Beauty is Empty

But beautiful is empty,
Beautiful is free.
In your mind, she's your companion.
Vile instincts are often candid.
Your regret is all that's left.
But beautiful is empty,
Beautiful is free.

No one remembered how the Castle of the Stranger had come to stand on this land. With that thought, Lord Finnigan lit his old clay pipe. No one even knew who the Stranger was, though some claimed to have spoken with Her. An obvious lie. Had they truly spoken with Her — had they even the slightest idea of who She was. Lord Finnigan drew harder on the pipe; his fingers trembled. He found himself remembering how he had first seen Her.

Night fell. Finnigan was on guard. It happened while everyone else was sleeping. He still remembered that music, which suddenly rose from the pile of sleeping bodies. Amid those strange, enchanting sounds, a voice rang out. The words were hard to understand, but the magic of the song made him forget everything — he abandoned his post and stepped into the thicket. In a clearing, Finnigan saw a ghostly female silhouette. A moment later, he recognized every feature of the woman of his dreams in that silhouette. She wore a translucent toga, her body swaying to the music. Their eyes met; she gave a playful wink, beckoned him to follow, and then turned, disappearing toward the Castle. Lord Finnigan understood nothing, but he walked that way anyway. They found him in the morning — stiff with cold but alive.

Then came the march to the Castle. The closer they got, the more men from the company noticed the Stranger, and each man's eyes afterward burned with an inhuman obsession. Near the Castle, other groups were already gathered, and more arrived each day. None of them mingled — everyone kept their distance. It was baffling where so many armed men had come from in these parts. The apparitions grew brighter and more spectacular; sometimes She appeared to several men at once. They kept searching for the Castle's entrance, but found nothing.

Thirteen days into the desperate chase after the Stranger's phantom, a large apparition appeared in Finnigan's camp. The entire clan was gathered around a big bonfire, staying silent — there had been no talk for four days. Just like the first time, the chords rang out, and She appeared. This time, the apparition felt so real that many rushed toward Her. She raised one hand and, with a single glance, stopped their excitement. For the first time, she spoke. Her voice echoed in their hearts, sparking a fire of passion.

"The others — they have found the entrance to the Castle. You must stop them, or they will take me for themselves alone," She said.

She pointed her palm toward the nearest camp, and the whole clan erupted like a starving dog breaking free from its chain. Finnigan himself led the charge at the front, no longer young. No one asked questions; no one suspected that the same vision was appearing in every other camp.

* * *

All at once, Finnigan seemed to come to his senses. He looked at his hands — they were holding a sword, crimson and soaked in blood like a butcher's knife. The blade was lodged in the side of one of his own men. Finnigan wrenched it free and threw it away with revulsion. Bodies lay around him as far as he could see. Nearby, the lord found a boulder and sat down. With trembling hands, he produced his pipe and tobacco and lit it. Even the act of thinking was terrifying.

No one remembered how the Castle of the Stranger had appeared. Now, it was gone entirely. Had there ever been a Stranger?

The air in front of him brightened — She had come after all, but the old aura was gone. Standing before him was a beautiful woman, her arms bloody up to the elbows.

"You are lucky. There is always only one left. I open myself to such ones, sometimes."

"Why? Why did you do all this?" He leaped up, hands reaching for her throat, but passed straight through her. Finnigan fell face-first into the black-red mud. He rolled onto his back; the pipe was now filthy, coated with ash and dirt — and what use was smoking now?

"I am a phantom. You can't hurt me. Save your strength, and listen."

"Who are you? No — what are you?" Finnigan cried out, despair edging his voice; he was teetering on the edge of madness.

"I am a phantom, a specter, the very essence of beauty. I am an expression of Love. I need the suffering of my worshippers — without it, I cannot exist. I must control them, set them against each other, watch them kill one another — all for my sake. Blood sustains me. But inside, I am always hollow. That's why I seek worshippers again. You will help me if you wish to keep living."

Lord Finnigan carefully pulled his pipe out of the mud. He brushed off the dirt clumps, making sure not to spill the tobacco, and lit it once more.

"You are not Love."

"What? What did you say?" Sparks started breaking from above the Stranger's head. She raised her arms, which slowly transformed into two dark torches.

"You are not Love; Love is your opposite."

Finnigan lowered his head, drew a small pendant from beneath his body armor, opened it, and looked at the miniature painting inside. He ran his thumb across it and took a drag on his pipe. The Stranger let out a low growl and spat a stream of fire at Finnigan. He kept coaxing the damp pipe to ignite. The fire struck him but caused no harm. When her arms finally lowered, she looked at him. He straightened to his full height. From within him — from his ribcage — an unknown force radiated outward. Finnigan began to shine; the light scorched the Stranger. He filled her with sacred fire. For the first time, she felt genuine love emanating from Finnigan's heart — and could not bear it. Her phantom shattered into rose petals. The air filled with the soft scent of flowers, and Finnigan sneezed. Exhaustion buckled his legs; the old knight was once again supported by the stone. The Stranger — She had turned out to be empty. If only they had known who She was…

Empty beauty…

You enter in dirty boots,
You flick cigarette butts into the blood.
And on the bones you carve your beautiful name.