The regents sat haughtily on their throne,
their gaze hanging over the wills of the people through the statues and high towers.
The people, seemingly aware of this condemnation, scurried about,
hunched over, to avert themselves from the sunken eyes of the statues and oppressive monoliths.
Thus the city… wept:
"You who once made me in your image, through your aspirational essence—
what has become of you?"
To the north of the city, built into the base of the mountain, was a bastion—
the last whisper of nobility.
It was with a muted strength it sang.
There the king sat on his throne, chained by the responsibility he felt to the people.
The throne room was lit with a myriad of colors, each contrasting against the marble floor.
On that marble floor, before the king, stood an Arbiter—
his armored robes draped against the ground, the gold embroidery glinting against the sunlight.
"I demand to know the nature of this audience," the king stated.
The Arbiter replied,
"You'd do well to address me with more cordiality."
The king slouched in resignation,
the vast expanse of his kingdom nestled within the cradle of his sunken eyes and weary brows.
"Speak of your prophecy," the king said solemnly.
The priest took a deep breath before continuing—his breath reverberating throughout the chamber:
From the moment there was a spoken word, man declared war against his mother—Nature—
tearing down her forests, uprooting her gardens, and ripping mountains and stone from the earth
in an attempt to make her in his image.
And now that he had conquered Nature, his hubris declared war against his father—the Spirit.
All in the name of Progress—a mistress who cared for no one except for the one married to her last.
And many men had conjoined themselves with such a mistress.
He constructed abominations to pacify himself, to reduce himself to the state of an infant with drugs like opium and hashish.
And now that he had conquered his father, he set his aims upon himself.
The kingdom withered in the king's eyes as he glanced at his children,
deep in contemplation… melancholy shrouding whatever hope he had left in his heart.
"Continue," he said.
The priest nodded slowly, his voice carrying through the silence:
Man created cradles of stability to protect himself from his mother's whims.
Through his understanding of continuity, he developed a sense of permanence in relation to his environment.
This was the will of man: to maintain continuity—or rather, the establishment of boundaries:
this is that, I am me, he is him, and that animal is different from me.
Because of this, he could create structures throughout time.
But man betrayed himself when he indulged in instant gratification,
and this was why it was seen as the ultimate vice—
because it contradicted the very foundation upon which man realized his will to power—
his dominance over Nature, which was chaotic.
And man could not thrive in Nature.
His body was… weak.
"It is human foresight that elevates man above the animal," the priest stated.
"We, as a guide for shaping belief and fostering virtue,
had ultimately been trying to cultivate that foresight.
But you... you have led your people astray.
And so, with a heavy heart—
we, the Church, demanded that you abdicate."
The Arbiter paused with measured silence.
"The throne…"
"Be... gone," the king growled, gritting his teeth.
Fury flickered in the cradle of his eye—
all that was his world refracted through the painted glass behind him.