I have found the solution.
It was a hard winter—a hard plague. One by one, all the members of my beleaguered family drooped; they wilted and died. This mansion has known lighter times, built for a household and more, but the populace has slowly fallen away, and only I am left.
And I knew only my weary footsteps, and the trudging of my one last servant; the doorbell rang once in centuries, the door opened to allow passage far less frequently than that. There was no need for light in such an abode if only one patron took use of it. But the business prospered and the sun outside shone merrily into the thriving fields. I had everything I could ever wish for, and nothing I needed.
This is not an account of the mansion history, however…
It was then, festering from loneliness, that I made the decision. With my persuasion, a dear friend and I solidified our old bond; she took my hand in marriage, and we bustled into the mansion, seeing where we could rebuild life. Never before have I seen such beauty: a young flower in full bloom, so lit with the kindly fire! The life returned, and though only two carriers remained, our fresh joy was sufficient. I felt, for days at a time, that healing was possible from this chronic illness upon the household. The garden returned to neatness, the ancient rooms were purged of their cobwebs and their dark stone, and it was evident, through all the creatures, that better days were coming. We would labour, though we were but two, and we would bring ourselves to rebirth.
And her beauty lit up the darker hours; it was that smile which urged me on entirely. She was the motive force behind all of this; without those moments when she would light up in brilliant joy, I would have had none of the fortitude to plow on.
And then the peak began to fall. The darkness deep within the mansion came out more and more frequently to reclaim me, and this exquisite creature, born in sunlight, could not take it. She would not light up, for she was spent; I had made a grave error in bringing her here. Each day some new emotional bruise would well to the surface; each day would see us spiralling down, faster and faster, and everything that was us would be whittled away, the despair alone left to us. And the bird is falling, all grace stolen from its dive, and when it finally reaches the bottom? Can you piece together the shattered bones, the torn rags of flesh, and see the creature as it once was? Never! Never, never, never, death is beyond our power, and it is before our dwindling powers, standing ready to bring us to utter ruin. My flesh screams for action, it abhors this decadence!
But, you see, I have found the solution. It is most ingenious, it shall save us. Can you still say we are impotent, after you see my plan? When you and I see it in all its perfection, when she sees it, we will know.
The smouldering stick is nestled comfortably amid the hay, and the bed is perfectly surrounded. I supply the final spark, move to a position of safety, and watch as that tiny flame comes into its own, takes the fuel as is its right, spreads quickly—oh, so quickly! And a halo of divine amber surrounds my dear wife, and though she is tossing fitfully, though her delicate cheeks are blushed with fear and unconscious anxiety, already the heavenly shade of fire is infusing her, and she will know. As a gnarled tree, as an old scarecrow, she will light up, her passions re-ignited, and all will be well. She is awake—she looks about in fear—her eyes find my own gleeful, and I take the expression of one reassuring a friend into a dangerous but beneficial practice. And the tongue of flame finds the lip of the bedsheets, and her golden throne is aflame—but what do I see?
She is burning! It is all burning, crumbling, hideous screams echoing through the room. And I cannot see anymore, but my eyes are glued, so that I see it all, watch as the delicate petal-skin curls into hard carbon. And within moments it is all over; my plan has failed: fire would not save us. I look back to the chars of burnt trees, and see my folly in all its devastating grandeur: where is creation, where is construction, in fire?
The plan has failed; there is no hope for the household. Then—there is no alternative. Let its final upholder here end the lineage, and take his life.
Discord
Light Style