CAMELOT DIMENSION 360
The Long Winter
Written by Author
Daton L Fluker
Flemish Translation done by
CHAPTER 2 HABITUALLY TASKS FOR DAILY RECTIFYING II
When darkness comes, light brightly shines on the opposite side of Minaera. It’s a good day for beautiful children to be born on one part of the world, and a struggle for others on the other side of the planet. These are people, who take pilgrimage in some of the most obtrusive weather.
This occasion is supposed to be a time of joy for the Camelots, but now, even the brightest days turn pessimistic for a nation full of light. Lord Matchbox closes the silk drapes inside Town-Hall.
The travelers stayed on their path. When the 50-year day changed to 50 years of night, town-hall was the only building left at this checkpoint. Everything else was burnt to dust by an enemy army.
Fortunately, the civilians were on the other side of the planet when this treacherous event happened. Like most of the cities in this age, the people of Camelot unceasingly rebuild and advance to different parts of Minaera. To them this is understood to be the circle of life.
Lord Matchbox turns around. The room furnishes with six large windows, oval shape at the top and compressed at their foundations.
In the middle of the gigantic room, a long wooden table with legs, short enough for someone to sit Indian style builds in silence.
The foot of it sinks into a wide-red-carpet. A lion with its wings spread-out dictions the word Camelot. It’s written with big yellow letters.
What ills on the table is the most disturbing entity. It secludes a muddy vision of hate. In the room, it is always so gray.
The moonlight fills it with light. The sun rises in the east. The colors around the room show brilliance but only with scorned reveries.
Stools ballet around the table. Two people sit with their legs cross underneath it. Lord Matchbox’s mother and father pose there.
Everyone calls him Lord Matchbox now. The only way to get a position like that is if a person were granted it when the lord has died and given his or her adolescent the responsibility.
The roach infested room buries its retreat into the unscrupulous buffet on the table.
His parents have been in the same spot for a few months. The smell inside is unpleasant. His father and mother died happy together. They hold hands locked in time.
The reason why they were not buried yet is because of the rebellion defalcating for several-months.
His parents died wide awake on the last hours of a ferocious snow blizzard, which kept most of everybody inside.
No form of heating warms the room. To keep from freezing to death, everyone embraced together.
His father, Lord Matchbox the first, closed his eyes. However, his mother has hers wide open staring at the buffet on the table.
Her skin is black and her grey hair changes to a pink color because of her rotten blood marinating in it. Both of their faces have turned inky-sable-black.
His father wears a lord’s garment with a red cape veiled down behind him. The couple was never touched by occasion, but left in lifeless motion for some period.
She wears the Queen’s crown on her head, and his father doesn’t have the crown anymore. It waits for the new lord at the back of the hall on a large wooden thrown.
Matchbox walks toward the back of the room staring at the table. Three male servants stand around it looking in the same direction.
The inside is cooler than the outside. The portrait of death they stare at will burn into their souls until infinity after next.
Even in reincarnation, they’ll remember this catastrophic exhibition. It is the sickest thing anyone can bear with his or her own eyes, and this sight is unhealthy for anyone’s individual being.
On top of it, lays a body of a beautiful woman. She was one of the servants who gave her loyalty and life to Camelot, the famous city of light.
Her face is fair and young. What is left of her body is ridiculously gross. Her skin flays off her muscles. The table flushes with blood. Human secretions spread out underneath her.
Her long hair shades out across the table toward his father and mother, while her ribcage has been picked at; portions of it are scraped clean.
She has no more intestines. Half of her heart is inside one of the bowls on the table. “Thaw shall not kill.”
Her fingers and toes from both her hands and feet masticate to stubs. They ate her alive; not exactly alive, but raw.
Lord Matchbox nears his thrown, but still, he has his eyes locked on the table. He takes off his helmet, picks up the crown, closes his eyes, and puts his head down. Stabbing his sword into the floor, he pushes the handle forward.
Lord Matchbox orders the servants,
“Take them out of here! Bury my mother in a separate grave and bury the girl with my father! It was his choice to do this. He must be buried with his sins!”
He strives to delay his feelings. Tears trickle from his closed eyelids.
The servants don’t move at first. They lived with the royal family for months, and they are shocked about these violent events. They need a little motivation. Lord Matchbox raises his head and screams at them,
“Do it now, or I swear, I’ll have you buried alive with them!”
NEAR THE FARM
Bloody Grimy Eyes of Mommy
The man, who wife was slaughtered in the human pot-roast, carries his son while holding his daughter’s hand. They walk toward an empty field where Lord Matchbox forthright out his hand directing them land.
The new Mayor waves his broken sword to ten workers carrying resources: wood and some building tools. He directs them to go out into the field.
The Mayor doesn’t say a word. He waves them into the man’s direction. For the commotion going on outside and for the many battles the army and he had been in (for some reason) they know exactly what these signals command them to do.
The workers gather equipment from transporters, a small wagon, which a horse is supposed to pull. One of the workers pulls it because horses are scarce commodities.
The man settles in the middle of his new land. Nothing is there except a timeworn desolated ice-field. Snow covers its basin. Old tracks of bandwagons imprint into the soil.
Sitting under a dark-blue sky, a snow-capped mountain range lays scrutiny over the impressive territory. In the distance, miles of a monotonous coast abrupt the land’s edge.
The man basses in the freezing snow holding his son close. Conversely, his daughter stands next to him.
After a moment of staring into open space, she plots down in the snow near her father. The girl hugs her father pulling him close.
“It’s going to be ok Daddy.”
He’s dumfounded about today’s events. His son is bewildered about his mother’s death. The boy doesn’t fully understand the consequences of today’s occurrences.
“Where is mommy? I want to see her? Where is she daddy?”
The wind paints icy air on their skin every second. Each time the wind blows, the girl and the boy grip their father’s warm-body.
The cold wind appears unveiling. The man gives up. He needs a while to recover.
For a moment, liveliness is an emotion extinguished by stubbornness. The girl sings a song her mother sung to her each time she fell asleep at night.
“Bloody grimy eyes of mommy. If you don’t put away your trinket show. Slimy grimy bugs are bitter boil with hugs and kisses in the bitter snow. You’ll always know that I’ll love you and hug you so. Even when you stub your toe, or get stuck in the heart with a wooden arrow.”
She can’t finish it. Tucking her head into her father’s side, she cries. Her father stares out into the open range.
The more the day goes on, the more disarrayed the people get. Two cottages are left. Both are made from stone, packed ice, and, mud.
The cottages round over at the top, and they level toward the back. Smokestacks steam from their tops.
Before the workers came, there wasn’t enough wood to make a fire. Resources declined to negative amounts. The workers throw stacks of wood next to the cottages giving the villagers’ fuel to cook with.
Marching from the blankness, they sluggishly take the rest of the resources in veneers, piling it near Town Hall. Headless bodies lie in the middle of the street. Warriors advance their spears toward the Mayor. In their vacant hands, they hold heads of the people, which Lord Matchbox advised them to murder.
Near the hill, the Mayor yells with a husky voice.
“Take your spears and dig them upright near the front of Town Hall. Stick those heads on them! We don’t have silver platters, but this’ll still be an amusing sight to see! You, over there! After you finish, bring those bodies and some wood to this hill! We’ll burn it all!”
His voice is so unquestionably powerful that it echoes through the walls of Town-Hall.
Two people, who names were on the King’s list, humble in the street with dead-bodies piled around them.
A worker picks one of the dead-bodies up, and another comes behind him collecting a second one. They transport the bodies to the hill.
An old man and his wife remain in the circle of dead. They wear nice clothing. Kept alive for an unknown purpose, their clothes are filthy from being dragged in the mud. That reason will soon reach their attention.
The Mayor walks toward them. Staring for a while, he stops in front of them. The couple is cover with blood, but not their blood.
“Mr. Belgran! How are you doing today?”
Mr. Belgran spits warm blood from out of his mouth, and replies.
“What is the meaning of this? We were asleep! I don’t know what is going on?”
“You know I was gone off to battle for a while! I come back and things are unbalanced! You should know what is going on! Why did the Lord ask me to kill you?”
Mr. Belgran laughs and spits on the ground.
“You don’t know? I’m an old man anyway. I and my wife lived a healthy life. We ran out of food and everybody in the village omitted their loyalty! There was one loyal family, and they were supposed to be killed today!”
He continues to spit blood out of his mouth.
“I was the only Duke that voted not to kill him! However, I voted to murder the rest! It’s all about survival! I hope you know that these meaningless rules in this association are not really vigor. They are ridiculous! Well, go about your business! I can’t stand seeing my wife suffer!”
He and his wife stare at each other.
“Kill me first!”
The Mayor lifts his sword in the air. Mr. Belgran smiles and the blade swings down separating his head from his body. His wife Screams, “AHHHH!”
Council with the Lord
THREE HOURS LATER IN FRONT OF TOWN HALL
Fifteen poles with heads on them line up outside inviting death into the front doors of Town Hall. The doors are opened.
Fresh air spreads-out the disgusting smells spilling from the inside. The workers remove the old Lord and the Queen from the room.
They do more unpleasant work. They take out, piece by piece, the mutilated corpse of the dead woman’s body on the table. They use their bare hands; there are no clean rags or tools to use.
The Mayor treads toward Town Hall. He wears his battle uniform. Shower rooms are not designed at this stage of recovery.
Walking pass the hung heads, a worker, who has a hand full of human secretions, runs out of the door. The Mayor moves toward Lord Matchbox.
INSIDE TOWN HALL
The sun shoots scarlet rays through the windowpane. To us this would be a genuinely long sunrise, but to them, it’s a blithesome sparkle.
Not everybody gets to see an elegant day, and for those who do, you better believe they traveled through destruction to get there.
Without asking, the Mayor grabs one of the stools from the table. He moves to the back of the room where the lord resides. The Mayor places it on the floor then sits down in front of him.
Lord Matchbox keeps his head down with the handle of his sword held out. He felt the Mayor’s presence when he entered the room. Nevertheless, from all what had happened in the last years of his people, his emotion is despairing.
“You’re like my father. You raised me for battle, and during the times of homage, you still stuck by my father’s decisions. Even now you give yourself to my service! There is no more of this kingdom, and this day will be truly difficult to rebuild. The Omega destroyed all of our checkpoints. It will be hard to reconstruct any of it. Three million years of work from our forefathers are gone to sap!”
Lord Matchbox leaps up, throwing his sword toward the table. It sticks in the middle of it.
Dementedly cooling off, he sits down. He scrounges into the thrown staring up at the ceiling.
Statues of his mother and father brace on the top of planks above windowpanes. The statues glare out like devils. They gawk into the dimness of the room offering a painted view of another abandoned kingdom.
“We don’t need to worry about that right now! We must attempt to rebuild a larger army to take revenge for our ancestors!”
“How are we supposed to do that?”
Matchbox closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the statues anymore.
“If we put our kingdom under Truce of law, we’d have more than two years to rebuild! We won’t get attacked by any other district until we’re ready for battle! However, we’ll have to trade our goods with everyone, including the enemy! We can’t refuse anyone! Immediately, we’d have to destroy all our weapons and start reconstruction!”
The Mayor is persistent with his words, but he always screams them out. He has been through this before. This will be his second day. He knows all the rules of battle, so he is giving the Lord a grand recommendation.
“The people are not loyal. If we destroy all the weapons then how can we govern them?”
“They’ll have the right to leave or not! Those who want to stay can work hard, and those who want to leave can! We can’t tax them anymore until we find a way to bring income into the city! We can give them land! The ones who are not loyal get nothing! I’ll schedule a town meeting right away if you like?”
“I have nothing to lose and cinch to obtain. I’ll trust you with this. We’ll have a meeting in several hours. I’ll send a message to the other Lords of our plans. Please, send a messenger boy. Give him a horse so he could move fast.”
The mayor stands up and salutes. It’s an action that he doesn’t need to do anymore, but he does it by natural intuition.
“Yes My Lord! I’ll have them all together in the adjacent hour!”
The Mayor turns around and walks toward the door.
The table is almost clean except for the girl’s head. A worker walks in and grabs it immediately toting it outside.
The mayor stops and turns around,
“Yes My Lord!”
Lord Matchbox stares at the statues on the wall.
“Let’s wait twenty four hours before we take any action. Bring me some arrows with sharp heads and a bow. I want to practice my archery!”
It’s the first time the mayor ever smiled.
“Yes my lord!”
The Mayor leaves out the door.