[ ACT I. 戦記の序章 ; Prologue to the War ]
CHAPTER I. 蜘蛛の糸
｛ The Spider's Thread
He is destined to walk a dark and crooked path, one that is clouded with secrets and stained of blood. It is labyrinthine and surreptitious, so long and winding that it casts a darker shadow that engulfs his being. His heart was and but only a whirlpool of flat, stirring emotions. If caught in fear, he would ineffably plummet sooner and closer to an unprecedented, crushing death that he loathed and desired all at once. The pungent, metallic scent fills his nostrils, and like an epiphany, he finds comfort. He whispers to himself words of eloquent reassurance, like a maniac who's denouement had gone wrong, realizing the lie he had been vainly living. And yet behold, there is no hidden poetry in death and there is no romance in a lifetime. 'Tis abrupt and cruel, such things can be said to both.
But like the operatic arias and the dulcet accents of voices, it was music to his ears; the thumping sound of genocide echoing with the soundless yet loud death from every corner of the world. Fortississimo, Grandioso, Tremolo, and more terms of the musically inclined — death echoed, thus it is endless. Like an answer to a riddle, there is no beginning nor an end to a circle. It pleased the young boy, who's existence was mangled helplessly, and yet there was a bright grin on his face. So roguish and akin to a cursed smile of a beast, fanged and stained of blood and sin — one would think it would be impossible to be ecstatic of the chaos, but he was different for he was hatred and rage himself, and no longer did he pander and whimper to those truly inferior to him, no longer did he have to appeal to the masses that had wronged him for his birthright. Oh, how enchanting it is to have the world squirm under his sempiternal rage.
He had been warned once and then a thousand times after, for his hatred devoured and destroyed. But while he was hatred, he was fear all at once. So lost and frightened, feared and abhorred; he was a beast and a villain for the world to blame, but he begs for one more epiphany, for where did this corrosive hatred come from? Who was he but a child with a name and a sword? Ah, he adored the sin of it all but what was it all for if not for himself? How long has he stared into the abyss? Or better yet, has he not become the abyss itself for his crimes against humanity and himself? What has he abandoned to become glorious and powerful and void of weakness?
Such tributaries of his own crisis were only reminders, this sickening fear and this damning hatred were simply memorabilia of the inferno, the debris, and the accented misery of those who had wrong him — If I am not hatred and fear, then I am no one else. A boy died that night and a beast was reborn in his stead, and so this is my war thus it is not theirs, he realizes. Exhilarating and triggering, he found peace and retribution in the daunting footsteps of war. If the means justify the end, then he shall slaughter them all. If the means justify the end, then he shall be the villain the world desperately needs. If the means justify the end, then he shall be end of this world that loathed him. Let the madness reign and let the cruelest beasts snuff out the clarity of it all, for if he was not hatred and fear, he would be no one at all.
But the countless epiphanies and the wondrous madness became crystal clear dreams, for the blood-stained sky turned the softest blue and the sea of bodies morphed into one single woman who's voice was sharp and very similar to a banshee; "Wake up, you ungrateful child!" She yelled once and then a thousand more times. How could this not be a dream when it captures her dulcet screams so realistically?
And so he opens his eyes and finds himself under the murderous glare of Vandella Therese D'Arc, an aristocrat with the most massive personality crisis in all of Cefran. And within second of realization, he manages to kneel and beg just in time before the woman in the soft blue satin began raving in anger once more. The dream was forgotten and all that was left in him was the cacophonous echo of itself, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.
"We've been nothing but saints to you ever since Lilith took you in! I told her not to waste food on you, or even give you a bed! And God forbid, even the clothes!!" The woman seethed, veins nearly popping at the volume of her voice. Her wrist flicking up and down as she fanned herself, though it did nothing to her reddening complexion, "And still, you dare sleep on your job like you deserve such rest?! You? An orphaned bastard who my lovely, dearest sister pitied on?! How dare you think you are above your station, freak!!" Vandella screamed in a scandalized manner, as if her tea turned out to be water from the sewers, her pale skin turning red with anger in a matter of seconds.
"It was an accident..." He whimpered on his knees, his eyes trained to the carpet and its weaved details. His toes curling inside his tattered shoes, lips trembling as he apologized helplessly. He was truly nothing like the dream. The echoing had stopped. The glorious rhapsody of war was nowhere to be found, thus its traces were gone and its existence was lost. It was mind maddening, to have such dreams that were obsessively reoccurring yet merely forgotten soon after until he felt that dreadful ache in his chest soon after. A reminder of some sorts, a warning of some kind, a cryptic message he was yet to unravel.
His name was Prince D'Arc, a boy who's eyes were as troubling as his surreptitious dreams at night. A simple boy who's childhood was a blurry backdrop, no true name to his face nor even parents to remember. He recalled being adopted when he was three years old, by a woman who's beauty was unparalleled even by her own sisters — Lilith Anastasia D'Arc, the Lady and Mistress of the Noble House of D'Arc. Though unparalleled beauty she was, her heart was filled with cunning and cruelty. Her eyes were an acidic green and her hair was similar to the color of honey, she was the temptress herself.
When he first saw her eyes, he thought she was something that of a serpent, but as her lips curled to a soft and endearing smile — he was instantly filled with hope. And though hope was kind and sweet, it destroyed him all the same. His naïveté was disconcerting at the time, to remember how easily misled he was by that simple smile made him cringe with self-pity. Just how desperate was he to escape the orphanage and his own sorrow that he had mistaken such a predatory grin for a sympathetic and kind smile?
A three year old child wouldn't know any better, he defend himself with a scowl, though his tone was faint and defeated.
"What is this all about? Ella, what is the meaning of this?"
Speak of the devil and she shall come, he bitterly thought to himself, still on his knees as his eyes darted to look at the trailing dress that pooled around Lilith's slender figure. He fears that he would have to look into her eyes, and remember that frightening hope she had made him feel as a child.
"The little rat was sleeping! He hasn't even washed the sheets, or even the curtains yet!" Vandella immediately said with vindication.
"Oh, now that can't be right. I thought we promised not to sleep on our job, little prince? You don't want to be punished again, do you?" Lilith tutted the same way a scolding mother would, shaking her head with soft reprimanding as she placed a well manicured finger below his chin, slowly lifting his chin to have him face her. This was the woman Prince truly feared, and she was truly much more frightening than all of her sisters combined — making a mockery of Vandella's banshee-like screech, Melusine's drab personality and Xana's pathetic pandering was not a crime if he was careful enough to not voice it out. They weren't Lilith Anastasia, after all.
If Lilith was at very top of the food chain, the other sisters were middle-class predators who's fangs were dull. The She-Devil was a preposterous woman who's libido was petty cruelty, and Prince was the cowardly boy who's backbone was nonexistent. "It won't happen again, I promise." He vowed earnestly, anything to avoid the agonizing punishment he had gotten used to since he had turned five — 'used to' did not mean he was a brave fool who would stick his head out for the guillotine to slice it off.
"But you promised me that, too. And now you broke your promise, so you deserve to be punished... Don't you think so, Prince?" Lilith purred, her hair falling flawlessly from her back and to her shoulders, smoothly cascading down like waterfalls.
Is she or is she not a self-respecting woman with standards and morals?, Prince caught himself thinking as he shivered under her touch, leaving him staggering and breathless and frightened but also hateful and spiteful all at once. Flashes of a sword came to mind, and then flying embers and ashes of a meaningless dream he couldn't make sense out of; only that he felt murderous and disgusted at the touch. The way she leaned forward to show the shape of her breasts, the way she sighed softly and whispered like her words were a holy prayer. He was no pariah to this serpent who's deeds were as disgusting as they were sinful.
Any born and raised citizen of Cefran would know the sisters of the (not so) Noble House of D'Arc, were renowned for their unadulterated desire for sexual intimacy — they had no preference (or standard). The sisters never discriminated when it came to sex; male or female, old or young, wealthy or not, dead or alive... And if memory served him well, once or twice, Prince even caught Xana, the youngest of the sisters, bringing a fair milkmaid and her beau into her chambers, and he could vividly remember Vandella exchanging body fluids with an old retired man from the military by the terrace.
They were wealthy, and had a high reputation within the noble society. But that didn't stop terrible rumors from floating around, like the sisters being underground prostitutes or being related to the devil (or the succubus); Prince found it hard to believe that some people even fell in love with the wretched women he had to call 'sisters'. For most of the part, Prince grew impatient with them and their sex life. He would oftentimes wish to never be involved in their quest to have sex with nearly every single hot-blooded being they lay their eyes on, but alas, like his forgotten dreams — he forgets that he is Prince D'Arc, a simple boy who's life has been damned and cursed by the Gods themselves.
"I — I really do promise it this time!" He pleaded with fear and anxiety that ripped his heart apart, remembering silk and sweat and pain. Prince wonders why he feels such anguish in the face of the serpent who's jaws are unhinged, pleasantly waiting to devour his vapid existence. The same way a predator does to its prey.
There is a wicked grin on her lips, her voice was jagged with spite and mockery as she withdrew her slender fingers away from Prince's face; "Oh, I really do like it when princes beg." Lilith laughed, batting her eyelashes with impending ebullience. "Come along, little prince. I'll make it quick for you since I'm in such a good mood."
His begging and miserable screams of promises were nothing to their ears and to their nonexistent morals, as he found himself promptly tied to the bed he knew better than the city of Cefran. "No... Please, no..." He whimpered to Lilith, and to the Gods. He's already been under her lithe body countless times to know his own begging screams, enough times to know the pain that was beyond his or anyone's own belief. She calls it love and affection — He calls it the bane of his somber existence because though he knows little to nothing about love and its sweet musings to the mortals of this world, he understands enough to make a better assumption that this 'love' of hers is not supposed to make him feel ashamed, destroyed, disgusted, enraged, betrayed and frightened.
As he blankly stares at the canopy of the bed, with red-rimmed eyes from crying himself through the thievery of his innocence, though his tears distracted him from the disgust and shame, he still found himself whispering his ignored prayers to the world that has continuously forsaken him. Was he not just a child? Did he not deserve the innocence he was born with? — Was this his fate for forevermore?
I shall be my own salvation, he thought with tears of anguish and fire in his eyes. If God shall ignore his humble plea for salvation; then must he, Prince, turn to the devil instead? Morality and religion be damned for eternity, for if the means justify the end — He shall no longer be the boy with a blurry backdrop for a childhood and a face with no true name. Enough was enough, so damn these wretched sisters and damn their useless God, let him be the harbinger of death and hypocrisy and pain if it means his own deserved liberation. Let them tighten the rope around their own slender necks, let that be their only one good deed.
END of CHAPTER I. 蜘蛛の糸
QOTC: First impression of Prince?