The Clear Water Psalms

The woman dressed in black introduced herself as the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain, Bewitcher of Darkness and Betrayer of Death. An extravagant title for an extravagant person, as tiresome to say as it is to talk with the woman herself.

We four- Me, Lady Beatrix, the Phantom Sovereign, and newly arrived Grand Magister Arca Lorrain, had moved to the mistress’ bedchamber. If asked why, it would simply be because the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain had said so- She was feeling tired from having flown across the storm-stricken country, and so she would lay in bed to rest. Though I couldn’t get behind that heedless personality at all, it’s not like anybody was capable of stopping her.

The Phantom Sovereign sat on a velvet armchair to the bottom right corner of the bedchamber from the entrance. He seemed calm and collected. Opposite of him were me and Lady Beatrix. I maintained a straight posture in the presence of two people I didn’t know very well, but the same couldn’t be said of my mistress. She was on her side, resting her head on my lap, with locks of blonde hair messily strewn across her sullen and slightly red face. I idly stroked her hair.

The Grand Magister Arca Lorrain laid on the massive bed with one arm folded behind her head and another hand swirling a glass of wine. Wine, red like the carmine silk curtains drawn behind her. Wine, sparkling in the warm light like the gold-embroidered blankets which she rested upon.

A monument of labyrinthine clockwork covered the wall opposite to the bed, thousands of shining copper gears interlocked, turning together to push forth the hands of time, slowly, forever. A second ticked by, then two, and then three.

The Grand Magister Arca Lorrain began on a lengthy and meandering monologue, which gave me some vague image of her history with my mistress and the Phantom Sovereign, though her digressions numbered threefold compared to the things I could actually comprehend. By the time she was finished, the time told by the clock above me was five hours past midnight.

Apparently, the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain was the one who Lady Beatrix reported to, that is, the monarch of the land which the marches of Genova frontiered. In addition to that, the one who had revived the Phantom Sovereign, stealing his soul from the reaches of the grave, was none other than herself, the Bewitcher of Darkness and Betrayer of Death.

She had done so as a form of punishment unto the Phantom Sovereign, cursing him to roam the earth forever; A supposed “eternal torment.” The reason for the punishment being that the Phantom Sovereign, in his life, had always been sacrificing himself in order to “save” others, or, in other words, to “free” others. For one reason or another, the Phantom Sovereign sought a dramatic and romantic end, and had gotten himself killed trying to free my mistress of the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain’s rule.

Therefore, in a manner that carried a strong sense of poetic justice, or perhaps poetic injustice, the Phantom Sovereign was denied his bittersweet end. In its place, a continued existence that was solely and utterly bitter. Even so, the Phantom Sovereign still went against all laws of the world to find what meagre happiness remained for him. A scavenger of satisfaction.

If I may speak... Inexperienced in the way of life though I may be, it seems to me that the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain’s philosophy is a little flawed, that those who are “free” cannot also be “happy,” or, at the very least, yearn for happiness. Although the Phantom Sovereign is dead, is he not living proof of this?

The Grand Magister Arca Lorrain's high-spirited laughs echoed across the expanse of the bedchamber.

“Happy, unhappy; Products only of an idiotic mind. There exists nothing in this world but earth and flesh. The contrivances of the soul are but a lie spread amongst the weak and the unwilling, as if that could make right their sheer powerlessness. Their romanticised notions are pathetic excuses for their own lack of humanity. To the everyday schmucks and the sad, sad sacks of this world: Have a little shame, will you?”

Upon delivering that ostentatious speech, the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain drained her wineglass and tossed it at the Phantom Sovereign with a flippant cackle. He caught it in the air and set it on a side table in a smooth motion, apprehending the Grand Magister Arca Lorrain with a cold scowl on his skull.

“Demonising happiness, and demonising beauty; That is the reason that you are the most hideous daemon of all. The blood that circulates within you is as thick and as black as pitch, and the tears that you cry would fall as mud, if you had a heart capable of feeling sorrow.”

“Pah! Demonising the strong, and demonising the genuine; That is the reason that you are the most weak daemon of all. You suffer and blame it on those above you, yet you still suffer. You suffer and flee from those above you, yet you still suffer. You can never obtain real happiness for you fear it, and that is why you suffer. You fear life, and that is why you die.”

“A life with no suffering is a life that is wholly hollow. Those whose souls waver at the face of death are those who are truly weak. Those who go on without a soul of beauty, a soul of blazing light, they are already dead. Less than dead. It is not myself who fears life; It is you, Magister.”

“And what of it? It is not myself who is in pain; It is you, skeleton. Your words are futile, futile and all too arrogant for somebody who, when compared to the likes of myself, is equivalent to nothing. ‘Ah, but your life is hollow-’ No less from the one whose head is hollow!”

The Grand Magister Arca Lorrain kicked back onto the bed, giggling to herself.

The Phantom Sovereign, unamused, gently grabbed the wineglass from the side table, pondering it in his hand.

“Hollow, not hollow, futile, and not futile. All things are hollow, and yet not a single thing can be hollow, and all things are futile, and yet not a single thing can be futile.”

He held the wineglass up to his eyes, scrutinising the warped scene of the bedchamber.

“If there exists nothing in this world but earth and flesh, there exists no reality but the final minute of a lifetime. The final minute when all things cease to have meaning, and the final minute when all things begin to have meaning.”

The Phantom Sovereign gazed through the glass at the clockwork above him.

“All that any person can do in a lifetime is to prepare for this final minute, the single minute of reality. All people live to die happily. As for you?”

He inverted the wineglass in his hand.

“Your ways will beget you a death of nothing but vain.”

The Grand Magister Arca Lorrain rose in slow motion, arms extending towards the ceiling, the frills of her dress falling in harmony with her movements, the mattress giving under her upright weight. A laugh escaped her mouth, and then two, and then more than I could possibly count. Her howling laughs rang in my ears. I didn’t dare look at the clock to find out how much time had passed. At long last, with a sharp inhale, she spoke.

“What utter folly! Life, death, meaning, reality, there lies nothing ahead of me but unlimited, boundless, infinite glamour! Your ideals are nothing, nothing, for my life ends in a perfect, golden rhapsody! In my final minute, I will awaken, I will arise, and I will fly high, straight to my throne in heaven! You are a slave to the earth, doomed only to rot in regret! Imbeciles who are neither brilliant nor blessed earn no right to speak in the sacred eminence of me! Punish yourself, damn yourself, and die as nobody!”

Despite being an imbecile who was neither brilliant nor blessed, that was when I spoke.

“Impossible. In this world there exists no such thing as punishment, and no such thing as damnation. Nobody dies as nobody.”