow escaping the narrow threads of sky vapors. I thought of Mr. Quinn- now that I knew his name- and the terrible paint...

    Perhaps this was a test of God?

    ¡°Is my smell that terrible?¡± I asked.

    At the front of the Landor House, the front doors were surprisingly shut. Perhaps the quality of the air was not on par with the expectations of the House, and it rejected the dirt and inferior. Clementine did not wait for the foreman and opened the door for me. In her sudden strength I startled, and when I looked to her face, saw the flashes of anger in her eyes.

    ¡°Dear Clem, I hope you are not angry with me.¡±

    A deep sigh that imitated a soft cry left her lips as she held the door open behind her back, welcoming me inside. I did not enter before her, as it was customary for the members of the House to enter first. Clementine waited.

    ¡°You should not ask about your smell, Henry,¡± she declared with little affection in her voice. It was monotone and low. ¡°You have an opportunity with Mr. Quinn- he could grant you whatever you desire! He could teach you how to paint the world how you see it, how we see it. Instead, you are worried about your smell and your character as if that will progress you along where you will thrive.¡±

    Sometimes I wondered if I was born foolish... perhaps daft of what was to be expected of me. Fragments of my life before were childhood dreams and now I understood Clementine was angry that I was not only all but blind to her vision, but any sort of future beyond the two of us. The only sentiment I understood was the dread of not being beside her, one I hoped I could bury far enough inside that it would not resurrect its ugly head.

    ¡°I will do what you ask,¡± I reaffirmed before she indignantly released her hand from mine.

    ¡°No, Henry, you will do this because you desire it, to be more than where I placed you in my own selfishness. To rise to-¡± she paused and I knew it was the lyricism of her visions that plagued her tongue, clawing its way to be heard once more. ¡°-To find happiness in whichever you choose but with security and options.¡±

    Never granted a choice, her hate and contempt for her life reflected into a mine. Choices drowned us both, Clementine and I. Her insecurities with her own future glowed on her skin in the House of Landor, yet she still awaited me to enter. The door she held open against her body was tall and heavy, one I never touched but seemed would break her slender arms- and it was out of relief for her that I entered first. I observed the halls to ensure no servants were watching, but the house was quiet save for Clementine¡¯s shaking breaths. To my right at this entrance inside was the marble statue of God- it was not through the strands of beads and a cross in his hand nor the stance of haughty air declaring all into Landor House. It was in the eyes of judgment I found God and I despised him. My gaze met the blank whites of his eyes, carved perfectly, and I accepted his path begrudgingly, for I knew naught what else there was anymore.

    There was no guarantee my desire to stay with Clementine in these stables would grant me forever with her- only chain me to the beaches I was rebirthed from. Here, in the unknown landscape of paint and distant love, the decision I knew Clementine wished me to take, I vowed to carve my own destiny. Not for God, not for desire or avarice, and not for Clementine although I hoped this path would one day cross hers again.

    It was my choice, the first one I ever made as a boy- I resolved to work for Quinn regardless of where this path led.

    The air grew lighter as I turned away from God and Clementine stood at my side. Her anger disappeared in an instant, exchanged for perhaps a sorrowful contentedness, and I strongly desired to hold her once more.

    ¡°Is that him?¡±

    I was startled thinking the statue of God had awakened for his wrath with the aired question, but no, it was Mr. Quinn in the hallway of marble and blues. His shirt and pants were covered in paint, and his beard and hair as disheveled as mine. In some ways, it was looking into a mirror of the future, although I hoped I would not be as unpleasing as him aesthetically.

    ¡°Yes, Mr. Quinn,¡± Clementine cheered, a smile returning to her tanned and freckled face. God and I witnessed her change as the Lady of the House in mere seconds, a quick mask she could press to her face. Her lips parted to continue yet she paused, realizing that it was no longer her role to speak for him. A break of her performance occurred when she nudged me with her elbow and I almost fell over, a laugh daring to escape.

    ¡°Yes, hello,¡± I mumbled, clearing my throat and adjusting my stance. ¡°I am Henry.¡±

    Clementine¡¯s face pinked with amusement but she moved her hands elegantly behind her back, awaiting the response of Mr. Quinn. He looked unamused but his eyes recognized us for what we simply were: children.

    Clementine and I saw that reflection with the truth that not only were we losing each other, but our youth would soon be a distant memory.

    ¡°Well¡­hurry along now.¡±

    I followed Mr. Quinn¡¯s voice to the hallway, realizing Clementine did not follow. I glanced back at her once more, and she never looked less of a child since. Her long brown hair wavy and glossy, the details of her dress exquisite, the smooth lines of her gentle face. The clouds outside evaporated for a mere moment, shining the sun through the windows of the House, yet in the circular welcoming lobby, Clementine for the first time stood in the shadows, just on the mere edge of the light on the tile floor. The light of yellow entered, shining on Mr. Quinn and I even as we left the lobby towards the mural wall.

    He did not speak as he watched the sun rays reflect on his creation, the yellow circles around the saints appearing as bright as they had entranced me upon my first glance. I observed his depiction of now what appeared like farmers or common people desperately grasping their hands above the angels in search of...something. I agreed it was incomplete and required much work, an inner voice spoke to me although I knew not of any artistic critique.

    ¡°What do you think they are searching for?¡± Mr. Quinn asked. I looked up at him, as he was tall- or perhaps seemed so for a boy of my stature. My eyes expressed my doubt when he asked me again, the pair of us looking at the painting.

    I pretended to examine it a moment longer, although the answer was with me when I first realized the direction of his work.

    ¡°Belief...I think.¡±

    Mr. Quinn said nothing.

    I later learned that Quinn, similar to Mr. Harren, was a man of little words. He spoke through his work, and as I sat beside him brush in hand, I too did not speak much else after. I watched his strokes and methods once more, and he mixed the paint for me before offering the palette before me. A drop of paint dripped onto my clothes, a strange baptism that neither of us acknowledged. He waited patiently, although there were minor shakes in his hand as I dipped my small brush into the color of rusted red. I brought it to the wall, unsure of how it would feel on this strange plastered surface, and started with a cautious light touch.

    Quinn demonstrated with actions as I learned how to paint beside him in the House of Landor. There is nothing I can say in my writing about the pride and accomplishment I felt at the end of each day, reaching the limit of our shared creation. It was through our work together that he asked me to be his apprentice, to travel to his next location in Italy when the work was complete. I accepted eagerly, now understanding the fervor of my destined path that Clementine desired for me. While I could not speak to what the future held, the art of creation I was learning from Quinn was a stronger conviction to my purpose not attached to faith, despite the depiction of this current mural. It was faith in myself and my capabilities that I knew Clementine would be proud of.

    Yet I know now that this path without her would only lead to my reformation.

    At the end, I remember taking a moment to pause at the fine details of the common folk I developed on the murals, their faces distraught and desperate. In one woman I saw the details of my Clementine, a face I had not seen in some months. Her lessons grew rigorous and busy, although it was often that the Landor House was filled with important people of wealth and rank. Our work always stopped during festivities, the music filling Quinn and my alone time with reading and writing. Quinn taught me everything about this world with strict but gentle reproach, and I am ever thankful for his presence in my life. I prayed, to whom I do not know, that Clementine was blessed for solidifying our union and that her fate was as fortunate as mine.

    I looked back at the angel above this crowd. She was Mr. Quinn¡¯s work and nothing like my Clementine- the face was soft and round with gentle youth, but the eyes were that of God. For the first time I disregarded this sense His judgement and superiority - perhaps believing the lies that all men were created equal. Maybe that was our sin as humans¡­corrupting that initial message.

    ¡°Do they find it?¡±

    Mr. Quinn looked up in surprise at my words, as I maintained a quiet disposition often unless I needed clarification or assistance.

    ¡°Find what, dear boy?¡± Sometimes in his words, I found the strangest gentle touch.

    ¡°Belief.¡±

    He rose to meet the same gaze and perspective I held over the mural, close to finished perfection. It would need a final gloss and cleaning of the finer details, but the story was clear and true.

    Their land was on fire, a centered angel of light and rescue as their path of salvation. Their hands competed with each other desperate to grab this small angel. Red and yellow blazed in my eyes, and I no longer regarded yellow as ghastly as it once was. As I was.

    ¡°We will know when it is truly done,¡± he announced, although the two of us knew that even our final touches of this work would not alter the truth of what I discovered.

 II. Remission

    The clutches of destiny never left, despite a change in path I sought best for a meaningful life. When I left Landor House, I believed that Clementine absorbed every portion and corner of my heart. Time madly spun from the years I spent there as a boy, and soon my heart opened to other aspects of the world, and the many vices and virtues it had to offer. The heart has four chambers and over time Clementine grew hidden away from all of them. My heart fulfilled with creationary designs, the praises of Quinn and my accomplishments, and the knowledge the world granted me. Clementine wrote often in sophisticated words and innuendos of her activities but the yearning of her spirit drained each time we spoke of mere mortal frivolities. I was free from a prison I naught understood existed for Clementine, for she was absolute in her release of me to pursue the outside world from Landor.

    I ceased writing to her, first excused by the pouring amount of work. When that justification dried, I was left with only shame that I had not been able to encourage her sentimentalities. No amount of praise seemed to amount to finding that equality with my angel, and I never felt accomplished in my work that she would be mine. Love felt distant from my purpose although I pictured it as my destination, one that felt more like an intangible dream.

    Quinn and I traveled to many countries and coasts and soon my apprenticeship evolved until I was my own master. The call for commissions never ended and while I grasped the knowledge and culture of these foreign lands, my work hungered for my own creation, undictated by the masses. Fear shrouded me when I would attempt to contemplate my first work of art and I stood frozen on a blank canvas, fearing my life would turn into accomplishing the tasks of others. Just as Clementine used to distress for us- following the paths others tread and now dictate us to pursue.

    Despite it all, my desire to create buried my fears of insignificance as I stood in the Pollier Exhibition Hall surrounded by my first public portfolio amongst the masses of Crece. It was five years since working alone on my own portfolio and commissions without Mr. Quinn, ten since I last saw Clementine at Landor Hall. Private invitations were few- Quinn was forced into absence due to his declining health, a deterioration that I slowly observed the past two years- but the Hall was full of loud contemplation, gasps of reactions, and a conjured emotion of passion and disgust from the public that sought something new.

    In these paintings, you would not find intricate landscapes or beautiful women who modeled for days, nor depictions of religious iconography in the light of which I was first trained.

    Here, my creation was

    ¡°Ghastly¡±

    ¡°Abhorrent!¡±

    ¡°Orphic but profound!¡±

    Once, I knew nothing- told I would amount to nothing. Yet I watched their eyes bulge and complexions whiten, and even as their disgust grew, they could not look away. Their minds could not comprehend the creation of distant dark lands, the infinite cosmos, the world out of reach of our mortal cognizance. My methods were uncharacteristic in starting with a black canvas, the textures building onto each layer of paint as if my creation would seize the viewer from the frame. The clean perfection Quinn taught me with art was wasted as the paint appeared so fresh it would drip blood on their expensive shoes beneath the frames. My creation felt alive and real, despite their depictions of things one would not find in mortal life. My work was grotesque with misshapen forms, animals that resembled human bodies, or gaseous planes of existence amidst poison and blood.

    Pride flooded my veins, watching their stoic facades melt with each interaction of my paintings. The voids of worlds created in my work still did not fill my heart, nor the path of destiny that I sought. This pinnacle of achievements felt triumphant...but did not surpass that border of the effect of an everlasting and infinite design.

    For a mere moment in Pollier Hall, I wanted to do as I always accomplished in this fear of unqualified existence: run away. Their reactions were astounding and everything I yearned, yet something else shook inside me- whether it was the anticipation of rejection or not amounting to the path I sought to spite God. This vulnerability I felt clenched at my ribs, threatening to shatter lest I stay and observe what was supposed to be my victory.

    ¡°The detail is utterly remarkable, a ghastly castle with black stars, a meaning beyond the surface of our existence. The uneven moon has an apprehensive presence that adds no light to his work- how strange! The shoreline and clouds almost drip condensation, oh how it reminds me of home.¡±

    My heart leaped at the recognizance of the sweet voice I once knew, whose tone I would absorb from her written letters, whose countenance I had not witnessed in years. My angel had come.

    ¡°Landor House, you mean?¡±

    A man stood beside my angel, their arms linked as their backs were turned from me to observe my latest work- Hyades. Clemetine¡¯s maroon dress flowed down her hazel shoulders, flowers adorned in her hair and the trims of her fabric. Her reflection on the tile floor echoed her wonder and awe of my creation, perhaps so that she did not respond to her caller. She was terribly beautiful even if I only observed her mirrored figure on the floor, and redemption for my destiny narrowed closer than ever before.

    For a mere moment, I hesitated, tempted to leave her in the peace of her mind and companion. After all, it was I who terminated our correspondence, who abandoned the pursuit of her fellowship over the years. I watched as her arm unraveled from her companion, a ring reflecting the lights hanging from the ceiling. This was not shocking news, as her letters described married life and her disdain for such a prison. However, belief in one¡¯s work was difficult enough also to know that Clementine married before my establishment of propriety and success, that our paths would no longer entwine as we once believed as children. I halted painting for weeks, knowing that her push in this direction of bettering myself led to our destruction, but over time I knew the bitterness in my heart conjured those words, and Clementine was not to blame for our circumstances. I was a fool then, and approaching the girl I once knew, foolishness followed.

    ¡°Oh, dearest Henry!¡±

    She spun around, relinquishing her companion¡¯s presence before she sprinted across the Hall floors to my arms. My face now reflected the gathering public, abashed and confounded, as my arms wrapped around her tightly. Before I knew it, a smile flooded my face and the weight against my heart suddenly lifted.

    ¡°Goodness, how handsome you are!¡± she exclaimed, stepping back to look at me, gloved hands cradling my face. ¡°Henry, it is such a marvel! Your work!¡± I could tell in the earnestness of her eyes she also portrayed the wonders of our presence together, and it recalled me to the days when we would not have to speak words to understand the other¡¯s heart. Yet looking into her eyes, they no longer glowed with the fire and passion of our youth, and her brown skin did not flush the same as before.

    ¡°Yes, quite...impressive.¡±

    Her companion stepped forward, gaze soft yet his stance was tall and vigilant. ¡°Patriarch Ellano- and my wife Clementine Ellano.¡± It was plain that just as he had little understanding of my work, I had no mutual comprehension of his title. Yet, it sounded as if my angel achieved well the path she was pushed towards by her family. She smiled gently in response yet her eyes imprisoned her ocean of tears. It was not happiness I sought in her gaze, but perhaps a mimic of my own sentiment of a wasted past. A strange sense of happiness and dismay dampened the air, a heavy blanket of emotion I could hardly fathom.

    ¡°Henry,¡± I affirmed, ¡°although my work speaks of another name.¡± Truth be told, I had yet constructed an artist¡¯s name and I still was never granted a surname of my own to claim. I was creative with paint, but much less so with words or thought. It was easier to identify with the name granted by Clementine rather than surmise my own.

    ¡°Well Henry, Clementine told me all of her adventurous child spirit,¡± he returned smugly. ¡°Rescuing an unnamed boy from the savage ocean was the initial story she enjoyed relying upon our first introduction.¡±

    ¡°I had to appeal somehow to a man I met first at the altar,¡± Clementine jested, although her caught breath spoke otherwise. ¡°Everyone else in your family was quite mystified by my stories.¡± My stomach was appalled at the idea that she married a stranger, and Ellano himself dismayed at her response. She retracted quickly, poised and regal in her pretense. The mask she created to wear in his presence disgusted me far beyond any art I could create, for mine was made of passion and hers of force. Shame returned at the thought that Clementine all this time needed a friend outside of her religious boundaries, and I disregarded her completely.

    ¡°What is the inspiration for your work if I might ask?¡± Ellandor questioned, distracting me from my inner turmoil. He glanced over my shoulder at the dozen other masterpieces along the wall, his eyes of judgement reminding me of the statue of God in Landor Hall. His perception was keen and sharp although through my disgust I developed a mischievous spirit to counter him.

    ¡°My hands guide the vision, for it is not of recollection nor my travels across the lands,¡± I replied honestly. ¡°Not to say I did not enjoy my travels, but I was never fond of the landscapes of this earth. Rather, most of my work is unconventional. I start with black and some unearthly memories of design guide my limbs to create.¡±

    ¡°And here I thought ¡®nightmares¡¯ would produce a more sufficient answer,¡± he murmured. ¡°It is quite appalling, Henry.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I smiled, although his remark was not complimentary. ¡°I find that the state of the ordinary is not a destination I seek.¡±

    ¡°Nor the destination you shall find,¡± he agreed spitefully. I watched as he grabbed Clementine roughly in a manner of possession. ¡°God will judge you accordingly. I perhaps entertained the desire of my wife to see an old friend but now I fear your brain is riddled with salt water and horrid thoughts.¡±

    ¡°Dear, you are merely exhausted,¡± Clementine whispered but found no resolve to complete her sentence. The mask of God clung to her face and I imagined it choking her identity and soul from her, reinstating a shell of my Clem before my eyes.

    I paused smugly, my hands in my pockets as I gleaned about the room at the other patrons. Of course, there was the horror, the dread that my paint soaked onto each inch of canvas, the strangest of creatures. Yet I found that my visitors could not turn away from my masterpieces, drawn to their details and grotesque techniques in marvelous wonder and morbid curiosity. It is no surprise that Ellandor, a supposed man of God with his harsh critiques, would not enjoy his surroundings. Their acts of proper society encouraged bile in my throat, and I wondered with strange delight if my patrons did the same in front of my creation.

    ¡°There is bound to be at least one painting to your liking, Patriarch Ellandor. Or perhaps there are private quarters for Clementine to enjoy on her own time, surely you would entertain your wife¡¯s wishes. You would not deprive her of some joy, no?¡±

    Ellandor stepped forward to me, Clementine a speck behind him. Her cheeks drained to match the color of her dress, her head down to the floor yet I could see in her reflection she searched to find me there as well.

    Would you not be a Landor should you marry? You would carry his name instead?

    My words from the past echoed in mortification, watching my Clementine succumb to her greatest fear: a captive to man and faith. She could not meet my gaze, not as her husband tensed to tower over me and I continued to ignore his presence. His reaction to me seemed to reveal a knowledge of our shared history, perhaps it was that our meeting now intimated at the closeness we had shared that turned his face green with envy. I imagined my smile at his approach a small sliver of yellow, representing either my joy or pure insanity.

    ¡°I do not exist to entertain, and my wife does not alter what I see fit in the eyes of God. I see now where her childish thoughts originated from. Though I have pulled all those weeds from the flower bed, the sower of those by-gone seeds stands before me.¡±

    ¡°I see you are a man of the arts, Patriarch,¡± I remarked sarcastically, ¡°as your poetry is quite compelling.¡±

    ¡°The word of God is often quite poetic, perhaps you should read the tomes in which they are written. You can read, yes Henry?¡±

    The sting of his arrogance quickened with each pronunciation of letters, and while I am many things, readers, I am not a coward. I composed myself in breath and never parted my gaze.

    ¡°To comprehend the mind of a God takes a steward, hence a place of belonging- a church one might say! I would hate to pollute your halls of grace and pretense dominion with my revolting presence.¡±

    Ellandor said nothing, but as he straightened and turned to Clementine his stature echoed the termination of any remediation between us. He looked to her for an explanation, one she gave freely with a masked smile.

    ¡°It is a day of celebration for Henry and we appear to be tampering with his good spirits.¡±

    ¡°So it seems,¡± he agreed. ¡°We should leave him to his other guests and patrons, those willing to pay for such nonsense.¡±

    A sudden fear gripped me at the conception of Clementine leaving once more, mainly from the consequences of my desired to challenge. I was a foolish boy once who did not speak nor fight, and even now my voice was not enough to confront the institutions we were bound to.

    He nodded gently before grabbing Clementine to follow in his departure. Her soft eyes met mine before looking at the glorious crowd amongst my paintings. She was proud...oh so proud of me.

    Still, I watched as she departed beside Ellandor, a man who stole her fate long before I understood what Clementine meant by our intertwining paths of destiny. I had little hope now that I would restore what should have been mine, for now I only desired to see her once more before God took her from me too.

    I observed what I have always yearned for: a ceremonious display of my creation for those to gather and appall at the society they have partook in, to wash in riches and obtain what was rightfully mine without status.

    Yet it all meant nothing.

    Clemetine¡¯s early cries for freedom had met foolish, deaf ears, and now she paid the price for my carelessness. I wish we had divulged a plan together, a foolish and childish plan that would have failed rather than my youthful ignorance displayed in my silence. The work of my life was the one masterpiece I seemed to have fumbled, as I did not listen to the early instructions my angel sought to bestow upon me.

    The world was obsolete without Clementine to experience creation with, and while I was no means a gentleman nor a follower of societal principles, she belonged to someone else. It took a mere moment to see her once more to know my troubles were in vain, that creation without someone to share it with was pure oblivion.

    <hr>

    Months later, a letter arrived addressed to my studio adorned with an amber seal. I shuddered that it might be another commission request as I was buried in occupation without a heart to continue. All my paintings from the exhibition in Crece were sold privately to enjoy or curated in the halls of those who looked down upon me, and they only wanted more. My pockets were overflowing, and my name spread across the continent, but my heart and desire for creation grew unimportant. Empty canvases were strung around my studio, some on easels and others tossed around waiting to be the chosen piece.

    I opened the letter in trepidation but despite my imagination, I never considered the power of words to destroy me.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Clementine was dying.

    My Clementine requested my presence and even the Patriarch Ellandor urged me to follow through with this demand, for it was not her writing I recognized on these pages. For a man disgusted in my presence, his words dripped with despondency for his wife, and while I could murder him alone for such desperation for a soul which was not his to own, I thought only of her. The violence I felt as a boy, imprisoned but empowered by a mere rifle, startled me as I read his words. Despite my anger, there was an impression that my presence was the turning tide to sway her spirits, and I was resolved to rescue her from the ocean of death.

    It took almost two days of uninterrupted travel to arrive at Lorndol Hall, the residence of the Ellandor family for thousands of generations. Quinn often spoke of the great religious families when we were commissioned for such art, although I knew him not to be a believer himself. Creationists of our current state of the world looked to nature and to God, but it was only a mirror of God¡¯s work, not something purely of their own design. All my brain recollected of the Ellandor family was their extreme wealth and status across the continent. The carriage rode across rocks and dirt to the entrance, a grand spectacle of architecture on the crevice of a hill as the horse struggled to hold for my departure. Stepping out, I half expected the family home of Landor with ocean landscapes and the smell of wet earth, but the terrain was barren and dreary. There were grasslands cut to the shortest stalk, no trees nor sign of life. Birds did not chirp nor sing and the wind of any breeze was flat, unmoving. Despair followed me inside the Hall, replacing the coat that was removed from the attendant, latching onto my body as I feared I was too late.

    The Hall was miraculously decorated far beyond Landor House nor any residence I worked in, with paintings amongst the ceilings depicting the battle of angels and demons, the expensive tile beneath my feat mirroring this strange sentiment of good against evil. A chorus of wonderous harmony followed me, echoing louder than our footsteps as I followed the attendant up the grand marble staircase. I felt justified with a small disdain that their world around Lordnol Hall was dying, yet with their wealth and privileges their place remained a stored cache of wealth never to be seen unless invited. It was as entering Heaven with the trepidation of judgment, and yet it was not God I found at the landing but Ellandor and several priests. They spoke in whispers at my arrival, yet Ellandor sought my eyes with a pale countenance. His hair was whiter than before, skin older as if he had aged exponentially. Fellow artists spoke of the nature of stress upon the body, yet I had naught seen a case as terrible as mine enemy.

    Without a word, he led me silently to Clemetine¡¯s private quarters, hand on the door helve before he regarded me with great terror.

    ¡°Bring her back to sanity.¡±

    Despair clutched harder at my skin, clawing and gnawing my insides as Ellandor shoved me inside, the door firmly closed behind me. I could hear the door lock firmly behind me as if I was now trapped with some ferocious animal. The grand bedroom was decorated in white sheets and the aroma of burning herbs, as if they were prepared to remove her presence from this space, erase her entire being from existence. The window held a resting area beneath, the stack of books I easily recognized as hers scattered and torn pages scattered amongst the wooden floors. A soft buzzing attracted me to the sun-bleached flies dying, desperate for freedom from this room as they suffocated.

    ¡°Henry.¡±

    The croak from the air turned me to the large bed against the north wall, a weak arm outstretched from the white sheets. Her wedding ring was removed, and the crevice of its undeniable presence burned into her tan skin. I held no regard for her sickness or ailment as my hand took hers strongly, resting my body on the edge of the bed before removing the sheet that covered her.

    Her smile shone above her grotesque image, her skin melting off her like a mask removed from a performer. My breath shook as I examined her, patches of redness surrounding her skin and neck, her fingers cold and parched in mine. Her illustrious hair that glowed underneath the ocean breeze and mist of her home was now brittle and colorless, a lifeless brown turmoiled against the sheets. The skin around her eyes sunk farther back, her nose no longer the pointed adorable structure of her divine face. It was no wonder they attempted to mask the death in this room with white sheets and religious iconography, as my Clementine was the image of pure Death.

    ¡°Clem,¡± I started in disbelief of her decomposing body before mine, but it was her soul that seemed more alight than ever. I feared perhaps this was a nightmare or that it was only her ghost tied to this mortal realm, inhabiting a body that reeked of salt and rotting earth.

    ¡°Oh Henry, you have come! Rejoice in this, for now, our path is laid,¡± she grinned, attempting to sit up. I assisted her in fear that her shoulder socket would burst, my hands touching her skin. Oh, how I wondered how she would feel against me, never imagining her to be lifeless and upon death¡¯s door when I was granted this fate.

    ¡°Dearest Clem, please tell me that Ellandor has resorted to physicians rather than a fate of prayer,¡± I whispered, clasping her hands into mine and kissing them.

    ¡°His God can no longer touch me,¡± she affirmed, the strange grin distorting her solvent face. Her pupils were darker than I remembered them, blacker than the base for all my paintings. ¡°I am left to only thee, the small boy I plucked from the ocean.¡±

    ¡°Clem, I am a painter... a boy from nothing in which now I do not deserve your kindness, for I disregarded your letters and attempts of contact of my own shame and standing in this world-¡±

    ¡°Henry, we were never of this world, of this place of mortality in which mankind has destroyed with promises of power and suffering.¡±

    She rose higher, as if to kiss me upon my lips, the air growing colder in my presence as if she yearned for the warmth of my body. Her fingers traced my jaw and chin, sliding down my skin gently in admiration and pure love. Tears sprung to my eyes at the mere gesture, pain ushering me in my shame to know that Clementine had likewise loved me all this time.

    ¡°I am free!¡±

    Her words failed to reassure me.

    ¡°Clementine, you are dying,¡± I returned despondent.

    ¡°No! I followed the path, I saw where it led. I discovered it as a child along my horse, riding away from what I was instructed to follow. The vision showed me you, my Henry... and where we would be together, and here I stay waiting for you to come. Come! Join me in splendor, Henry. You have tasted it and seen it in your work! I saw it in your masterpieces, drowning in agony was the creation in which we sought! Come! For we are close upon the hour and I have called for more to witness the arrival of the King!¡±

    Confusion flooded me, misery clinging once more as a frightened child, a child drowning in open water grasping onto what little light fastened to him. My angel was mad, lost to some insanity beyond my comprehension nor of her husbands, of any faith of God that remained desperate to save her.

    ¡°Clementine, I do not understand-¡± I peered over her shoulder to her nightstand, and while I was often a foolish boy of little comprehension, clarity struck me harder than the waves of the ocean.

    Upon her nightstand adorned with sheets and dripping candlewax, sat the King in Yellow. The play that plagued our earth, twisting insanity into the minds of all- or so it was spoken. When I learned to read and write under Quinn, several tutors spoke often that not all knowledge was wise to dissolve into our fragile minds, that being which the King in Yellow in its anonymity was strictly forbidden. Those who read it were often never heard from again, and I recognized that this perhaps was Clementine¡¯s final attempt to fight against the institutions that bound her.

    ¡°Oh, Clementine,¡± I whispered in defeat. ¡°What have you done?¡±

    ¡°What I was destined to,¡± she responded angrily, almost prepared to pounce from her bed. ¡°What we are drawn to since the dawn of our existence, what I saw for us. I knew the decision for us to part from my family home would be painful, to leave you to find yourself amongst the masses with your talents...it has all led to this, Henry. This very moment is when you must wipe the ocean salt from your eyes and understand the clarity of our struggles on this earth are nothing compared to where we belong.¡±

    I swallowed the knot in my throat, my lungs shaking as I searched out the window for some distant distraction. The barren landscape went on for miles, and for the first time, I yearned to see the ocean near Landor House once more. To return to childhood and its struggles, my acceptance of my role of servitude. To live in the denial that I had Clementine even in my worthless state.

    Yet here she was, proclaiming once more this sense of destiny in which inwardly I sought and confuted. Despite her honesty and youth of spirit, I knew she was dying, and this book had only hastened the decline of her mind.

    ¡°You are almost there Hastur... I know you have seen it,¡± she whispered.

    ¡°Seen what? What did you just call me?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Carcosa... our home,¡± she smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t you remember? When I pulled you from the ocean, you could not even remember your name. Only that it started with an H. Had I known then what I know now...witnessed the shores of Hali as you had! Yet your paintings reminded me...the twin black stars amongst your spired landscapes, every painting! Your memories are there in your first creation...awakened now as I, Cassilda, call you to continue your design upon this world!¡±

    I could not deny that my heart stirred at her names, astonished yet bewildered at the familiarity of them. Despair left for a mere moment in her speech, the light seeping into the corners of death in this room, her bright halo once returning the first I was reborn of the salt and ocean-

    No.

    It was her urgency and yearning which I sought all my life that now spoke to my heart...not this false destiny or dream of children that strung us along life apart from each other. I could see her eyes grow wide in apprehensive danger that I was slipping away from her grasp for the final time, and the pain in my heart grew as I sank beside her once more. I touched her skin fervently, my fingers on the nape of her neck as I felt her dead hair fall and tangle in the folds of my hand.

    ¡°Tell me what I must do,¡± I lied, soothing her softly. Her smile returned once more, the gleam of hope reflecting from her gaze.

    ¡°Read it, Henry...open the pages for once you do, there is no return. Your mind will stop at nothing to complete the works of us, our story! Read it and you shall know the truth.¡±

    I nodded slowly, kissing her forehead gently before allowing her to rest. Her success in driving me towards fate softened her resolution and she accepted the peace that came with sleep. I watched her for several minutes, my gaze frozen on her in fear that they would avert to the rotten book on her stand. I could feel the force of the bound skin of the pages, calling to me as I looked over her decomposing features. Every bone and fiber in my body rejected this path, my heart also knowing it was rejecting Clementine for the last time.

    My heart screamed as I turned and walked to find the door unlocked and departed from the room of decay, not even looking at Ellandor who waited patiently outside. I fled down the stairs, needing to remove myself before that book somehow landed in my hands. The heavenly choir was gone but rather a chaotic arrangement of instruments played the cacophony of my departure. There were no musicians in sight, there was no one but a servant, Ellandor and I.

    ¡°Henry, wait!¡±

    The attendant paused near the front door, blocking it as Ellandor approached me from behind. His earnestness in my presence sickened me, his pretense for her care and well-being a marvelous spectacle for his servants and men of God.

    ¡°You have done this,¡± I hissed, pointing at him. ¡°Poisoned her beyond the grasp of me that she felt no choice but to find peace in the insanity of that book. You trapped her here, imprisoned by this God and her family!¡±

    Ellandor scoffed at the accusation, bewildered by such a statement.

    ¡°Watch your tongue, boy.¡±

    ¡°All my life I watched my words and thoughts. I followed the path that followed in hopes Clementine would be there at the end...and you stole her from me!¡±

    Ellandor paused, altering his stance before he shook his head.

    ¡°That is what this is about? You will not help her because you think that are owed her presence? A woman of great status and wealth and you believe that as a stable boy or even a painter could sustain the happiness that you sought?¡±

    He stepped forward towards me, but I held my ground and tongue.

    ¡°It is not I that keep her here, but Death and the devil that she sought in your paintings. She noticed something in them, something familiar that she sought that damned book! It is you, the beast of depravity amongst this mortal realm that caused her to stumble, to search for answers beyond faith. And now when she asks for reprieve, you shall not give it to her?¡±

    ¡°I cannot give her what she asks,¡± I affirmed. ¡°You shall not convince me otherwise. There is no help that I can offer to save her from this fate, only can I live with the resolution that she made this choice and will live with the consequences forever.¡±

    I turned away from Ellandor, motioning the servant to open the doors but he remained stoic. His old decrepit face reminded me of the statue of House Landor, of God awaiting my departure from his realm.

    Judging me...always judging me.

    I am a man of life and creation...and again, I felt the sting of violence to tear this man apart. For in the end, we are nothing more than our violent arrival upon this earthly plane, a carnal flesh that seeks blood when the body¡¯s heart and soul withdraws.

    ¡°I have seen your fate, Henry...¡± Ellandor started, ¡°the same way that Clementine was gifted to do so. She was...is, quite gifted Henry. Yet she always observed a fantasy of fate where I am pragmatic and aligned with God, seeing it for plain truth. You are running away.¡±

    I scoffed to mimic his approach to this conversation, and yet I could not deny his words as I stopped to turn back to him in bitter reproach.

    ¡°You ran into the ocean from something...an entity lost to time and yourself. When Clementine spoke of your fates to be together, you departed for the painter in hopes that you could be the man to provide for her. You left her for me...I did not take what was not rightfully mine. Now, there is no choice left but to follow the path that you divulged in fear that you will amount to nothing other than mediocrity and an undistinguished existence.¡±

    The truth stung like a blade to the heart as I turned my head over my shoulder to peer at him. For once, the word of God spoke into my soul, acknowledging that inner voice I understood all along: that I was nothing. Whatever I was before, this Hastur that Clementine spoke of, it meant nothing. I was reborn into the same cycle of poverty and shallow existence to serve those higher than myself, and in my desperation to seek above which I was entitled to, Clementine was the punishment for my crimes.

    The attendant opened the door and I departed willingly without a word, my carriage and driver remaining patiently. Lordnol Hall¡¯s large metal doors closed harshly, the echoing of its lock continuously playing in my mind on the return home. I sat with each stumble of the horse on the uneven roads with the idea of painting my Clementine, the only creation that would not be shown ceremoniously or sold. In attempt to dream of her face the way I knew it to be I remained haunted in her besotting appearance, dripping in red paint or blood as she yearned for me to answer the call. The imagery blended to the point I could not defer the time she appeared herself nor as a child in otherworldly beauty. All that was left of my angel was a rotting corpse of flesh, her heart incessantly beating in hopes I would alter our destinies.

    She spoke of this King...and in my limitless mortal power, I accepted there was no part I could play to save her. The doors echoed once more with each of her words Hastur come, drowning her out my eyes rested on the one sound I could always recall to memory: the incessant beating of ocean waves on the Landor shore.

    I awoke sharply from these nightmares, yellow light streaming into the black carriage harshly. I covered my eyes to find the carriage had stopped, the driver opening my door to flood the yellow in once again.

    The local bookshop shadowed before me, the busy streets awake and alive with the continued existence of us ordinary people. Several prints of my paintings were sold here, but alas, I had no completed work nor recollection of why we arrived. The shop recently opened this day and even the bookseller eyed me curiously through the clear glass windows.

    ¡°Why are we here?¡±

    ¡°You asked me to drive you here, Sir.¡±

    ¡°For what?¡± I asked, but he did not respond because he did not know.

    As the morning yellow sun seeped into my eyes, I knew why I was here.

    In my dreams, I might have asked for this destination of fate to arrive. A choice made not by what was expected upon me, or thrust my own life into a future of success and status.

    This was a choice to make for myself- to live without Clementine forever or perhaps be lost together in madness. Ellandor was right. My acceptance of his words overnight transformed into the challenge Clementine fought all her life, and I had to now take her place in this provocation.

    This tumultuous moment in my history was defined by the action that I took, not those paths I sought to please others or receive praise from those who looked down upon me. Ellandor¡¯s context for warning me of fleeing my soul¡¯s purpose may have been incorrect, but as I stared at the shining glass windows of the shop to see my reflection in the carriage, I felt the utmost certainty of who I was.

    I was something other than this mortal form existing for the purpose of others.

    The world around me was satisfied with their tasks and daily troubles...each man and woman walking to their next destination with neither glee nor despair- only pure acceptance. They waltzed past me without a word nor acknowledgement and I did not mind.

    I nodded at my driver, departing from my shadowed black carriage and into the yellow light as I went inside and purchased a copy of The King in Yellow. The shopkeeper advanced to the back storage to find it, relinquishing it to me without question or concern. Despite the slight sorrow in his eyes as I paid him, there was that fascinating glance of aghast horror...as if he was looking at my paintings. It¡¯s that taste of something so new and grotesque that you pause to announce it aloud- my god, this is wretched- but then your curiosity sets in and tries it again and again and again¡­

    Perhaps we are all mere creatures of curiosity on the path to freedom, even if it means losing what sanity we have left.

    The shopkeeper did not question me as I left but I could tell he eagerly waited to see what was to become of me.

    I returned to my studio, the empty canvases now adorned with my past work. I examined them with the book in my hand, admiring the spires of my castle, the yellow sun glowing behind them, the twin stars in the sky...all this hidden in my great work as Clementine motioned. I grabbed the pamphlet of my first public showing my painter¡¯s name on full display

    ¡°Behold the works of Hastur, mastered under Quinn, in his first public showing titled The Yellow Sign.¡±

    My name was already seen, although there was no recollection of me writing this title in my initial submission to the Department of Arts... A sudden calmness washed over me, merely as I stared at the book in my hand. Could one go mad by merely touching it? Was it not the words of this strange play stage that evolved the minds of men and women alike? This did not answer how I wrote this name down, let alone that Clementine might know of it. Oh, Clementine...

    I sighed dreamily, closing my eyes and imagining her not as the way I might, but as she was now. Her deathly countenance emanated warmth, my hand caressing her face. The sunken skin of her cheeks fell onto my hands, my fingers pulling them apart from her flesh, removing the mask to replace it with another.

    My eyes opened, my throat desperate and thirsty for resolve, my fingers curling around the pages of the King in Yellow as my head, once full of ocean water and blind faith, opened to the words of madness inked across the collection of parchments. I found naught insanity nor death as Clementine discovered, but that was through the eyes of a mortal man.

    I found Hastur- the Emperor of Emperor above all Kings- I created myself.

    All I needed was my bride

 III. Reborn

    The doors locked to Lordnol Hall, I stood outside adorned in my yellow gown and crown, a bright spot against the barren and dying land. I was the golden sun in the night that returned to bring life to death, not only for Clementine but the sullen landscape around me. The wealth and nature of this accursed ground were sapped from the wealth inside, the treasures that awaited mortals and appeared enticing with frivolity and success. Yet my treasure, my wife, was beyond that of any corporal pleasure or measurement put to the human mind, and these iron doors would not stop a King.

    My hand thundered across the surface of the door, abandoning the ring attached as my hand seeped with blood and drenched the hooped sleeve of my robe. The moon shone brightly above, the wind blowing softly as if to mimic a calm ocean across the plains.

    The gears of the locks shifted loudly, my attention returned to the door as the attendant peered at me incredulously.

    ¡°It is the middle of the night...¡±

    ¡°Indeed it is,¡± I replied, waiting patiently. He did not open the door further than the size of his mortal body, examining my golden attire and crown before respiring deeply.

    ¡°Name and business?¡±

    ¡°Hastur,¡± I smiled generously, ¡°and I am here to collect my bride.¡±

    ¡°Of whom do you speak of?¡±

    ¡°The Queen of Yhtil, Cassilda,¡± I announced. Dear readers, my flare for dramatics and art never cease, even past the point of mortality. ¡°You might know her as Clementine, the sweet fruit of the tree...¡±

    At this moment the wave of recognition washed over the attendant, perhaps my stance or tone of voice reminding him of the man I once was. He paused, his hand clenching to the door before allowing me inside cautiously with a pallid expression.

    ¡°I will let her know you have arrived,¡± the attendant lied. I nodded in allowance, for while I knew he was to gather Ellandor from his slumber, I could not fault him as a man to follow orders. He was a captive of men and could not see past that vision, as I once could not- and no shame would produce him out of it. If anything, my greatness of presence might be the divine power or persuasion, not my reckoning hand.

    Waiting in the lobby I recalled days earlier, full of song and glorious depictions of holy wars in this great Hall. I admired it as the old painter I was, the colors and techniques amongst the ceiling creation reminding me of dear Quinn. His effort was not in vain and what was left of God was nothing but a memory of my mentor. God meant nothing else, nor was he a challenge to my resolve anymore.

    ¡°What in heavens are you doing here, Henry?¡±

    I watched Ellandor descend the stairs angrily, his eyes widened at my presence and spectacular attire. His dress robes of sleep tangled at his feet, almost causing him to stumble down before motioning the attendant to depart.

    ¡°It is unlike you to curse, Patriarch Ellandor,¡± I remarked, shifting my body toward him. The yellow robe draped over my head and my body moved fluidly with my motions, covering my face in darkness in certain angles. His eyes glazed over me in fear and confusion.

    ¡°...What are you wearing?¡±

    ¡°My flesh,¡± I shrugged innocuously. ¡°Has my bride been summoned?¡±

    ¡°Henry...tell me you did not read the book,¡± he whispered. He voiced a strange and nuisance tone of earnestness that I did not appreciate. I held my anger and impatience at bay, for while Hastur is not a man of forgiveness, I granted him time to stand in my immaculate presence without haste.

    ¡°You were right in that I was running away. It is clear that your God had some divinity to give you such wondrous insight... as your King, I may find use for it.¡±

    ¡°King? Christ, Henry, you are out of your mind! Insane!¡±

    Anger boiled within me as I stepped forward to him. I was not insane, nor was I out of my mind. I never felt more in it, alive as the words of the anonymous author had granted me at last my rightful title amongst this mortal plane.

    ¡°My bride, where is she? You are to bring her to me.¡±

    A flash of grief washed over the Patriarch, a resolved understanding of deep pain that he appeared to resonate with me strangely. His hand came to my shoulder, a firm grasp on my robes that felt soiled by his false divinity and power. I attempted to disguise my shudder away from his grasp as disgust.

    ¡°Henry, Clementine died...shortly after you left.¡±

    I paused momentarily before the halls of Lordnol were blessed with my laughter, bellowing into the lifeless marble that once held such light and worth. He stared incredulously, watching me as if I were a creature of examination under the glass, a number on a list to disseminate amongst the wealthy masses: a monster in which we cannot control. I heard the utterance of a prayer on his lips, taking his hand from my shoulder into mine.

    ¡°Patriarch, it is a sin to lie,¡± I reminded. ¡°Twice you have sinned in my presence! A curse and then a lie- surely God must smite you down here as you stand! Shall it be a marvelous strike of lightning or perhaps a bolt of fire from the heavens? How shall the everlasting, powerful Patriarch be sentenced?¡±

    ¡°It is not I to be sentenced, Henry,¡± he rejected sternly, his pacing heading back towards the stairs cautiously. ¡°You have read a cursed play and now place yourself at center stage, pretending to be this king above God, paraded about in a costume and false crown. You were nothing Henry- this performance changes naught and certainly does not bring Clementine back to life. Leave, or I will force you from this land.¡±

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    ¡°With what? A stern reprimand of my place in society? There is no weapon brandished in your gowns, Ellandor. Your words do not frighten me nor stall me from my purpose here. You are now in my way and shall be removed henceforth.¡±

    ¡°My servants were called upon,¡± he threatened, ¡°and they have contacted the proper authorities.¡±

    ¡°Proper authorities? Your high and righteous God cannot strike me where I stand? I know not a God that requires the assistance of others, for I would be more than pleased to lead you to your destiny with Death.¡± Laughter bellowed out of my lips once more as his face paled with trepidation, his sweat reeking and staining his precious halls with repugnance. I saw his mind race to thoughts of a brandished weapon under my gowns, for only one of us wore the attire to conceal one so. I wondered what he thought I had...a knife? A pistol locked away amongst the folds of my fabric? Poisonous claws that would paralyze him with a single cut?

    ¡°What a dreadful tease you are, Hastur.¡±

    The pair of us looked up at the staircase, the most heavenly beauty descending the first set of steps to the inner landing. A gold mask covered most of her face, leaving only her plump lips and tan chin emanating in pure radiance. Her red gown covered her body, her arms draped under as if she wore a blanket for warmth as her skin was too blessed to shine upon us. I watched as Ellandor turned in horror, frozen in tumultuous fear that his wife was no longer deceased, no longer covered under the white sheets tainted with his sin. My bride had arrived...soon to be my queen, and I knew she would be far more fearsome than I.

    ¡°Clementine...how can this be?¡± Ellandor breathed.

    She imagined her mortal husband would motion for his sign of the cross if he was free with the ability to move, and she was in awe of the power of her stance... a man always enamored in authority to be rendered numb. She relished in her authority over him, tilting her head as if to observe him with judgment.

    ¡°Blessed are the youthful children marked for glory in His name, raised in reverence above all that they might see....¡± She descended the stairs in frenzied motions, her knees unbuckling with each step- slow but calculated- a predator in the sight of her prey. ¡°What was it you told me at the altar when I saw you adorned with God¡¯s adoration but my abhorrence?¡±

    The Patriarch could hardly speak, mumbling incomprehensible words as my bride stepped close to him, the reek of death accosting him to tears. His gaze could not look at the dark eyes beneath the mask, gleaming against the bright candles of the halls, wax melting swiftly from her heated hate. His eyes met the tile floor to avert his gaze from her, only to find the shadows in the reflection consuming their very image.

    He answered her response but not to her liking.

    ¡°Speak up, Patriarch!¡± she screeched.

    ¡°God loves you... but not like I will,¡± he shuddered, falling to his knees in her reverence and splendor. She looked down upon him not of pity, nor any feminine grace she was instructed to have in her youth- it was the observation of Death in which she surpassed by his god. The years of torment and loneliness spent in these halls echoed around her in memory. Her eyes blazed with vengeance as her right hand slid under the back of her gown.

    ¡°He is nothing, my bride,¡± I echoed in sentiment, outstretching my hand for her to take. I longed to return home... reunited in her warmth and love to be seated in Carcosa and feel the sea mist as her kisses on my skin. ¡°Let us go home.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes! I give you my permission to depart,¡± Ellandor agreed, only out of panic about the consequences. I sought no personal vengeance against this man, for it was not I that was a prisoner to his fate, nor his God. His eyes might hold judgment for those beneath him, but we were no longer the ones on our knees, gazes to the heavens in hopeful prayers of rescue.

    ¡°We do not need your permission,¡± I reminded, ¡°and we shall not thank you for it.¡±

    I looked towards my bride once more, my hands once full of mortal life begging for her presence. The halls and lobby above us echoed the dying flies, released from her room as they buzzed invisible amongst our heads. The whispers of her dying prayers echoed, some words hardly coherent other than desperate screams. Her gaze did not depart her husband and I understood that despite her immortal flesh taking over her body, her soul remained imprisoned.

    ¡°Oh, King in Yellow, Hastur.¡±

    I heard this man¡¯s pleas, his widened blue eyes begging as he turned to look at me. He stood up suddenly, rushing at me with grasping arms at my elbows, his knees giving out as his feet struggled to keep him afloat. My heart jolted with distress shortly, confused by his actions and clinging hands.

    ¡°My lamb, the chosen of God,¡± he announced. ¡°You shall deliver us, yes? I will be your most faithful servant, sending your word amongst the masses of your arrival onto this mortal plane! To speak your unspeakable horrors amongst the masses- It shall be done as you will it, my King.¡±

    I watched as this man transformed into the very accusation of which I stood accused only moments before: a performer in robes of conceit and lies. This man was not yet free from the insanity of my words, for he only followed this path to save his soul from the destruction that remained. He begged for his life, adjusting his fickle stance of who God was to him. At first, it was family as a boy- then reverence of holy acts amongst the commons, to being God himself with wealth and status, attaching a beautiful wife to his treasures. Now I too was his chosen God, and yet I would not accept his deceit nor punish him for it.

    As it was not my place nor my resolve to free my bride-for she had the power within herself, first freeing me from my mortal chains. Now it was time to free herself.

    ¡°Henry...Hastur! Please!¡±

    His pleas came too late as he could hear Clementine stumble behind him, a broken body strong enough to plunge the hidden dagger into his heart. His breath caught, blood depleting into his lungs to drown him. His eyes attempted to turn over his shoulder to gaze at her once more, but she denied him that finality as she removed the dagger with an ancient agility. She whispered in his ear before his body collapsed.

    ¡°To know violence is to know your god.¡±

    His body seeped onto the white tile floor, tainting with red and drenching the edges of our robes. Behind her mask, her eyes gleamed with anticipatory excitement, her warm hands conclusively taking my hand swiftly. Her eyes did not leave mine as her feet flew over her captor¡¯s body, the two of us embracing in tumultuous glee.

    ¡°My darling bride, you are nothing short of wonder,¡± I whispered, kissing gently behind her ear to which she echoed in laughter and pure song.

    ¡°Had I known I had the power of freedom, I would have done this long before,¡± she responded, squeezing me with all her strength. ¡°It was your paintings that reminded me.¡±

    My hand went to her mask, holding it carefully against her face as I kissed her with the passion of my former self, her power no longer stirred by contempt or hate but purposeful ecstasy. The world before us grew silent, the halls of his god seeping with rot and blood before his attendant stood ready at the door.

    Clementine-Cassilda...stood in my arms as she glanced at the man who followed his orders of her imprisonment. One hand opened the iron door, the other carefully holding onto her copy of The King in Yellow. Her head leaned against my chest, the two of us watching him cautiously before she resolved into action. Taking my hand, she leaped towards the door with rejuvenation.

    ¡°Pallid, you were once a stranger but now have a higher calling,¡± she announced to the servant, to which he nodded fervently. ¡°Tell the others the time has come.¡±

    I was a master of creation, paint being my chosen medium- and yet Clementine has written what is now to follow.

    This work is a letter to the masses- to those who know the word of their King. May they rise to meet me in our place amongst the stars, a reclamation of sanity. Come find me and my bride, for not many can speak that they have been reborn twice. May you, my followers and gentle audience, discover a similar fate.