But there was another figure in that Cathedral. Down, down under the earth, in a dungeon.
A man, or what was left of a man, shrouded in darkness, laid down chained to the wall, with stakes of blood impaling his arms and legs, and a crown of blood and thorns digging into his head.
He wore blue royal robes, trimmed with golden thread, and a white vest underneath. But his clothes were ripped apart and stained with blood. Old blood. Blood so old it has become brown and black. His skin was lacerated apart, torn to shriveled shreds. His hands were disfigured beyond recognition, the nails destroyed and ripped apart.
His eyes were closed, but even if they were open, they wouldn’t have any sign of hope, facing the cold stained ground. His face seemed all melted into one, covered by countless layers of dark stains.
The walls of the dungeon mocked him, they read,
“Glory to the Prince!”
“All hail the Prince of No one!”
“A Prince without a kingdom”
A small silent gasp came from the chained, withered man, so silent even the walls couldn’t have heard it. The walls were stained from countless screams of pain, countless stolen hopes, countless unfinished dreams, and a growing obsession. A thirst, a desire. A longing for revenge. The withered hope of retribution, of retaliation. A deep and dark hatred filled the gaps left by his shredded skin, left by his torn clothes, left by his lost and stolen dreams; A Prince left to rot.
