Until Your Last Breath
Until Your Last Breath vices stories
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affinity15 | Life devoid of suffering is no life
Autoplay OFF  •  3 months ago
Rome won't fall.

Until Your Last Breath

You walk into an empty castle.

You walk into an empty castle. (How did you get here? The doors are shut.)

It's quite majestic in an eerie kind of way; sunlight streaming in hazes through the window, bathing the air and sweeping the floor with golden serenity. (Silence is golden too.)

You turn your back to the window. For all its empyrean sanctity, the light's still too bright, too blinding, a twisting knife in hyper-focused eyes. Your gaze is turned away; you don't want to see it. Instead, it falls elegantly, dancing at your throne.

You turn your back to the window. For all its empyrean sanctity, the light's still too bright, too blinding, a twisting knife in hyper-focused eyes. Your gaze is turned away; you don't want to see it. Instead, it falls elegantly, dancing at your throne. (Oh, yeah. There's a throne now.)

The sun's radiant in the window, but you think it's just the dawn. It seems like an omen to a series of bizarre unnaturalness that the sun is rising but the birds don't sing. The night didn't dream either. There were no stars, no moon—not that you could see. (But we don't see what we don't look for.)

You gaze at the silver sunbeams (silver?) falling flaccidly to the marble floor around you, seeming to evaporate and drift into the air; an air thin with promise.

Rome won't fall.

Rome won't fall. Rome won't fall.

(Now there's blood in every hollow death of your pawns—your fellow kings—left sprinkled in the red checked courts before you; left not to wither and waste away in unfulfilled wishfulness, but awaiting judgment, purgatorial sentencing.

You step outside, and you see the darkness within their prismatic irises, the darkness of the vices they had been lost in until their final breath. The ghosts still reign; the smoke still reigns. None of them had breathed a word. None of them had surrendered their pride and regrets; and in doing so, they surrendered to their pride and regrets.)

(Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.)

Except you don't do any of that, so you don't see any of that. Instead, you stand still within the fortress that is your imperial castle, gazing with haunted eyes at the sun burning in the window.

(There's smoke now, tendrils of gasping potency left to drain as the sun smoulders within its own legacy. Enough smoke to obscure your eyes, to shield your eyes from the flashing. Perhaps eerily akin to a siren, or gunshots in the air.)

(There's smoke now, tendrils of gasping potency left to drain as the sun smoulders within its own legacy. Enough smoke to obscure your eyes, to shield your eyes from the flashing. Perhaps eerily akin to a siren, or gunshots in the air.) It's clearly just the dawn.

The night is rising now as the light flickers. But the night only brings your innocence, your dreams; and it chases away the holy monsters that shine light into your eyes, into the mirrors of your mind, beseeching you to see. You welcome the night, raising your glass to the sky.

The night is rising now as the light flickers. But the night only brings your innocence, your dreams; and it chases away the holy monsters that shine light into your eyes, into the mirrors of your mind, beseeching you to see. You welcome the night, raising your glass to the sky. (I dare you. It's our last dance.)

Rome won't fall.

Rome won't fall. Rome won't fall.

(Like drums pounding, you think. A processional thrum.)

(Like drums pounding, you think. A processional thrum.) Then again, certainly not. The very idea is ridiculously absurd.

You walk, languid, movements fluid, stopping to rest on your throne. You don't speak.

(Seventeen years and nineteen score. What was all of it for?)

(Seventeen years and nineteen score. What was all of it for?) Silence is golden.

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