The Silence Of The Devil's Lambs

Prologue.

23rd of December, 1832.

The shallow water has cluttered my dismayed thoughts.

I hide my words between my lips and allow my fingers to speak for me. She is transcending closer; her footsteps haunt me the moments I sleep— bony, pale, and demon-ridden fingers clinging to the innocence draping across my neck. I fear for my life. Trapped within her palms, I wail, but no God listens. They are silenced, too, in her presence. The maids are forced to avert their vision, keep quiet of the tortuous night hours beneath this Hell, tongue less words wringing against their ankles as they shutter, escaping the now quieted sounds. I have lost count of the mornings I wake with her marks, back wrenching to straighten on these worn out beds. Perhaps I have lost my sanity. Dare I say this is all a dream?

My fingertips dress our young aged Prince, whom is hidden within his cloak, his small figure surrounded with his father's mighty aurora, his only words. His Highness's' existence brings forth prosperity, lining the injuries with delicate kisses, my longing soul does not deserve. He is fatherless and motherless, all in one. Abandoned by his home, love, and life to be shaken from within, to be cursed to live a life through a servant's eye. He is held hostage by the nightmare that taunts me even during the light of the day. I pray, he be saved. Bound to a half-lived life is not such for a kindred spirit, though perhaps— in her eyes, it would be a paradise. To suffer with the knowledge, and fall forth into insanity. She breathes evil.

I often wonder how these steps taken prior to our lives now have led us down the path of destruction. The Gods bless children with such might, my mother claimed nights she put me to sleep. I do not believe, in our case, however, she was correct. My Prince, I have longed to be placed within my mother's arms, though I can only imagine them within the few nights I do dream. She whispers of the stories of the kingdom you will bring forth. Perhaps these moments will travel throughout our history, our children one day speaking of the sacrifices that we were forced to make. Perhaps not.

As each night draws close, it becomes difficult to replay only the few short years that we had lived before being rejected and shuffled into this forsaken atrocity. Do you hear me from down below my Prince? I write to you for only the amount of hours that the deadly star allows me. As the fiftieth morning is possessed by night, I do fear that your words will soon become only what they puddle into now: a faded memory.

My hands betray me these crippling hours, shivering within this illness. I will not last much longer. My days are now numbered, my Prince. I cannot hide from her unaffectionate gaze. She will bury my thoughts alive and suffocate my vision with the darkness that has long since resided within her heart. This darkness that clings to us all, will consume us. I now question if the darkness was brought upon to us by her, or if it had only existed dormant, from the days we we born. This will be the last I will write of you, I have no materials to continue.

You will find us within your troubled skies, and beneath every step your soles allow.

May our deaths bring you a prosperous afterlife. Beware of the haunting images, what you see is not always there.