He passed two men on the way. They were the prince, but the prince was not them. Not quite. They sat in silence on a bench. They had the look of a word you can't remember, but that slides across the tip of your tongue and eludes you. They spoke as he passed. "We were here. We were waiting." The prince stopped, and stared at himselves. "We are sorry to report your liege, your city is burning. We are not sorry, but your city still burns. Would you like to see her die?" The prince nodded, and the three princes left.
The sun was blood red and low in the sky as they stood on a cliff overlooking the city. Fires ran in the streets and buildings crumbled and cracked and fell. The two not-quite-the-princes spoke. "Your people have taken to the streets. They rejoice in the fall." The prince watched as his people danced in the burning streets. He watched as, many with his own face and body, they twisted and groped and ravished each other in the ruined city. The city groaned and wept and they fucked. The prince wept too. The fires rose higher, sweeping the roads. The princes in the city and all the other people, so many of them now, were reduced to ash as they clung together.
"Lucky thirteen." said the two not-quite-the-princes. The prince dropped to his knees. The twin un-princes spoke. "There is nothing more to do here. Let it burn to the ground. Let the ashes blow away. Let the city fall. You have lost."The prince said nothing, but got up and turned away. He walked, eyes unseeing, unblinking. The wind carried the remains of the prince's city in the air. He threw his crown over the edge of the cliff, the light of the red sun caught it spinning high up. His crown burned with the rest. He would start again, build a new city, free of his own vice. His people would not dance as him, while their city burned. He and his people would be a good prince. The prince walked away from the fall.
His two guides burned into nothing, as though by fire.
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