No 3
This week I was taken to write the Prologue to the third installment of the Trader trilogy. How does it all end, one wonders? The following is whilst spelt correctly is neither the final draft or been fixed for grammar. I thought to share this only because I felt it was important to show I do actually know where I am going.
“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light." - John Milton
This could be considered a spoiler and if you do not wish to know, read no further.
Prologue
First Empress of Gehenna, rested her weary bones on the throne one last time. The hall deserted, no guard or attendant in sight to tend the needs or offer company. Only the distant light of the twin stars illuminated the cavernous chamber. Reflecting off the pristine polished surfaces, the colour shifted with each glancing contact. Floating, drifting in the void the vast warship was home of sorts to thousands. For days they had journeyed to reach her origin, her birthplace. She urged them on, to hasten, but would not tell them why.
Fashioned of black marble, inlaid with gold filigree, the throne was a fitting tribute upon which a monarch’s ass could reside. Raised up on three broad plinths, thirty feet tall. Carved with an exaggerated likeness from her youth. Indomitable, she stood to gaze down, with inlaid emerald eyes upon the breadth of her domain. Cushions soften the numbness of long hours, listening to the endless chatter of advisors, courtiers and subjects. If she squinted, she could see the familiar heavens, but they held little comfort now. Seventy-two years, three months and some odd days she had endured the title. Bestowed, not because her people loved her, though a few still did. She occupied the throne despite the better claims of others because she was not them.
When she perished, a few final breaths remained, it would be with the hope to reunite with the love of her life. Decades, she had borne the loss and mourned every second since. Having no faith to speak of, it was the last foolish desire of an old woman. Childless, there would be no dynasty to follow. She had named no successor for she deemed none worthy to ascend. Chaos and destruction of the years, decades to come would be her abiding legacy.
A thousand titles they had bestowed upon her over the years. Supreme Commander of Gehenna, First Lord of the Heavens. Slayer of the Dark, Crusher of Souls, the list was superfluous and no more worthy of attention than those her enemies afforded.
Sealed in a vault far below, in the belly of the ship was a small box. Atop a light blinked, slowed to a crawl, in harmony with the beat of her failing heart. Within the box, dwelt an intelligence which had been her constant companion for much of her nigh century span. When she died, and die she must, so too it would pass. In her hand, the last shred of a stuffed toy, reduced to no more than a gossamer rag. A lover’s gift, precious beyond measure. Released from her grasp the fragment fluttered to the floor. Death of a Queen, an Empress, mighty warrior. A hero to some, a murderess to others. The histories and the tales would never tell the truth, but she was gone and did not care.
“Down to Gehenna, or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone.” - Rudyard Kipling.
“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light." - John Milton
This could be considered a spoiler and if you do not wish to know, read no further.
Prologue
First Empress of Gehenna, rested her weary bones on the throne one last time. The hall deserted, no guard or attendant in sight to tend the needs or offer company. Only the distant light of the twin stars illuminated the cavernous chamber. Reflecting off the pristine polished surfaces, the colour shifted with each glancing contact. Floating, drifting in the void the vast warship was home of sorts to thousands. For days they had journeyed to reach her origin, her birthplace. She urged them on, to hasten, but would not tell them why.
Fashioned of black marble, inlaid with gold filigree, the throne was a fitting tribute upon which a monarch’s ass could reside. Raised up on three broad plinths, thirty feet tall. Carved with an exaggerated likeness from her youth. Indomitable, she stood to gaze down, with inlaid emerald eyes upon the breadth of her domain. Cushions soften the numbness of long hours, listening to the endless chatter of advisors, courtiers and subjects. If she squinted, she could see the familiar heavens, but they held little comfort now. Seventy-two years, three months and some odd days she had endured the title. Bestowed, not because her people loved her, though a few still did. She occupied the throne despite the better claims of others because she was not them.
When she perished, a few final breaths remained, it would be with the hope to reunite with the love of her life. Decades, she had borne the loss and mourned every second since. Having no faith to speak of, it was the last foolish desire of an old woman. Childless, there would be no dynasty to follow. She had named no successor for she deemed none worthy to ascend. Chaos and destruction of the years, decades to come would be her abiding legacy.
A thousand titles they had bestowed upon her over the years. Supreme Commander of Gehenna, First Lord of the Heavens. Slayer of the Dark, Crusher of Souls, the list was superfluous and no more worthy of attention than those her enemies afforded.
Sealed in a vault far below, in the belly of the ship was a small box. Atop a light blinked, slowed to a crawl, in harmony with the beat of her failing heart. Within the box, dwelt an intelligence which had been her constant companion for much of her nigh century span. When she died, and die she must, so too it would pass. In her hand, the last shred of a stuffed toy, reduced to no more than a gossamer rag. A lover’s gift, precious beyond measure. Released from her grasp the fragment fluttered to the floor. Death of a Queen, an Empress, mighty warrior. A hero to some, a murderess to others. The histories and the tales would never tell the truth, but she was gone and did not care.
“Down to Gehenna, or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone.” - Rudyard Kipling.
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