Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

CVIII. Goodbye Madonna

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    Where Gods and kings stood, Desdemona watched the Ifrit from Versailles materialize into her worst dreams, her crepuscular nightmares. Where the night came, there He was, lurking in the background, plotting and planning his wicked schemes, a beacon of dark, effervescent light. Where the Chamber of Charred Things stood, Voltaire did as well, cloaked by the strings of smoky, ashy light, where the cracks of the moon desperately tried to claw their way into frame. The Ifrit from Versailles, with hair of pitch black meteors, with skin of constellations, galaxies, and nebulae, with the visage that made the night cold.

    "You always had a penchant for thinking of the past," Voltaire greeted, observing the smoke rings and steamy rays that descended from the Heavens and Hells above and below.

    "Where the past dwells, the key to the future remains, dearest Voltaire," Desdemona countered.

    Voltaire scoffed.

    "Desdemona, you are not a philosopher. Donʼt get funny on me now."

    "Funny, because last time I checked, neither were you," Desdemona retorted. "But then again, you always had a penchant for putting your nose into things where it doesn't belong, so who I am to judge?"

    "Who are you, indeed, madonna?"

    "I could ask you the same thing, dearest," Desdemona sneered. "What do you want, Voltaire?"

    "I think the right thing to ask is what I can offer for you," Voltaire said simply. "The servant girl, Lolita, is dead. And I think you and I both know what that begins to mean."

    Desdemona paused, taking in the revelation, and then stared, with the fear of God.

    "Does Robin DeMarcus have the Book?"

    Voltaire marveled at his reflection in the Mirror, unmoving, resolute.

    "I think you and I know the only reason the DeMarcus girl would kill her favorite plaything would be for leverage. She is, after all, keen on killing you," Voltaire said simply.

    Desdemona joined Voltaire, basking in the brilliance of the Mirrorʼs absolute power, white ballgown feeding the stairs of serenity. Two monsters, of their own making.

    "Robin DeMarcus killed me a long, long, time ago, Voltaire. All that remains is the Order and protecting its legacy."

    "Of white imperialist violence?" Voltaire interrupted. "Forgive me, Desdemona, Iʼm not sure what there is to protect."

    "Then why are you here?"

    Voltaire then looked Desdemona straight in the eye, and with that wicked stare, came that fear of God. A bleeding, bruising fear that could paralyze an army of the Orderʼs strongest knights, terrorize the civility of the Orderʼs calmest populace, inspire the most wicked of the Orderʼs vicious enemies.

    "Because, it has begun," Voltaire said cryptically. "The Mad King has risen once more, and I believe, that little girl is very much apart of why He has awoken."

    Desdemona stood, in denial.

    "No, thatʼs not possible."

    Voltaire stood, unflinching, unmoving. Desdemona caved into her hysteria, a bottomless void in her chest.

    "NO, THATʼS NOT POSSIBLE!"

   A wolfʼs howl, begging, pleading to the Gods.

   "I was born from divinity, dear Voltaire. From the tender milk of the de Mediciʼs t*at. An everlasting Goddess destined to inherit all that was and all that would be - standing to inherit the greatest throne in the universe as its Queen. Thatcher was infertile before he met me - a simpering, shadowless statue without my beauty, my poise, my grace, my regality. I solidified his blood-line, spread my legs to spread his seed, and did it all at the cost of sacrificing the only man Iʼve ever loved. The Mad King is only supposed to rise when-"

    "When in Chaosʼ tomb, and in Darknessʼ womb, a soul purged from Hellʼs dying fires shall meet Heavenʼs breath," Voltaire recited. "From the lips of the Prophetess."

    "If we shadows doth offend, if we shadows doth offend..."

    Desdemona squeezed her eyes shut, as Voltaire wrote her epitaph, that same epitaph, for her in a sea of infantʼs blood and bone.

    "You and I know both fully well what happened at Mazorra all those years ago, when Fatima al-Hurra was treating the young DeMarcus girl, the evil that was there," Voltaire said, harrowingly. "The Mad King has risen once again, Desdemona. It is time to close rank."

    Desdemona felt deathʼs embrace, cold against her hands.

    "Thatcher will not believe me. Heʼs lived in blissful illusion his entire life, that his reign was absolute, because of his fatherʼs work."

    "That may be so, but a motherʼs work is never done," Voltaire assured her.

    A beat.

    "Why are you supporting me? You hold no allegiance to the Order of the Dragon, no titles, no ranks, no wealth."

    Voltaire touched the Mirror, just grazing its silvery bones, never spreading deeper.

    "That may be so, but the next act of the Orderʼs dearest play will be a bloody and violent one. The history of mankind is the history of blood and violence. And in that blood and violence, there will be a war that has the scale to throw the world into absolute darkness, madonna. I know your Order is resistant to my brethren that embody the dark arts, that linger in the night, waiting for their opportunity to strike. I cannot change that opinion of yours. But my flies, they have witnessed the Mad Kingʼs rise. And we must be prepared for what comes next."

    "But how does the DeMarcus girl relate to the Mad King? What could be the bloody connection?"

    "That I donʼt know, madonna."

    A chilling, endless blow.

    "Then we need to starve the beast. Keep tabs on the girl, and when the time comes, you do what needs to be done."

    "For Scotland."

    Where Gods and kings stood, Desdemona watched the Ifrit from Versailles materialize into her worst dreams, her crepuscular nightmares, and she knew, night was coming.

    A last call, a call to battle:

    "For the Order."