This is a short story I started and completed today, and I am really proud of it. It's probably my favorite story I've ever written. Not directly LEGO-related, but I may make some builds for it at a later date. Others are free to build scenes from it if they wish, so long as the original credit is given to me, please. Very much inspired by H.P. Lovecraft.
I often gazed at the throne amidst moonlight when I was a young child. I would crawl from my bedchambers and slither down the stairs, silent as a mouse. My lanky, boyish frame aided me in the courtyard, as I was thin enough to slide in between the closely guarded pillars, by which no man could follow me even if I was spotted.
In the deep walled chamber that was the Hall of Shra-Nimh stood the bone-white Throne of Sta’Lit. The marble fixture was nearly seven feet tall from its base to its crown. The head of the throne was decorated in a humble manner, bearing the emeralds that glimmered in the light of the magnificent moon. Three were set above the headrest of the enormous chair, and two were positioned at the front of the armrests, like two green eyes that would dart back and forth in the direction of the glimmering light. A pillow filled with raven’s feathers and sewn shut with silk slumped lazily in the seat. The legs were carved of the same slab of marble that the rest of the throne was, and mirrored the aesthetic of the crown of the throne.
For most of my childhood, I took any chance I could to bring myself to the object of my affection. Despite my longing for the throne, I was unable to muster the strength to touch it in fear of wrath from my father. Many times, however, I was scolded by my father. A stout, suntanned man with a raucous voice, my father was loud by nature and a polar opposite of myself in nearly every fashion. When my various adventures into the Hall of Shra-Nimh were brought to my father’s attention, he would cast his booming voice into my bedchambers, disciplining what he referred to as “a mischievous prince” on why it was improper for my nocturnal viewings of the throne to continue.
I grew to despise my father, and all of his actions. He held massive banquets in the hall, and brought in roaring crowds of nobles who would gawk and gander at the various attributes of my father’s castle. All guests would cast their eyes on the beautiful throne, and would be enveloped in awe at its beauty. Whenever I viewed the throne at these gatherings, amidst all those who swore themselves to my father, I felt a sense of shame, of embarrassment for its presence. The throne and I were similar in more ways than one. Both the throne and myself were made objects of my father’s pride, our true forms forever banished by the loathsome king.
My father’s gatherings often continued into the early hours of the morning, torches lining the walls of the hall, filling the scene with a display of human arrogance, of utter disregard for the throne’s hidden radiance under the eyes of Luna. While the darkness was kept at bay, I was forced to sit and behold the vulgar vandalism of the palpable essence of my desire. Despite my pleas, the torches would be lit and relit, and the disgusting noise of his peers continued.
When the light was extinguished and the natural glow of the moon returned, I would slink down once more to be with the throne. Over the years, I learned much of the darkest depths of the massive hall. My experience with the hidden doors and various secret nooks was encompassing. This dismayed my father, of course, who feared the night and darkness as if he were a weak child.
Although his efforts to dispel my visits to the hall continued, I would not cease my nightly ritual. As I grew, my fascination with the throne shifted from a childish curiosity to a lustful coveting. Within the walls of the Hall of Shra-Nimh, and in the dim radiance of the Throne of Sta’Lit, I was one with my soul.
My beliefs shifted in accordance with my increased love of the throne. On numerous occasions, I stormed out of the cathedrals of my father’s kingdom, with their warm clay walls and assorted idols of Gûthra, the sun god. I vowed to bring wrath down upon those who blasphemed the night and its beauty, as so many of the priests did. The acolytes often spoke of the glory of Gûthra and his deeds in defeating the malicious creatures spawned from the demons and banshees of the night. Luna, and her physical form of the moon, was treated as the harbinger of the evil and destructive forces of night. The scriptures were merely heresy, born of fear and mislead peasants of days long past. I considered all of the priests of Gûthra to be heretics, and I swore an oath that I would see to their demise.
As I transitioned into adulthood, I continued visiting the Hall of Shra-Nimh, although I was very familiar with the entirety of my father’s palace. Regardless of the distance traveled from my beloved hall, I would always return to observe the throne before the harsh rays of dawn cut through the eastern windows. My lust and love of the throne had manifested itself in rituals by this point, and I would often sit in utter silence, observing the pure grace of the throne, and listening to the distant wind slide across the outer walls of the hall.
My father distanced himself from me in this time as well. Clearly disinterested, or perhaps disgusted, with my existence. He ceased acknowledging me at the banquets; he refused to speak with me in the comforts of the donjon, and dared not to mention my midnight escapades.
Despite this, his guards would still stand watch in the corridors, and throughout the courtyard. By this point in my life, I made no issue of arriving directly, although my knowledge of the secret passageways and hidden nooks was well kept. The guards noticed this, but their reports to my father proved fruitless. My father’s disinterest in discussion of me grew and physically manifested itself as fear in the guard’s minds. I made note of how the guard lessened each night. The name “Prince of Shadows” floated on the tongues of servants and daytime guards alike, and I oft wondered what sort of rumors spread.
In the final days of my father’s life, he set the remainder of his guards to keep the torches lit through the Hall of Shra-Nimh until the brink of dawn. It was a vain attempt to discourage me as well as increase morale among his henchmen. Furious, I brought myself to his bedchambers that night.
My father refused to speak to me as I entered, simply looking at me regardless of what motions I made or words I spoke. Frustrated beyond belief, I left the blank gaze of my father and retreated to my own chamber, too sickened by the hideous display that was occurring in the Hall of Shra-Nimh.
In my own bed, I wept for the sanctity of the throne. The disgraces by my father and his ilk were far too great for me to dispute with speech of tongues. Words are wind. the townsfolk were known to say. I laid there in soul-gripping silence for quite some time before gazing from my window out into the majesty of the night sky. Luna sat in her throne among the stars, looking pitifully upon me. I began to weep more, but I was hushed by the sudden sounds of a voice.
A beautiful voice it was, yet it did not travel louder than a whisper. It pierced my animalistic utterances and moans, and penetrated my mind’s eye with visions of horrendous violence. The wind was sucked from my breath, and I tumbled to the floor. My surroundings faded away, and I saw nothing beyond the images that flashed in my mind. I envisioned blood, dripping and seeping, glimmering in the light of the moon. I witnessed corpses strewn across beds, against pillars, beneath tables. All of them wore the clothes and trademarks of my father’s appearance.
It was in that moment of euphoria I realized what must be done. The time had come for me to ascend the throne. My father was a despicable fool, and the Goddess of the Moon would tolerate his disgraces no longer. As a servant of Luna, I was called upon to rid this earthly realm of his monstrous form, and to perhaps grant salvation to the people of the demon Gûthra.
My father slept as loudly as he lived, and just as heavily. He did not hear the oaken door creak as I slipped my hands behind it. The unsheathing of my dagger was too quiet for his large, scarlet ears to perceive as well. Nor did he hear the knife plunge into the rolls of his sweaty, gruffly neck. He had grown fatter in the later years. A trait he no doubt attributed to my disobedience of his false gods and idols. My father did not squeal as I had expected him to, but died silently. It was a surprise gift from the pig that sired me.
Once I had completed the task, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief, and an equally as overwhelming sense of glee. The Throne of Sta’Lit had been wrested from the hands of my malevolent father, and now belonged to me, a loyal servant of the goddess Luna. The beacon she had left for me to discover in the earthly realm was finally mine, to finally achieve what I was created to do.
I practically pranced into the throne room, paying no attention to torches. My robe was spattered with blood, and my strides left maroon footsteps on the perfumed rugs. The guards who dared to pursue me met the same fate as my father, as my nimble movements was able to outmatch their long, sweeping swings of various pole arms. Once three of the wretches lay deceased in and about the tables of the Hall of Shra-Nimh, those left stood guard at their assigned posts, daring not to gaze upon my face. The patient composure of my face was missing, but the gleeful manner of my white face was evidently bathed in my father’s blood.
I had reached the end of the hall and kneeled before the Throne of Sta’Lit. At this point, the adrenaline that I had garnered from the murder of my father dissipated, and I was left on the verge of tears in viewing of the array of torches on the walls of the hall. I shrieked, and commanded the useless pets of my father to extinguish all of the vile remnants of the former king. After a moment’s hesitation, they scuttled away and destroyed the torches. I conjectured that these dim-witted mice-like servants could be of use to me after all.
Once the hall was returned to it’s natural state, I bid the abominations farewell, to leave me be with my prize. They scattered out from the hall, off to go warn the rest of the guard. My focus was not on them, but once more on the throne. After years of worship, obsessing, and primal lust, I had the Throne of Sta’Lit in my grasp.
I climbed atop it, in a moment of pure bliss, and let myself slump into the pillow with my back against the erect marble back. The marble was smooth, even smoother than I could have ever predicted. The hallway was filled with a ghastly silence, and I reveled in the glow of the light that the goddess Luna had blessed me with.
The entirety of the guard came in shortly thereafter, and I commanded them to do my bidding, as I was now the king. Reluctantly, the captain of the guard pledged his fealty, and the rest followed suit. I released them upon the cathedrals of Gûthra, to pillage as they pleased, so long as they put all of the demonic acolytes to the sword, leaving no survivors, lest the guards themselves lose their own lives for their failure.
I reclined one more on the throne as the guard spilled out of the Hall of Shra-Nimh. The marble was cool to the touch, yet was surprisingly comforting. It felt as if the chair had been built to accommodate my own form. No doubt my father felt a measure of discomfort, with his stumpy body and piles of flesh.
As my slender figure rested on the Throne of Sta’Lit, I glanced out of one of the hall’s many windows, and I saw once more the gleaming sphere of my heart’s love. In that moment, amidst the havoc and chaos of deposing of my father, I felt an ultimate calm.
I had finally become one with the Throne of Sta’Lit, the earthly beacon of Luna.