[Gravedigger walks alone through a street of the slums, finally coming across the steps of a grotty church. He stands at the bottom with his shovel rested over his shoulder.]
“Narcissa, the picture-perfect bride of Arcadia, stitched together with silk and vanity. You, married to the mighty Zeus, parading your illusions of beauty and control like a veil that hides the rot beneath.”
[He walks up the steps and puts a hand on the door.]
“You’ve built your life like a wedding venue, haven’t you? Every detail curated, every seam stitched tight, everything beautiful and perfect for the eyes of others. But let me tell you something about weddings—they’re incomplete without a funeral.
You remind me of a grand church I once saw. It was perched atop a set of steps like this, surrounded by roses and marble statues, gleaming under the sun like something out of a dream.”
[All that surrounds him is trash and muck.]
“The walls were lined with mirrors, each one reflecting the beauty within, doubling the illusion of perfection. Brides flocked to it, drawn to its promises of everlasting joy, of a day frozen in flawless glory. But what they didn’t see—what no one cared to look at—was the foundation.
Beneath those shining tiles and gilded arches was a crypt, deep and dark, its walls crumbling with age. The ground was unstable, the soil soaked with rot, and every step on that perfect floor brought it closer to collapse. The venue stood tall, but only because the decay below hadn’t yet claimed it.”
[Gravedigger turns to us with a smile.]
“The House of Judgement is akin to that church, Narcissa. It’s deep with rot and soaked in the desperation of decay. From the outside peering in, it looks as if it was something special; something wonderful, but that illusion is soon to dissipate and be replaced by the reality.
The ground beneath you will soon gave way. The mirrors will shadow, the roses wilt, and the guests you’ve invited, will scream as the floor swallows you whole. The crypt below has been waiting for you all along, and your finery cannot save you.”
[He pulls the door open to the dilapidated church and steps inside, the smell of decay smashing him in the face.]
“You see, Narcissa, beauty fades. Perfection cracks. And when it does, the grave is always there to collect its due. You’ve made yourself the centrepiece of Olympus, a designer of dreams, but all that silk and glamour is nothing more than decoration for your final resting place.
When I face you, it won’t matter how many threads you’ve woven, how many mirrors you’ve placed to hide the cracks. I’ll expose the rot beneath your grand facade and watch as your perfect little world collapses into the grave I’ve been digging for you.
Because every wedding ends with a funeral, Narcissa… and I always save the last dance for myself.”
[He looks around, nodding.]
“I think this venue will do nicely, don’t you?”