Part 51 "The Purpose"

PART FIFTY-ONE: THE PURPOSE

Transcripts made and edited by jack

CWs: assault, poisoning, animal harm, sounds and descriptions of gore, illness/infection, death, torture, abuse, imprisonment, ableism, descriptions of blood, discussions of euthanasia, animal death

(BEGIN Part 51.)

 

(Pouring rain, flickering fire, and booming thunder. Arthur sighs. A sad melody begins.)

 

JOHN: The fire fights against the rain, sputtering and gasping with each heavy drop. 

 

ARTHUR: I can hear.

 

JOHN: It may go out. 

 

ARTHUR: It’s not here for comfort.  

 

(Soft, rattling breathing.)

 

JOHN: His breathing is shallow. I don’t know if he’ll survive the night.

 

ARTHUR: I don’t think he will.

 

(An owl screeches.)

 

JOHN: An owl. 

 

ARTHUR: I hear.

 

(The owl hoots. A tree creaks.)

 

JOHN: She’s here.

 

ARTHUR: It’s about fucking time. 

 

JOHN: She’s landed in the trees opposite the fire and carriage. Despite the rain, the moonlight shines through the trees beyond the fire. 

 

ARTHUR (quietly): Come on. Come on! 

 

JOHN: Her silhouette grows from the owl. Between the thin, wet trees, a form appears and approaches the clearing we occupy. The figure is hunched, and moves through the trees as if they don’t exist for her. The moonlight behind grows her silhouette to an all-consuming shadow. She approaches. 

 

ARTHUR: Hell is empty… and all the devils are here. 

 

(Rustling leaves.)

 

JOHN: The figure is gone for a moment as she exits the trees and approaches the firelight. 

 

(Rising suspenseful music.)

 

SCRATCH (echoing): My… favorite.

 

JOHN: The dying orange light of the fire illuminates… Scratch: unbound and unattached to Hattie. Pure, in its form. (Thudding footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: You choose to appear as Scratch?

 

SCRATCH: No. Do you prefer this? (A crackling, hissing noise. Whispers rise unintelligibly.) 

 

JOHN: The skin of Scratch melts away in the rain to show the alabaster skin… of Lillith. Her eyes silver, like Scratch’s. Her beauty undeniable. The portrait I saw in Edward Allan’s home…

 

ARTHUR: It makes no difference to me.

 

(Lillith exhales. Something wet shifts, persistent and earthy.)

 

JOHN: She smiles and the mud around her feet climbs up, as if hungry to devour her flesh. And once again, her skin becomes violet and rough, like that of Scratch when he first appeared. 

 

LILLITH: What is the matter, Arthur? Why such… sadness behind those eyes?

 

ARTHUR: You know exactly why.

 

LILLITH: Tell me. Tell your old friend. (A small pause.) Your only friend left. So many dead and gone… so many lost to the sea of time… to have never existed and to have died by your hand. Which is worse, I wonder? To die… or to have never existed? 

 

ARTHUR: I refuse to play this game with you.

 

LILLITH: Why stop now? We’re already so far along. Share –

 

ARTHUR (angrily): Two weeks you’ve been torturing me. Two weeks you’ve yet to let us alone.

 

LILLITH: Us?

 

ARTHUR: Is that what you want? You know what’s happened. (Mud shifts.) You’ve been there since the start. 

 

(An audio distortion.)

 

ANTOINE: – old food is poison, though I believe I could find mushrooms, m’lord. There are plenty of types in these woods and… that would suit our needs plenty to go around.

 

SIR VALE: Lift. (Antoine and Arthur groan. Wood creaks.) Down. (Antoine and Arthur grunt. Wood creaks.) We’ll need to replace it. 

 

(Footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: Just the wheel? It isn’t the axle, then?

 

SIR VALE: Just the wheel.

 

ANTOINE: Well, that is fortunate indeed, m’lord. (A horse snorts.) Though we would make do.

 

ARTHUR: Yes.

 

JOHN: Sir Vale heads to the back. (Multiple footsteps. A melancholy melody begins.) This is our chance, Arthur. To see inside the carriage, finally. It’s the only place the wheel would fit.

 

ARTHUR (whispering): Right.

 

JOHN: Again, just to see our options. We’ve yet to see this Stone or where it’s kept.

 

ARTHUR (whispering): Agreed, agreed. (Normally.) Allow me to help, Roderick.

 

SIR VALE: Aye. Antoine?

 

ANTOINE: Coming, m’lord. (Multiple footsteps.) 

 

SIR VALE: Only three days in and the food is spoiled. A horse has gone lame… and a broken wheel. This does not bode well.

 

ARTHUR: No.

 

JOHN: Antoine joins us at the back of the carriage.

 

SIR VALE: Perhaps your Lillith is playing a larger role after all. 

 

ARTHUR: Uh…

 

ANTOINE (curiously): Lillith, m’lord?

 

SIR VALE: It is of no concern, Antoine.

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord. 

 

SIR VALE: The key.

 

JOHN: Antoine has pulled the large iron key from beneath his shirt. He’s using it to open the back. (Sounds of a lock turning.)

 

ARTHUR: If that’s the case… Lillith. We… don’t have any options. We just keep pushing ahead. (Wood creaks.) Keep trying to get where we need to go.

 

SIR VALE: That is the case no matter the situation.

 

JOHN: Antoine scratches his chest as the key unlocks the carriage back. (The door opens.)

 

ANTOINE: We keep going. If wheels break, we’ll fashion a new one. If they bend, we’ll… we’ll shape them.

 

(Heavy footsteps on wood.)

 

ARTHUR: Yes.

 

JOHN: Sir Vale… is entering. (Wood creaking.) I see supplies… a large wheel… clothes… bags… and a small chest. It’s dark blue with iron trim. (Items shifting.) A lock sits on it. That must be it! Vale has exited the carriage, he’s carrying the wheel. (A thud.)

 

ARTHUR: Here, here, let me!  (Repeated thuds.)

 

SIR VALE: The door, Antoine.

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord. (The door creaks shut.)

 

SIR VALE: Now. Help me remove the previous wheel. (Sounds of a lock turning.)

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord.

 

SIR VALE: No. Just Arthur. You stay by Alia. (Footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: I’ll do my best. It may be easier if all of us –

 

SIR VALE: Why are you so eager to see the Blackstone? (He grunts in exertion. A mysterious melody begins.)

 

JOHN: Vale kneels down and gestures for you to lift.

 

ARTHUR (fumbling): I’m… what makes you say…

 

SIR VALE: We spoke about this not two days ago. Do not take me to be a fool.

 

ARTHUR: I…

 

SIR VALE: Lift. (Arthur grunts. Wood creaks. Sounds of shifting and tools.)

 

JOHN: Arthur, just… be honest. It’s a marvel y-you’ve yet to witness!

 

ARTHUR (exerting himself): I haven’t seen it… Evrard spoke of its power. I’m… curious, is all. 

 

SIR VALE: It is not wise to be curious about such evils. 

 

ARTHUR: Sometimes it’s difficult to help one’s self.

 

SIR VALE: And yet, you must. Keep it steady. The Blackstone is not just an artifact of absolute evil. It carries with it a powerful and uncontrollable madness. One that infects those around, seeping into their minds, and eventually… driving them mad. 

 

JOHN: Mad how?

 

ARTHUR: You’ve seen this?

 

SIR VALE: No. But Evrard has. And I trust him. 

 

ARTHUR: What do you mean by… mad? 

 

SIR VALE: A smile appears on their face, one that belongs to no earthly being. A smile that spreads wide to the corners, wide enough to reveal the muscle and teeth and sinew… that should be hidden by skin… but no longer is. 

 

Peeled back… carved away as the madness consumes them. Their eyes, black and violent, show no sign of mercy and yet, they are still themselves. It’s a plague this Stone brings about. Do not seek its poison. 

 

ARTHUR (astonished): Why would someone seek that?

 

SIR VALE: That is not all the Stone does, Arthur. It has also been said to be… a key. 

 

ARTHUR: A key to what? (Footsteps.)

 

ANTOINE (politely): M’lord.

 

ARTHUR (rattled): Y-Yeah?

 

JOHN: Antoine.

 

ANTOINE: Do you need aid, m’lord?

 

SIR VALE: No. In fact, I think this wheel is done. Drop it. (A thud. Arthur grunts in exertion.) We should make camp before we – (A sudden gust and the sounds of dripping gore. A suspenseful sting plays.) 

 

JOHN (yelling): Arthur! An arrow! Sir Vale has been hit in the leg! (Arthur pants in fear.)

 

SIR VALE: It came from the treeline!

 

(More arrows fly.)

 

ANTOINE: Move!

 

JOHN: Move, Arthur! To the far side of the carriage, quickly!

 

SIR VALE: Behind the wagon!

 

JOHN: The far side of the carriage!

 

SIR VALE: Move!

 

ANTOINE: You’ve been struck, sir! 

 

JOHN: Quickly!

 

ANTOINE: Move!

 

(All other noise cuts out, except a rumbling storm and a crackling fire.) 

 

ARTHUR: You attacked us not two days in. Poisoned our food supplies, killed our horse. 

 

LILLITH: I did not attack you.

 

ARTHUR (unbelieving): You didn’t. And the food and the horse?

 

(Lillith exhales. Mud shifts.)

 

JOHN: She smiles. 

 

ARTHUR (in horror): Why are you doing this? What do you want?

 

(A slow melody begins.)

 

LILLITH: Only you, my favorite. 

 

ARTHUR (sudden inhale): Well. Here I am. 

 

LILLITH: When will you retrieve it? 

 

ARTHUR: What? 

 

LILLITH: The Blackstone. 

 

ARTHUR: If you want it, then why don’t you just take it? (In realization.) You can’t. Just like Daddy. 

 

JOHN: For the first time, her eyes flicker. I can’t read the expression. 

 

LILLITH: Tell me. Did you do as he asked? Sir Vale? Did you fulfill… his dying wish? 

 

ARTHUR: You know I did. (Lillith cackles. Mud shifts.) Why are you playing these games?

 

LILLITH: I play no games. You are being… manipulated.

 

JOHN: Manipulated. 

 

ARTHUR: Who’s manipulating us?

 

LILLITH: Mother Darkness.

 

ARTHUR: Mother Darkness? The woman you made stay her hand?

 

LILLITH: Woman? (She laughs. Mud shifts.) How primitive. Mother Darkness is beyond such things. She appears how she wishes. When she wishes. (A mysterious melody begins.)

 

ARTHUR: Like yourself.

 

LILLITH: Like myself. 

 

ARTHUR: So you want me to believe that Mother Darkness is behind this, and you are… what? Simply watching from a distance? Waiting?

 

LILLITH: I don’t want you to believe anything.  (Mud shifts.) You’re welcome to your own beliefs.

 

ARTHUR (sarcastically): Of course. And all you’ve done, all the pain you’ve caused me, is –

 

LILLITH: Arthur, my pet. (Lillith walks in circles around Arthur.) You’re my favorite. Always have been. Why would I want to hurt you so? 

 

ARTHUR: You didn’t even know about me until Marie’s house! What are you… our meeting was a chance encounter. 

 

LILLITH: Was it?

 

ARTHUR: Yes. It was. 

 

LILLITH (quickly): For two hundred years, I felt trapped in that house.

 

JOHN: It wasn’t two hundred.

 

ARTHUR: It was only a few years.

 

LILLITH: Oh, I know. But where I was… (Mud shifts.) Time tends to move… differently. 

 

ARTHUR: What does this have to do with – ?

 

LILLITH: With us? With you and me? Arthur… my sweet boy… I wasn’t trapped there by choice. 

 

ARTHUR: No. (Lilllith exhales.) Edward William Allan trapped you there.

 

LILLITH: No. I was trapped before Allan. I had been locked away for most of your life. Allan was my way out. I chose this form to whisper in his ear, to show him the farm, to unearth the basement, to open the locked door to my realm. 

 

ARTHUR: But he failed.

 

LILLITH: He failed. I had one foot out of my prison and one… trapped in that house. Until! 

 

JOHN: We closed the rift at the farm. 

 

ARTHUR: We saved you.

 

LILLITH: I saved you, too. Or do you not remember the Butcher’s chair?

 

ARTHUR: I remember.

 

LILLITH: How is that rabid dog?

 

ARTHUR: Dead and gone. (Lillith laughs breathily.)

 

LILLITH: Not all things that are dead are gone, and not all things gone… are dead. (‘Faroe’s Lullaby’ begins.)

 

JOHN: The campfire light flickers.

 

LILLITH (thoughtfully): Although… Sir Vale… 

 

ARTHUR: So Mother Darkness is the one manipulating me then, huh?

 

JOHN: She smiles.

 

ARTHUR: Bullshit. You were there.

 

LILLITH: I was.

 

ARTHUR: I saw the glass.

 

LILLITH: The glass? 

 

ARTHUR: You thought I’d forget? 

 

(A mild audio distortion. The rain cuts out. Insistent metal clanking. Sir Vale pants.)

 

ARTHUR: Stop, just – sit! Rest. 

 

JOHN: Sir Vale fights to stand up.

 

ARTHUR (insistent): Sit.

 

ANTOINE: Sir Vale, m’lord, you must rest. Your leg.

 

SIR VALE: Is fine. (Dirt shifting.) I rested the whole night through. We must continue.

 

ARTHUR: You didn’t rest, you barely slept. Now, just… stop. Take a second. You’re no use to us in this state. (A sad melody begins.)

 

JOHN: Arthur, Sir Vale sits on his bedroll where he slept last night. His eyes beneath his helm are bloodshot and tired. Sweat drips from under his collar. I don’t think Alia’s magic worked. 

 

ARTHUR (quietly): Why, what – ? (Louder.) Why didn’t Alia’s magic work?

 

ANTOINE: I do not know, m’lord.

 

JOHN: Alia sits upon the carriage, still, looking towards the road. The dawn’s light is gray, and the fog moves in quickly. Today will be another day of slow travel. 

 

ARTHUR: Antoine, see if you can find out why. Find out… how she can help him.

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord. (Footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: Let me look at it.

 

SIR VALE (frustratedly): You looked last night, and the night before.

 

ARTHUR: And I must keep looking, to see how the infection has progressed. Let me look. (Metal clanking. Vale makes noises of pain. Squishy flesh noises.)

 

JOHN: Arthur… the infection has spread rapidly. And… Jesus. The wound from the arrow oozes black ichor. Lightning-like veins spread from the wound, which… looks to be growing larger. His muscle is… black, and the bone is… yellowing. 

 

ARTHUR (in horror): Jesus.

 

SIR VALE: You must keep moving.

 

ARTHUR: You can’t move on this, you’re…

 

SIR VALE: You. I will not be the reason this task fails.

 

JOHN: Arthur, despite it being day, the sky is growing darker by the minute.

 

ARTHUR: We can’t move on without you. We can’t –

 

SIR VALE (firm): I… am dead.

 

ARTHUR (sighing): Let me… let me re-wrap this, at least. (Calling out.) Antoine, a light, please. (Fabric tears.) You will not be the reason this task fails. I promise you that. 

 

SIR VALE: This is no normal wound. 

 

ARTHUR: Alia can help you. She healed me of an ailment a god cursed me with. This is no dif–

 

SIR VALE: This is not an illness to be cured. This is beyond that wound there. It is something in the air, in these forests. What poisons me runs deeper. Something sinister assaults my will. I am being targeted. I am being cut down. 

 

ARTHUR: Because you’re the strongest of us. 

 

SIR VALE: I am not. (Footsteps.)

 

ANTOINE: Here. A lantern, m’lord. (Metal clicking.)

 

ARTHUR: Thank you.

 

ANTOINE: The fog is moving in. We should head back to the road.

 

ARTHUR: Alia. Did she say…?

 

JOHN: He shakes his head ‘no’, solemnly. (A sad melody begins.)

 

ARTHUR: Very well. Go get the horses ready. 

 

ANTOINE: Aye, m’lord. (Footsteps. Dirt shifting.)

 

SIR VALE: You… (Metal creaking.)

 

JOHN: Sir Vale grabs us.

 

SIR VALE: Cannot fail this quest. You must bring the Blackstone to its destination. You must protect it… at any cost.

 

ARTHUR: I… I will, I…

 

SIR VALE (urgently): You must.

 

JOHN: His eyes become unfocused, as if he’s having trouble staying awake. (Vale grunts.)

 

ARTHUR: Roderick.

 

SIR VALE (weaker): Our mission cannot fail, or all fails with it.

 

ARTHUR: I know. 

 

ANTOINE (from a distance): M’lord.  (A horse snorts.)

 

JOHN: Antoine signals that the horses are ready. 

 

ARTHUR: Look, we need to move, though, the –

 

SIR VALE: No. This is where I remain. 

 

ARTHUR: Roderick, d—

 

SIR VALE: It is not a question anymore. I feel it. I feel the light slipping away. 

 

ARTHUR (shaky): We… I can’t do this without you.

 

SIR VALE: You will! (Dirt shifting.) And you must. It is done, Arthur. And with what little strength I have left, I must ask you for something.

 

ARTHUR: Anything.

 

SIR VALE: I know not what magic grips me… or what should come of me when this infection takes over…

 

ARTHUR: I do not know either.  (Rain starts with rolling thunder.)

 

SIR VALE: So you must end it. 

 

ARTHUR: End it?

 

SIR VALE: Do not leave me by this tree alive. End me. And let me die. Looking at you all… as a friend.

 

JOHN: In the dim lantern light, Sir Vale’s eyes meet ours with pain… but certainty. 

 

ARTHUR (whispering): Okay. Okay… give me a moment to tell the others.  (He sniffs.)

 

SIR VALE: Thank you. (Dirt shifts. Arthur grunts in exertion. Metal clicks.)

 

JOHN: Arthur. You don’t – (In surprise.) Oh! 

 

ARTHUR: What?

 

JOHN: The lantern. The glass! It’s… warped. 

 

(A mild audio distortion.) 

 

ARTHUR (accusing): The glass on the lantern that I held by the dying face of Sir Vale was warped, just like it was in the basement, just like it was in the attic. You were there. You can’t hide your true form from me. 

 

LILLITH: You killed the knight. Did it feel good?

 

ARTHUR: It felt… necessary. 

 

LILLITH: Like all those you’ve killed before. 

 

ARTHUR: I’m not getting you that Stone.

 

LILLITH: Aren’t you?

 

ARTHUR: You said that –

 

LILLITH: Sir Vale wasn’t the only one stricken with illness. Just the first. Who was next?

 

JOHN: His breathing is still shallow. He’s fighting to survive. 

 

LILLITH (pleased): Ah, yes. There he is. The servant boy. Still clinging to life after all this time. 

 

ARTHUR: He’s… He’s been remarkably strong. He’s not going to give up. 

 

LILLITH: I thought he wasn’t going to survive the night. Do you truly understand what you are even protecting? 

 

ARTHUR: A key. (Mud shifting.)

 

LILLITH: One of three keys. 

 

JOHN (surprised): Three?

 

ARTHUR: There are –

 

LILLITH (slowly walking): The Blackstone is only one. The Graystone another. And the third… a Stone of crimson. 

 

ARTHUR: The Graystone… we’ve seen it. 

 

LILLITH: Can you imagine what they’d open? 

 

ARTHUR: A cage. I know of that –

 

LILLITH (cackling): No. No. 

 

ARTHUR: Well, I know who they belong to.

 

LILLITH: Do you?

 

ARTHUR: Azathoth.

 

LILLITH: Ah. Tell me what you know of Azathoth. 

 

ARTHUR: He is… Lord of All. 

 

LILLITH: He is. Father to All Creation. We are all his children. Yourself… (Darker.) That little voice inside your head... Me. 

 

ARTHUR: Your father? 

 

LILLITH: Nyarlathotep as well, yes.

 

ARTHUR: Didn’t you hear? He’s Kayne, now.

 

LILLITH: Oh, I’m aware of what he claims to be. Do you truly think you can survive against him?

 

ARTHUR: Is this your pitch? The lesser of two evils?

 

LILLITH: I make no pitch. 

 

ARTHUR: But you have the other two Stones. The Graystone and the Crimsonstone.

 

LILLITH: The spirit and soul of Azathoth.

 

JOHN: The spirit and soul?

 

ARTHUR: The Blackstone is… 

 

LILLITH (relishing): The flesh. (An eerie melody begins.)

 

ARTHUR: So… not a cage. 

 

LILLITH: No. 

 

ARTHUR: Well, what happens when all three keys are… used? What benefit do you gain? 

 

JOHN: Lillith fixes her gaze upon us, a crooked smile breaking across her face. 

 

LILLITH: Power. 

 

ARTHUR (unimpressed): Is that so?

 

LILLITH: Yes.

 

ARTHUR: Kayne already has power. So do you.

 

LILLITH: Not like this.

 

ARTHUR: And so that’s why you want the Blackstone. Power. With no goal or motivation.

 

LILLITH: Yes. (John exhales.)

 

ARTHUR: You lie. You lie and lie and stand there in wolf’s clothing. You lie about having known me for longer than you have, you lie about poisoning Vale, Antoine! And about Alia and her dreams –

 

LILLITH (soothing): Arthur. I’m a friend.

 

ARTHUR: Perhaps you’d’ve had better luck convincing me, had you not been the cause of Sir Vale’s demise.

 

(A minor audio distortion. A sad melody begins. A horse snorts.) 

 

ARTHUR: Tell me he is going to get better.

 

(Chalk tapping.)

 

JOHN: She writes… ‘He is going to die.’ 

 

ARTHUR: No. (He kicks the ground. Frustrated.) God damn it!

 

JOHN: Arthur.

 

ARTHUR: No, Alia! No!

 

JOHN: Relax. Calm down.

 

ARTHUR: I can’t. I will not –

 

JOHN: You do not need to. Look. Antoine is still moving around. He’s still able-bodied enough to travel. This isn’t like… Vale. 

 

ARTHUR (shaken): I will not… not again. 

 

JOHN: You won’t. We won’t. 

 

ARTHUR: Antoine’s illness, it… it came from nowhere. No arrow, no –

 

JOHN: It’s like Vale said, Arthur. We’re being targeted. One by one. (Slow footsteps.) The evening mist clings to the edge of the swamp. Orange fireflies dance amongst the thinning brushes that line the patches of earth… which carve us a path through the muddy ground. 

 

ARTHUR (sighing): If we lose Antoine… we can’t make it. We’re getting stuck every few hours in this swamp and without the strength to help lift the cart –

 

JOHN: I know, I know. (Chalk tapping.) Let’s just take it one step at a time. Eat the elephant. (Arthur sighs.) Alia has written… ‘The Day of Wrath is near.’ 

 

ARTHUR: What? Alia, the…

 

JOHN: The log. Here! (Chalk tapping.) Sit, sit. (Arthur grunts in exertion.) ‘It comes… in the form… of a pale woman.’ A pale woman? 

 

ARTHUR: Lillith? Pale… have we…

 

JOHN: Yes, I-I’ve seen her before! There was a painting at Edward William Allan’s farm! A-And she appeared in the space within the barn, once we closed the gateway. (Chalk tapping.)  ‘Her words… are her power.’ 

 

ARTHUR: But what can we do? How can we stop this? How can we get the Blackstone to its destination? I don’t even know where we’re going, and… Jesus, Alia, I mean! (Aggrieved.) How… can I keep going? (Chalk tapping.)

 

JOHN: ‘No matter… how vast… the darkness…’

 

ARTHUR (quoting): ‘We must supply our own light.’ (A soft melody begins. Taken back.)  How…?

 

JOHN: You’ve said that!

 

ARTHUR: Yes, I have! It… (Chalk tapping.) How did you…?

 

JOHN: ‘You must continue… carrying the fire.’ Carrying the fire, Arthur. 

 

ARTHUR (sighing, quoting): ‘Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on.’’

 

JOHN: What?

 

ARTHUR: Our resolve must be stronger than this.

 

JOHN (insistent): It is. Vale’s passing, you did what you had to do. And it shattered your nerve, for good reason!

 

ARTHUR: You’re right. You’re right. There will be time to grieve… but that is not this moment. The Blackstone is all that matters. And it will be safe in that box, Alia. (Chalk tapping.) I know it’s under lock-and-key, but… I worry… I worry how safe it is. 

 

JOHN: ‘It is… safe.’ 

 

ARTHUR (gently): Alright. 

 

(At a distance, clattering and a groan of exertion.)

 

JOHN: Antoine is trying to unload a box from the cart, he’s… he’s struggling. Arthur, we should… (Arthur grunts in exertion.) Y-Yeah. 

 

ARTHUR: Thank you, Alia. For the reminder, more than anything. (Footsteps.)

 

JOHN: Straight ahead.

 

(At a distance, Antoine continues to struggle.)

 

ARTHUR: Here, here! L-Let me help.

 

ANTOINE: Thank you, m’lord. (Arthur grunts in exertion. The creaking of wood.)

 

ARTHUR: You must rest as well, Antoine. You’re no good to us exhausted. (Antoine exhales. Wood clattering.) And you need your strength. 

 

JOHN: He moves back to the cart for another box. (Arthur sighs.) He scratches his chest again, before picking up another crate. 

 

ARTHUR: You do that a lot. Scratch. (Wood scraping.)

 

ANTOINE: Aye, m’lord.

 

(Fabric shifting.)

 

JOHN: Nervously, he pulls the collar on his neck tighter.

 

ARTHUR: Is everything alright?

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord. Besides the way I feel.

 

ARTHUR: Look… Vale told me about the Blackstone before he died, and I –

 

JOHN: Antoine stops. He looks down to his mud-covered boots.

 

ARTHUR: I’m sorry. (A sad melody begins.) I’m sorry, that was crass. I know he was closest with you.

 

ANTOINE: Days have passed, but… the wound refuses to heal, I suppose. 

 

ARTHUR: I know. I know. But I was wondering. You seem to know much… more than I realized, and… I wanted to ask you… 

 

ANTOINE: Aye?

 

ARTHUR: He mentioned that the Blackstone was a key. Do you know to what? 

 

JOHN: Antoine’s face darkens, as if a grave memory slides across his mind. 

 

ANTOINE: M’lord… Evrard told me, once. That it was a key to a cage. A cage that belongs to… Azathoth. 

 

ARTHUR (uncertainly): Azathoth. That’s who Evrard’s family worshipped, a-as well as the Order of the Fallen Star.

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord, but I’d rather not say more. At least, right now.

 

ARTHUR: It’s, it’s fine. Maybe we can talk later.

 

ANTOINE (urgent): P-Please, m’lord. My mind aches with dark thoughts as of late. Memories. Thoughts of Sir Vale. I’d rather keep my mind on the present. Just for now. If it’s alright. 

 

ARTHUR: Understood. Understood completely. Look, if there’s anything I can do, to take your mind off of… w-well, please. Don’t hesitate. 

 

JOHN: He seems troubled. Fighting against –

 

ANTOINE: Actually, m’lord. There is.

 

ARTHUR: Oh! A-Anything.

 

ANTOINE: I was wondering… with Sir Vale’s passing, and… my illness starting to creep in…

 

ARTHUR: Antoine, don’t –

 

ANTOINE: No, no, it’s alright. This was not meant to be a trip I would return from.

 

ARTHUR (gravely): Antoine.

 

ANTOINE: I just… I wanted to know… in truth, m’lord. 

 

ARTHUR: Yes, I promise.

 

ANTOINE: Do you believe… do you believe… there’s a place beyond this? When we… die? 

 

ARTHUR: Oh. Y-You mean like… like a Heaven. 

 

ANTOINE: Yes. 

 

(A long pause.)

 

ARTHUR (sighing): No. I don’t. 

 

JOHN: His face… is expressionless for a moment. He nods, slowly. 

 

ANTOINE: I… don’t believe so either, m’lord. Thank you for your honesty. (Wooden creaking. Footsteps.)

 

(A minor audio distortion.)

 

LILLITH: Oh, but Arthur! That was you, remember? You were the one to make the killing blow on Sir Vale. You were the one who chose to offer Antoine no peace after death, no dream of a beyond.

 

ARTHUR: You’re one to talk about dreams. 

 

LILLITH: Dreams are beautiful, Arthur. Nightmares… are far deadlier. 

 

ARTHUR: Oh, I’ve had one of your nightmares.

 

LILLITH: And now so has one of your companions. Interesting how one can look back with fresh eyes, signs that seem so obvious in the moment… 

 

ARTHUR: What are you talking about?

 

LILLITH: You began to doubt him, didn’t you? The slumbering servant over there. Antoine. 

 

ARTHUR: What do you mean?

 

LILLITH: He was keeping such lies from you. Knowing what you know now… would you still trust him? Or do you wish you had been more… suspicious?

 

ARTHUR: I trusted him from the beginning. That wouldn’t have changed.

 

LILLITH (curious): No?

 

ARTHUR: No. (Mud shifting.)

 

LILLITH: Even after he lied? After he kept such secrets from you? And in the end, you… abandoned him?

 

JOHN: We didn’t! (He flusters.)

 

ARTHUR: I didn’t abandon him! You –

 

LILLITH: Well, there he is: breathing shallow, labored. And you sit here by the fire, the dying light… 

 

JOHN: The rain has almost doused the flames entirely, Arthur.

 

LILLITH: It stands no chance against the heavy drops that fall from the heavens. (Lillith cackles. Mud shifts.)

 

ARTHUR: As I said. It isn’t here for comfort. 

 

LILLITH: You must have shared that with your tender friend in there. I heard no such claim.

 

JOHN: It was before she arrived that –

 

LILLITH: So why, then? Why light a fire that is sure to die? (A sad melody begins. Lillith walks in a circle around Arthur.) You feel the pain… the loss of your friends… not only these ones, but all that came before. You had a life, Arthur. You had a job. A family. You had… everything. 

 

ARTHUR: I am far from where I once was.

 

LILLITH: Yes. Let me end… the pain.

 

ARTHUR: End it? 

 

LILLITH: Yes. all of this. I can bring back whomever you wish. Set things right where they were. Help Antoine get better… and wake Alia from her slumber. 

 

ARTHUR: Was Alia such a threat to you? After all she’d been through… after a life of –

 

LILLITH (angry): A life? You call what she had a life? In servitude to man’s every demand and impulse… devoted to a sect she had no choice in joining. Tortured… manipulated… brought to the edge of death and pulled back again and again! I… freed… her. 

 

ARTHUR: You did no such thing.

 

(A mild audio distortion. Rain falls gently. A fire crackles. A horse snorts.)

 

JOHN: Antoine leans over Alia’s body. He can barely stand himself. He… pulls at the roots, as we did. (Antoine’s noises of strain.) But they don’t move. 

 

ARTHUR: They won’t. They can’t. 

 

JOHN: He reaches between the damp roots and tries to wake her. But… he doesn’t seem to be able to stir her, either. 

 

ARTHUR (bitter): Of course. Of course. 

 

JOHN: Arthur… is she… there’s nothing we could’ve done. Lillith… this is how she want –

 

ARTHUR: I know. 

 

JOHN: Alia had to sleep, eventually. And so do we. Antoine is coming back to the fire. (Footsteps.) He’s walking slowly… scratching his chest and… holding his stomach. (Antoine shivers audibly. A soft thump.)

 

ANTOINE (stuttering): S-S-She… she will not wake, m’lord. 

 

ARTHUR: I know. 

 

ANTOINE: I did not doubt you. But I needed to try, myself. 

 

ARTHUR: I understand. (Fabric shifting.)

 

ANTOINE: I cannot explain the roots, m’lord. They were not there last night. (A horse snorts.)

 

ARTHUR: They’ve come from the bog. From the plants that grow here. 

 

ANTOINE (in tears): I… I could… I couldn’t pull them off, m’lord! I could not pull them off her.

 

ARTHUR: I couldn’t, either. (Antoine sobs. Arthur inhales.) She will not wake. She fights a nightmare. (Dirt shifts.) You, Antoine, h-how are you… faring?

 

ANTOINE: I am fine. I am fine, my lord. I will… we will press on. As soon as daybreak, I believe we are nearly at the edge of the swamps. (Dirt shifts.)

 

ARTHUR (sternly): Not without Alia, Antoine. We can’t leave her here.

 

(A small pause.)

 

ANTOINE: What choice do we have, m’lord? We must press on. 

 

JOHN: He’s right, Arthur.

 

ANTOINE: We must continue.

 

JOHN: She knew she –

 

ARTHUR: What did she write last night?

 

ANTOINE: M’lord?

 

ARTHUR: You were speaking to her before I fell asleep. I heard… I heard the sound of her chalk on the slate, I heard you whispering, but not of what. 

 

ANTOINE: See… she gave me the map, m’lord. I believe she knew… that she would not rise today with the sun. 

 

ARTHUR: Let me see it. 

 

ANTOINE: M’lord?

 

ARTHUR: Let me see where we’re taking this… let me see our destination.

 

ANTOINE: I cannot, m’lord.

 

JOHN: He looks down.

 

ARTHUR (shocked): What?

 

JOHN: Ashamed, almost.

 

ANTOINE: I swore I would not. When I fall, it will pass to you, but no sooner, m’lord.

 

ARTHUR (furious): I – how could you – !? (He grunts in anger.)

 

JOHN: Arthur, calm. Arthur, calm yourself.

 

ARTHUR: Fine. Fine.

 

JOHN (cajoling): Antoine is sick already. This isn’t the time to fight. You need to stay calm, collected.

 

ARTHUR: What did she write of?

 

ANTOINE: M’lord, I-I… (He breathes shakily.)

 

JOHN: He shakes his head… slowly.

 

ARTHUR: Fuck’s sake! (He kicks dirt.)

 

JOHN: Arthur, sit back down! We need to –

 

ARTHUR (raging): We need to what!? We need to press on? (John grunts.) For what? We don’t know where the fuck we’re going! We’ve lost Vale, now Alia! Antoine is at death’s door, and…

 

(A sad melody begins.)

 

JOHN: He looks up to you as you stand by the embers of last night’s fire. 

 

ANTOINE (crying): I am sorry, m’lord. (He continues to sob.)

 

ARTHUR: We’re all sorry, Antoine. But I can’t… I can’t… go on like this! Knowing only half the picture at any given moment! I don’t know where we’re heading! I don’t know why, I-I don’t know… two days ago, you told me this Blackstone was a key to a cage but refused to tell me any more and I cannot keep… (Calmer.) Learning half-truths! And I… I need to know more. 

 

JOHN: Antoine looks down at his hands in his lap. They’re dirt-covered, stained with the blood he’s been coughing up through the night. 

 

ANTOINE: The Blackstone is a key to a cage… Azathoth’s cage. Evrard told me but one thing: that if this key should ever be used, if he should ever be let out… everything ends. 

 

ARTHUR: Everything?

 

ANTOINE: Everything. The world, life, death. Everything ends. That is why we protect the Stone. That is why we cannot stop. (Emotional.) I am sorry I cannot tell you more, but please. Trust me. 

 

ARTHUR: I do.

 

ANTOINE: Thank you. 

 

ARTHUR (quietly): Let us… gather our things. Only what we need. Leave Alia with the rest. If she should wake, s-she needs enough to survive. And…

 

ANTOINE: Aye, m’lord. (He grunts in heavy exertion. Footsteps.)

 

JOHN: He moves toward Alia. (John sighs.) Antoine isn’t strong enough to pack up everything. 

 

ARTHUR: Just enough to survive. 

 

JOHN: We leave Alia. 

 

ARTHUR: You’re right. We must. I’ll say my goodbyes after he’s do – 

 

JOHN: Antoine is walking back over. He holds his side in pain, as well as… Alia’s slate.

 

ARTHUR: Pace yourself, I –

 

(Footsteps.)

 

ANTOINE (pained): Yes, m’lord, but. It’s Alia’s slate.

 

ARTHUR: Yes?

 

ANTOINE: Her slate, m’lord. She wrote something on it, before she… before she rested last night. 

 

ARTHUR: Oh.

 

ANTOINE: I believe it is for you. Here. (A mysterious melody begins.)

 

JOHN: Oh. Arthur… it says…

 

(A minor audio distortion. Rumbling thunder, heavier rain.)

 

ARTHUR (accusatory): You cursed her with unending nightmares! A wakeless slumber.

 

(Mud shifts.)

 

LILLITH: Arthur. That was not who I spoke of when I said, ‘Another shares the nightmare I brought to you’.

 

JOHN: Antoine’s breathing quickens. 

 

ARTHUR: Antoine?

 

LILLITH: Alia deserves a peaceful end, one filled with a song of freedom and a whisper of justice. 

 

ARTHUR: You were still… killing her.

 

LILLITH (affronted): Killing her? She’s long since dead, Arthur. This… shell, this eyeless, tongueless husk of a woman deserves peace! And I will grant it to her. 

 

ARTHUR: You can justify it any way you want, but you are still a murderer. 

 

LILLITH (laughing): Murder? How vain. What significance you humans put upon yourselves. Murder. A word said with such vitriol, such meaning, as if you are anything more than a collection of cells and tissues feasting on the flesh of others. You dig yourselves into the earth like ticks, drawing every last drop of blood from it until it is dead and then you consume more. 

 

The notion of murdering such an insignificant being is the greatest joke you pathetic creatures have ever concocted! 

 

(Whimsically.) Your life is utterly meaningless, your presence a nuisance at best. Your faith in your family, and the pitiful fictions you create in your lives. The idea of purpose is hollow to its core! You… are… insignificant. 

 

ARTHUR: I thought I was your favorite.

 

LILLITH: My favorite insignificant. (Arthur exhales.) So. Let me end the pain.

 

ARTHUR: You can end all this. Can you?

 

LILLITH: Everything. As soon as you get the Stone.

 

ARTHUR: No.

 

LILLITH: No?

 

ARTHUR: Never.

 

JOHN: Her eyes flicker for a moment, as if holding back some expression.

 

ARTHUR: You talk about insignificance… but claim to have freed Alia. You say murder is a word with too much meaning for how meaningless we are, and yet you continuously speak as if I matter to you. You speak with confidence and presence, an unequaled and earned position, one powerful enough to make Mother Darkness stand down, yet… your eyes deceive you when I mentioned… ‘Daddy’. 

 

JOHN: Her face is frozen. She fights against giving any reaction. 

 

ARTHUR: You want to appear uncaring, unconcerned. But there is real anger in your voice, in the way you speak of humanity. But is it anger in the words… or who taught them to you?

 

JOHN: She smiles coyly. (Slow footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: You sound… indoctrinated. 

 

LILLITH (shifting mud): Do you need proof?

 

ARTHUR: No, no. I do feel the truth coming from you. But the strange part is? I believe that the part of you that’s truthful… is the one that cares. And I cannot understand why. (Lillith cackles.) I do believe you, when you say you offered Alia dreams instead of nightmares. I do believe you when you tell me I’m your favorite. Perhaps it’s with the same care as one would for a dog, but… it’s there. It was hidden beneath your memory. In your being. It existed when all but the core fragment of you remained… as Scratch. 

 

(A mysterious melody begins.)

 

JOHN: Her smile… fades. She seems almost… interested. 

 

ARTHUR: You were a Forgotten One, stripped bare of your personality and character, all that is fueling this desire for the Stone and in that framework of who you are… was some kind of connection to me. And I have no idea why. Why the daughter of Kayne cares about anyth –

 

LILLITH (furious outburst): I am no daughter of Kayne!

 

JOHN: She is… angry! A genuine anger. It passes quickly, but the flash of rage was undeniable.

 

LILLITH: I am the daughter… (Arthur hums.) Of Nyarlathotep. Now. The Stone.

 

ARTHUR: Yes, the Stone. So you can… end the pain, was it? 

 

LILLITH: Yes.

 

ARTHUR: Or is it end everything? 

 

JOHN: Her eyes tighten.

 

ARTHUR: Antoine may have lied about some things, but he told me the truth when he spoke of the Stone’s true purpose. Perhaps not a cage as he thought, but… but I have no doubt, when used, these keys will bring about the same result. 

 

JOHN: She grimaces.

 

ARTHUR: An end… to everything. (Flames sizzle.)

 

JOHN: The fire. It’s about to die. 

 

ARTHUR: You asked me why I light a fire that is sure to die. I lit it for the same reason I sit here now. 

 

(A mild audio distortion. Heavy rain, and sounds of exertion.)

 

JOHN: Antoine struggles to stand, let alone has enough strength to lift! Arthur…

 

ARTHUR (struggling): Lift, god damn it!

 

ANTOINE (weakly): I am trying, m’lord!

 

JOHN: Arthur!

 

(Both grunt. Wooden clattering.)

 

ARTHUR: God damn it! (He growls.)

 

ANTOINE (tearfully): I’m sorry, m’lord!

 

ARTHUR: Stop! Stop snivelling, for fuck’s sake, we… we can’t! We are nearly there, I can see the fucking edge of the swamps, Antoine!

 

ANTOINE: I cannot, m’lord.

 

JOHN: Arthur, you need to relax.

 

ARTHUR (raging): How? We can’t move! I can’t lift this fucking… thing! (Wooden clattering and splintering.) Alone! 

 

JOHN: The carriage wheel has split in two, Arthur! (Frustrated.) Fucking kicked it in two, you –

 

ARTHUR: Me!? What the fuck good are you telling me every little thing I’ve done wrong –

 

JOHN: Perhaps if you fucking listened once in a while, you’d learn something!

 

ARTHUR: Learn something about what? About how we’re still stuck in the swamp, about how our one remaining horse is lame and can barely walk! And how we’re driving it to death with every step!

 

JOHN: Yes!

 

ARTHUR: Well, so are we! Being driven to death with every step! All of us… you’re not offering any solutions, you’re just… stating the fucking obvious.

 

JOHN: I am trying to be the voice of reason!

 

ARTHUR (at wit’s end): I don’t need a voice of reason, I need somewhere to scream at the top of my lungs! If they didn’t hurt so fucking much. I am exhausted and starved and… and we have no knowledge, no insight into what’s happening. Yorick has refused to talk for two weeks, since leaving… we are blind and lost and…

 

JOHN: I know.

 

ARTHUR: And I don’t… even have a fucking idea where we are going. 

 

JOHN (quietly): Antoine is sitting in the mud. He is… slowing us down. 

 

ARTHUR: I know. 

 

JOHN: Perhaps we need to take the chest ourselves… and leave.

 

ARTHUR: I would. But I don’t… know where the fuck we are going. 

 

JOHN: I know! Perhaps it’s best to just take it from him. 

 

ARTHUR (quietly): You’re right. I can’t do this. I am sick of this. (Louder.) I am sick of this! Give me the fucking paper.

 

ANTOINE: M’lord? (Footsteps.)

 

ARTHUR: The map, the destination! The one Alia gave you, give it to me.

 

ANTOINE: I cannot.

 

ARTHUR: Now!

 

JOHN: Arthur, his pockets! (Sounds of a struggle and fabric rustling.) 

 

ARTHUR: Where is it? Where is it?

 

JOHN: Here, here, here!

 

ANTOINE: Here, here!

 

ARTHUR (threatening): Give it to me! (Paper rustling.) Read it to me. 

 

JOHN: Flip it over.

 

ARTHUR: Oh. (Paper rustling.) Read it. 

 

JOHN: The paper is blank.

 

ARTHUR: Where’s the map, Antoine? I can’t keep with you, Antoine, I must move alone. Or else we will be lost.

 

JOHN: He doesn’t look at us.

 

ARTHUR: Where’s the map, Antoine? 

 

ANTOINE (calmly): That is the map, m’lord. 

ARTHUR: D… Did it just wash off, or…

 

JOHN: No, there’s nothing on it. It’s blank.

 

ARTHUR: I don’t understand. Where… Where are we taking the Stone? (A short pause.) Answer me! 

 

ANTOINE: Nowhere, m’lord. 

 

ARTHUR: Nowhere? I don’t… 

 

JOHN: Arthur… 

 

ARTHUR: I don’t… What was the point of all this?

 

ANTOINE: What do you mean?

 

ARTHUR (angrier): What was the point? We were never going to reach our destination. We never had one? 

 

ANTOINE: There is no destination safe enough, m’lord.

 

ARTHUR: Bullshit. What the fuck are you… we could’ve stayed in Castle Kerringford! Alia would still be with us! Roderick would still be alive. We could’ve kept the Blackstone safe!

 

ANTOINE: From who? From you?

 

ARTHUR: What?

 

ANTOINE: From you. 

 

ARTHUR: I… I never… 

 

ANTOINE: There was no place to bring the stone, m’lord. There is no place that will ever be safe. 

 

ARTHUR: You… (In horror.) So what was all this for? This was… meaningless. 

 

ANTOINE: Meaningless, my lord? 

 

ARTHUR: Yes! We’ve – 

 

ANTOINE: Is my life meaningless? 

 

ARTHUR: What? No.

 

ANTOINE: I asked you once if you thought… there was something after this. Something more. Neither of us believes there is. No Gates of Heaven to welcome us. Does that make my life meaningless? 

 

ARTHUR: That is not the same. That’s not e –

 

ANTOINE: Maybe not, m’lord. I do not know the world as you do. I have not seen the sights you have or lived the lives you have. But I do know… that this journey was not about its destination, but moving for as long as we could ‘til we could move no more. 

 

ARTHUR: That’s… That’s… meaningless, that’s…

 

JOHN: There was no destination.

 

ANTOINE: It is not meaningless. It is hope. (A slow melody begins.)

 

ARTHUR: I… I don’t… 

 

ANTOINE: Alia… she knew many things. Perhaps not as clearly or you and I may see the trees and the sun, but she sees in her way. This was what she saw, and this was how she saw it. She knew that you needed to be kept in the dark from this truth, until you could understand.

 

ARTHUR: Kept… kept in the dark? I could’ve… I could have…

 

ANTOINE: Stopped us? Taken the Stone? This was how it was meant to happen. To bring you to this moment. Do you understand?

 

JOHN: Understand? A-Arthur…

 

ARTHUR: You must keep hope in your heart. That’s what Alia said to us. 

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord.

 

JOHN: There was no… there is no… 

 

ARTHUR: There’s no way out of this. There is no destination safe enough. No solution to the problem of the Blackstone. There’s only… pushing the ball forward. For as long as we can. (Antoine makes a noise of pain.)

 

ANTOINE: Yes, m’lord. 

 

ARTHUR: Until we can’t anymore. (Sounds of shifting.)

 

JOHN: Antoine… lays down. He’s… closing his eyes. 

 

ARTHUR: I’m sorry, Antoine, I… 

 

ANTOINE: You understand, m’lord.

 

JOHN: So… 

 

ARTHUR: So.

 

JOHN: There’s no way… out of this. 

 

ARTHUR: No? 

 

JOHN: Once Kayne knows exactly where the Stone is…

 

ARTHUR: He’ll come. 

 

JOHN: And Lillith. 

 

ARTHUR: This is all her doing. I suppose it’s worth hearing why. 

 

JOHN: So… what do we do now?

 

ARTHUR: We learn the lesson. 

 

JOHN: Learn the lesson?

 

ARTHUR: Yeah. And start a fire.

 

(Mild audio distortion. ‘Faroe’s Song’ begins to play.) 

 

LILLITH: And you sit here now, because…?

 

ARTHUR: Because I have no ace up my sleeve. No trick or plan to implement. I have no secret I’ve kept hidden, no knowledge I reserved… no bullets in my gun. Roderick is dead. Alia as well. And Antoine’s death is not far off. I sit here because I am at the end, with no out. But I have not given up. And that is the lesson Alia has successfully imparted. A lesson of hope. 

 

Because even though this fire will die… even though this quest will fail… even though, in the end, our lives may have no reward… no Heaven or eternal peace… it does not make the journey meaningless.

 

I lit this fire because despite knowing the rain will eventually douse its light, it is still worth making. It is the lesson she imparted upon me, and Roderick, and Antoine. It is the purpose of our journey. Not the destination. But to impart on me the importance of having the will which says to me: ‘Hold on’.

 

That is why the fire is not for comfort. It is a reminder. In the face of my impending demise… I will still fight to exist. 

 

LILLITH: Why?

 

ARTHUR: Because that is my purpose. And on a personal level… because fuck you. 

 

(The rain quiets.)

 

JOHN: Arthur, the… the rain, it’s… stopping! There’s a break in the clouds, and… and the rain is… done. The fire continues. 

 

LILLITH (quoting): ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be.’ 

 

(Lillith grunts in effort. Heavy footfalls. Fire sizzles.) 

 

JOHN: She stomps the embers of the dying fire, putting it out. 

 

LILLITH: I suppose it wasn’t the rain that doused your flame after all, Arthur. (She chuckles.)

 

ARTHUR: Its brevity did not lessen its existence. Sometimes the things that were in our life for far too little time… (A shaky inhale.) Make the biggest impacts. (He sniffs.)

 

(‘Faroe’s Lullaby’ begins.)

 

LILLITH: I’m sure. 

 

JOHN: Arthur, look up. (Arthur hums.) 

 

LILLITH: Just as I’m sure the fire’s existence mattered to more than just yourself. 

 

JOHN: With the fire gone and the clouds departed… and the darkness… I can see the stars. (Arthur exhales.) They shine so brightly, as if young and full of light. 

 

ARTHUR (fondly): Do they?

 

JOHN: They’re shining down on us. The fire made them difficult to see. (Arthur chuckles tearfully.)

 

ARTHUR: Thank you, Lillith. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees, with the fire here. (He exhales shakily.)

 

LILLITH: You refused to get the Stone.

 

ARTHUR: Yes, I’d say so.

 

JOHN: Absolutely. 

 

LILLITH: Very well. Then I’ll just have to get it myself.

 

ARTHUR: Will you?

 

LILLITH: I had hoped to part as friends, Arthur. After all, you are my favorite. But I suppose… if you refuse… I will just have to once again enter your dreams and make you fetch the Stone for me. 

 

ARTHUR: You do what you have to do. I’ll enjoy the starlight. 

 

LILLITH (whispering): Sweet dreams, Arthur.

 

(Growing audio distortion. A click, followed by static.)

 

(END Part 51.)