Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies,
But stranger still is
Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Song of my soul, my voice is dead,
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
—"Cassilda's Song" in The King in Yellow Act 1, Scene 2
America had come along a new path. Where war became the norm, and the threat of war seemed to rise at every corner, many people cowered in fear at the thought of doom and death. True was the fate of the people of the fair land, with which no man was safe, in which every person was oppressed by the sensation of a creeping darkness. Twas a fate where even the eyes of the golden sun, who's giant blades of sunlight dazzled upon the striken earth, did nothing to cure the inevitable.
It was a normal day, where I found the book. The book which waved away the fears of war, the book which crushed the soul of man. I walked into the bookstore, my eyes instantly falling upon the golden scrawled pages which seemed to be made of calf's leather. I knew from the first glance, with the imposing figure of a man draped in the most golden of yellows, that this book was more than normal fanfare. I was tempted by the mystery of the unfathomable book, with the call of eternity coming from every rivet and ruffle of the pages.
Clawing upon its fine form, I picked up the book, heavy with the sweat and pain of the thousands who had carried its accursed pages before me. I could do less but to open and read. It was foolish to taste the flames of the King, who in his yellow brilliance would never let me go, but I could do no less. Even opening the cover was a sin that would curse my family line for ages to come, in which the very eyes of a greater being burrowed into my very spine. It was almost like opening a cover to a new dimension, where the vicious fangs of demons could sink upon my wrists and arms.
"Oh sweet Carcosa, so brilliant in color. With thy twin suns of black, which breathed the very air...where the ideas of man grow under its imposing light...with the flap of the kings, the striking of yellow, oh doomed Carcosa." the first lines I had read. I knew that from those very scribbles, that its unholy text should be banished unto the flames of holy fire. But, even now, as I read, I knew I was trapped. I read of Carcosa, Cassilda, of Lake Hali and the Pale masked man. These tales, which with masterful writing seemed to crush my very soul, banished my being. From what the ashes of humanity could create, I was forced to stand there, reading the play.I knew, that if anyone else were to read it, surly would their fate be so crushed and trapped witihin its pages. I must buy it.
"I am buying this book." I had demanded as I went up to the shopkeeper, shoving it forward. "This book? I'm sorry, but, we've never seen this in our collection. It doesn't even have a label." he claimed, his hands idly fiddling with the controls of his computer, looking at his refrences of the books of the store. "Someone must have left it here, you can take it, I guess." the man said.
I quickly hurried out, the cursed book in hand.
Sitting down in my chair, I could find nothing else to do with this book but cast it into the flames, but as I contemplated burning the book to cinders, I found myself frozen in place. "The king..." I whispered, my fingernails digging into its exterior. Judging eyes fell upon me, I could taste the smell of rotting air, like the very particles that made up its being rotted before me.
I went to sleep that night.
I was visited, by a visage so great that I could not help myself but cry and weep at his very form. His lips...if you could call the maddening form of his lips, whispered the secrets of man, the secrets of knowledge, the secrets of the Yellow Sigil. He told me how I must join Hastur, less I be consumed by my own madness. The Brotherhood of the Yellow Symbol would accept no less.
I now write these fevered words, with which I feel as if I have no more control. Even now, I can feel the one We Can Not Mention breathing upon my very life force. I find myself losing control of my very pen, my last form of being.
Praisth the king, who draped in the most magnificents of Yellow, speaks the truth. Praisth Hastur, who brings truth. Praise the symbol. We will all one day be consumed by his brilliance.