HELLO EVERYONE! It's great to be back again. Of course, as most of you have known for a while, I have decided to write the final instalment of my Underland Chronicles II trilogy, and this is it! This promises to be the most epic of all the stories I have come up with so far. Or at least I hope it will be.

The title of this story seems to have given many of you a hint of what is going to happen. Trust me, don't speculate too much. I promise you, what you expect will happen and what will happen can be two entirely different things.

If you haven't read my previous two stories yet, I suggest you do. The Warrior's Legacy and Regalian Bloodbath must be read in order for you to truly understand this story. This story will feature the perspectives of Gregor and Calvin, as well as Luxa. In fact, one of the chapters will even be from the perspective of Grace, Gregor's mother. Again, I'm not going to disclose anything else.

It's safe to say that as this is the final story in this trilogy, there will be a sense of finality to it. And along with that sense of finality, I guarantee controversy. I have a bad feeling that this story will not be as well-received as my previous stories because trust me, I will take risks. And I'll just give you a slight hint about one of those risks beforehand. It involves Calvin Oberton and his identity.

But all in all, despite the controversy, I hope(as Vikus once did) that all of you enjoy this story. As usual, I would really appreciate it if you guys would be kind enough to review it. I can't wait to get started!

This chapter was influenced by the story Sandwich by MarbleSky. Go there and read it to see how it influenced this chapter. By the way, this chapter may appear confusing because we are in the mind of Sandwich, which is really messed up. Also, do be ready for some mildly graphic scenes.

Chapter 1: Bartholomew of Sandwich

He felt like he was frolicking amongst the blushing meadows back in England. Like a drunk goat with nothing to lose. That was it- a drunk goat. That was who he was. Trapped in his own dreams, unable to see the now blurred line between imagination and reality. Ah yes, free from the restraints, demands and expectations imposed on him, but still a slave of the real world. Chained to the fate of death and abject failure. One day, the lamb would die. Even the Lamb of God died.

Blasphemy. Father Henry would have rebuked him and possibly labelled him a heretic. A heretic? Really Father? The Lamb was crucified, after all. For all the power he possessed, he was still just as much human as the rest of them. The Christ himself could still taste the bitterness of death and the end of all good things. The end of love, of life, of power, of glory, of wine, of money, of lust…

Yes, he knew he was on the verge of death. The prophetic dreams were coming faster, harder, more intensely, and it was shredding his mind completely. He had been in the bloody room for surely an eternity and even longer. The endless depths of the walls was pushing him down a dark, ravenous hole which consumed everything. He could see everything so clearly now amongst the yawning chasm of darkness which beckoned for him to draw closer. He could even make out a glimpse of his death- in blinding pain and unrestrained hate. All he had to do was to make everything rhyme.

Rhyming. A game for children, now a challenge on his deathbed. Or whatever rubbish he was going to end up lying on. He was going to have to stubbornly stave off the reaper who was already banging hard on his door, or he'd never finish the rhyming. It was all part of the game, you see. A game in which he was nearing completion. Toying with their minds, springing surprises on them, destroying their hopes, deceitfully concealing the true nature of his rhyming. So many mind games- it was unparalleled beauty.

He was rolling around the unparalleled beauty of the flowers again. It was… admittedly… rather addictive. He sniffed its fragrant scent as a bee hovered just above its blood-stained petals. Blood always enhanced the smell and the taste, being as invigorating as God meant to make it. It was so essential to life but acted as a representation of suffering and death. How ironic.

His life was a living irony. In his bid to claim power for himself, he had rid himself of the ultimate power in human hands- their own life. So here he was, talking to non-existent shadows, letting his greed and hatred gnaw away at his soul as his world crumbled around him.

He stumbled to his feet and laid his hands on the inscriptions which had already decorated half the room. The prophecies… this extended to everything for the next three centuries or so. Enough to torment Regalians and lure them into throwing their fate to chance. But the best was still yet to come.

Sandwich couldn't wait to get started.

First there were the deaths of the princess' parents. He could see the scene replaying itself before his very eyes. "Run! Judith, run! Get to Luxa! I'll hold them off!" someone bellowed. Oh yes, it was the father. Sandwich gulped nervously even though he knew the outcome of what was happening. As beautiful and hilarious as this scene was, it still appealed to the last glimpse of humanity still present in his consciousness. Two parents were fighting to save each other and their baby. It was a well-executed ambush by the rat king, one which he himself wouldn't have foreseen. The king and his wife stood no chance with so little protection and so many rats.

The rats converged on the king, tearing and gnawing into him.

Gnawing. That word again. One of the words which resounded in his head back when the visions started. The rats were the gnawers- it made perfect sense. Utterly perfect sense. The rats… were the gnawers. Gnawers… were the rats.

So they tore into the king, leaving him bloodied and half-dead. The rat king sauntered up to him and peered down at the fallen king. "So here we are, old friend. This is really nothing personal, but I was wondering where the rest of your family is? I do have a gift for Solovet."

Sandwich jerked back slightly. Solovet was revolting. Or at least she was from what little had had seen of her. Disgusting, despicable Solovet. A bit like him, really.

The king coughed out blood and croaked out, "I'll never tell you where they're hiding. I'd rather die."

Sandwich snorted. How cliched this was. The valiant hero not willing to give out information under duress.

The rat shot him a dark and haunting smile. "I'd rather you die too, but we'll get to that in a bit. Because if you don't tell me where Vikus, Solovet and your little Luxa is, SHE dies." One rat dragged the queen back into the scene. She had lost one eye and two claw marks stretching down her face wiped out her natural beauty in a flash.

"Judith," the king choked out, looking heartbroken.

"I love you," the queen replied through heavy pants as more blood gushed out of her wounds.

The king was about to reply in response, but the rat quickly slit his throat. The king's head lulled forward suddenly as a river of blood flowed out of his injury.

Sandwich cackled with delight. That was absolutely brutal from the rat, and he loved every second of it.

"Curse you Gorger! Curse you in the name of Sandwich!" the queen howled, "Ripred will find you and tear you from limb to limb!"

"Ripred?" the rat chuckled, "He's still moping around the Dead Lands feeling sorry for himself. I highly doubt that he'll come to your rescue. That weakling is the reason your husband is dead now."

"That weakling could have claimed that crown from you," the queen hissed, "if he wasn't too busy keeping the peace here."

"And look where that has got him," the rat sneered, "Now his mate and pups are dead. He's destroyed emotionally. He wanders around the Dead Lands searching for death. And I am on the throne."

"He will end you! Sandwich has predicted this and it cannot be undone. Your life will be ended by Ripred!" the queen howled back.

"Sandwich is an absolute joke and a children's myth. Your stupidity and obsession with Sandwich bewilders me," the rat king replied.

Hey. That was very impolite. Sandwich was half-tempted to go there and slap the rat across the face.

The rat looked down on the queen with the faintest sign of sympathy, his voice descending quickly into nothing more than a whisper, "I pity the killers. You all are so… fragile, yet you delusional people have somehow fooled yourselves into thinking you are the superior race. I have seen Underlanders you could never have ever imagined in your wildest dreams. Their intellect and strength outstrip you and they could tear you to pieces if they had the will to do so. I have seen the Uncharted Lands and the monstrosities that lie in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to return. Whether you die today or tomorrow makes no difference. In the end, the killers will perish just like the diggers before them. Luxa will be nothing more than a corpse very soon. But for today, she'll have to settle for the loss of her parents."

A normal person would shield themselves from the brutality that was about to unfold before their very eyes. But Sandwich had seen far worse, and he really couldn't do anything about the blood-filled images and the hysterical screaming that strained his mind to its fullest. He could almost feel the queen's agony as she howled away. Sandwich winced slightly, but this scene hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. Or did it? He wasn't sure. He could never truly be sure about anything these days.

The rat king wrapped his claws around the fallen king's crown and jammed it onto his head violently, trying to force it to fit. "If only we had the thumbs humans had…"he murmured nonchalantly to nobody in particular. A voice cried out in the distance, and the rat king's ears shot up immediately.

"Let us leave them with this carnage," he told the other rats, "This will be a welcome sight for Vikus and Solovet. They will soon be taken out of the equation. Fangor, bring your battalion and join Snare at the Waterway."

"Yes, your Majesty," one rat bowed his head deeply, and scurried off.

The images suddenly shattered into thousands of shards right in front of Sandwich. He jerked back violently, swinging his arms wildly to deflect the shards away. But even though they never touched his head, he could feel the searing pain rippling through his mind, hollering his name away as it steamrollered his memories, leaving him dazzled by the sheer…

By the sheer…

Beauty. The sheer beauty.

Sandwich stumbled to his feet, before crashing into the battlements. He veered over to his right and knocked a soldier over, before accidentally tripping over and impaling himself on a…

His eyes snapped back open. Was he hallucinating again? He probably was. He always hallucinated. His fingers instantly found themselves fingering his chest, trying to search for the tip of the spear he had been impaled on.

Oh right. That was another hallucination.

His senses were completely distorted as more dreams and visions crashed into him, overwhelming him. He let loose a hysterical scream in an attempt to drown out the cacophony that had now embraced him, as so many bloody voices yelled bloody murder as one more bloody person died in yet another bloody bloodbath of bloody soldiers and bloody rats and bloody…

Then it stopped. The voices stopped. He nearly let loose a cackle of relief, but then a new image appeared in his head.

Sandwich had become accustomed to seeing the same old dreams over and over and over again. He could practically recite some scenes in his head without even trying too hard. Memorising the lines from the dream of the king and queen's death? Elementary. He could even repeat them with a lisp in the middle of another dream.

But this image was special. Sandwich rarely got to see him, and when he did, it was always such a spectacle. Sandwich had seen many, many things, and many, many people, but none were quite the same as HIM.

Sandwich had a deep-seated antipathy towards the heroic and pretentious Regalians that often galloped across his vision, but this was HIM.

A soldier clad in black armour ambled forward, his weary posture suggesting the years of turmoil and torment had taken its toll on him. He sagged forward slightly, an indication of the unfathomable burden that rested on those delicate shoulders. And his body language was the sign of a hero that had been pushed to his very limits- a hero that was teetering on the edge of a cliff, with the hungry jaws of death waiting below. This was no ordinary hero. It was HIM.

The Warrior. He could feel the excitement as the title echoed around the room. Or around his brain. He didn't know and it didn't matter. He was beyond being pedantic and caring about the minor details of his deteriorating brain.

The Warrior was the key to everything- the Underland's fate could never ever be predetermined or decided because of him. It all hinged on the nature of his intervention. He was the foil to Sandwich- Sandwich had set in stone, quite literally, the path that Regalia would take. But he was now at the crossroads, and the Warrior was standing in his way.

Not that Sandwich minded. Even he needed a nemesis, an archrival, someone who could deny him complete success. Just like how every hero needs a villain, how light needs darkness, and how even God needs the devil, Sandwich needed the Warrior. He needed the Warrior to complete him. To finally send him over the edge and spiralling into the darkness below him which hadn't yet fully enveloped him. And one day, he would return the favour to the Warrior. He would be the catalyst behind the Warrior's fall.

Or at least, as the old man would have put it, he hoped so.

Sandwich had seen various outcomes regarding the Warrior- but he didn't know which one of them would fulfil the prophecies he was set to create. There was no doubt that the Warrior would be affected by the words of Sandwich's prophecies- fate worked in fascinating and often complex ways. The question was- to what degree would the Warrior be affected? Would he take Sandwich's words as the dogmatic truth, or nothing but lies woven together with small truths? Would he see Sandwich as an omniscient entity or a disgusting low-life fraud? Sandwich had to admit…

Had to admit…

He didn't know.

This was why the Warrior was his foil. Sandwich simply didn't know enough about him to spin and weave his fancifully vile prophecies. No, no.

No.

He could still add a last twist in the tale. A final nail in his personal coffin. To plunge his mind into the filth of the future and conjure up a prophecy that would set up a game of chess between him and the Warrior. Yes, yes.

Yes.

He could almost hear his father whispering softly, "Bart… you're above this all. You have always been my favourite son because you could stand above it all."

"Aristocracy does not put us above anything," Sandwich snarled fiercely as he gazed up into the hollow eyes of the ghostly apparition which was his father. A dagger was lodged in his skull, just as he remembered his father. Murdered by his own mistress. A bloody fool.

His father leaned in and said in the softest and most delicate of tones, "You're the bloody fool."

Sandwich glanced down at his arms, which were soaked in blood. He had never cleansed himself of the guilt of his past, but then again, he never had felt any guilt.

What the hell was with all the blood?

Sandwich shook his head compulsively, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Images of the past, his past, the Warrior's past, the king's past, the queen's past, the rat's past… overlapped with each other as everything became a jumbled heap and a messy haystack of memories plastered together. The noise was absolutely unbearable, as Sandwich fought hard to stifle a scream of agony which was moments away from escaping his throat. Voices began to echo incessantly as thousands upon thousands of people spoke, with Sandwich struggling to discern…

… so, so much pain…

A son of the sun.

That was it.

It was perfect.

A son of the sun.

He hollered excitedly, "SCRIBE!" as the visions became more focused on the dim outline of a lean and nervous boy coming face to face with a group of crawlers. He was vaguely aware of the scribe bursting into the room rapidly, scurrying forward with a quill in hand. Sandwich ignored him as he began to craft his prophecy, with the myriad of words that were floating…

… that were floating…

… the rhyming had to be perfect…

… that were floating…

Time hangs by a thread.

White water…

… Runs red.

But how many of them?

Two over, two under, of royal descent,

Two flyers, two crawlers, two spinners…

Damn it, what was the word? Bloody Jesus Christ, what was the god damned word?

He could hear Father Henry's faint voice chiding him, "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, Bartholomew. Misusing His Holy Name displeases the Lord."

Father Henry could go and shove those words up his bloody arse.

He was nothing but a disgusting priest who utilised the Bible to gain access to the rooms of younger, prettier girls…

Then the word came to him.

Assent.

Of course they needed to assent, especially since they were spinners. Of course, it all made sense now.

And then the name Henry cryptically echoed around his head again.

THE LAST WHO WILL DIE MUST DECIDE WHERE HE STANDS.

THE FATE OF THE EIGHT IS CONTAINED IN HIS HANDS.

SO BID HIM TAKE CARE, BID HIM LOOK WHERE HE LEAPS,

AS LIFE MAY BE DEATH AND DEATH LIFE AGAIN REAPS.

Sandwich beamed with delight. An absolute masterpiece. The Warrior would never see this coming. "It's called the prophecy of Gray," he announced triumphantly, pleased to hear the furious scribbling over the coarse paper.

"Are we done here, sire?" the scribe asked in that monotonous voice of his.

Sandwich staggered about for a while like a drunkard in the middle of the street… before savagely hitting the scribe right in the stomach. The scribe doubled over in pain and bit down on his tongue fiercely to hold a scream back. Sandwich grabbed the greasy hair of the young man and yanked on it hard, again cutting even closer to provoking the scribe into a scream. He then leaned in and whispered, "We are only done here once I SAY we are done. Don't you dare question me again, or I will personally cut your tongue from that piece of shit which is your mouth. I am the bloody king, you get me? You do whatever I TELL YOU to do. Do you get me, boy?"

"Yes, sire," the scribe replied instantly, his face scrunched up in intense suffering.

Sandwich eyed him from head to toe for a while before releasing the scribe. He slumped back down to his knees as the dreams continued their endless flow through his ravaged mind. He was on a roll.

He could feel optimism in his soul again. He was going to figure everything out soon.

If Under fell, if Over leaped

It was something of a disclaimer for Sandwich. Who knew what the prophecy of Gray would result in, after all? If the Warrior died… no, that would be too anti-climatic. Fate wanted its fair share of fun too, after all. He was sure the Warrior would make it… somehow. But if somehow fate had rendered his prophecies useless… ah, who cared? He'd be long dead and beyond caring.

Rat of long-forgotten snow

The Bane. The monster. The abomination. The dictator. The catalyst. The antagonist. The enemy. Oh yes, the future of the Underland was about to become very exciting indeed.

Die the baby, die his heart

"It's called the prophecy of… of…" Sandwich huffed, feeling exhausted beyond the maximum point of exhaustion. Never had his dreams and visions realised themselves before him so intensely. he wiped the cold sweat off his brow and croaked out, "Bane. Prophecy of Bane. How long has it been since I've called you in?"

"Four hours, sire," the scribe replied stoically.

Spending four hours grovelling on the stone floor that passed so fast it felt like a quick trip to the red light district- absolutely astounding. He felt like he had drained himself of the current currency which governed his world.

Time.

He was running out of it. Every second he spent dreaming he inched that much closer to death.

Turn.

Sandwich spun and spun and spun again, to…

see the what, but not the when

What a nice, darkly cynical twist right at the very end. After the blood of humans and rats were spent… the futility of their quest would finally slam harshly into their faces. Which was just what Sandwich yearned for. For his prophecies to flip them back on their backs and show them that they were never really in control the whole time.

He was.

But enough with the blatant prophecies. Sandwich was literally sick and literally tired of crafting them. "I've got a number of nursery rhymes to introduce to the young ones," he informed his scribe, slurring away like a drunkard, which wasn't too far from the truth. He was honestly drunk with his own visions.

Then he rattled off, "

Dancing in the firelight,

See the queen who conquers night.

Gold flows from her, hot and bright

Father, mother, sister, brother,

Off they go

I do not know

If we will see another

Catch the nibblers in a trap.

Watch the nibblers spin and snap.

Quiet while they take a nap.

Father, mother, sister, brother,

Off they go

I do not know

If we will see another

Now the guests are at our door

Greet them as we have before.

Some will slice and some will pour.

Father, mother, sister, brother,

Off they go

I do not know

If we will see another"

Sandwich almost burst into peals of laughter as he observed the horrified expression on the face of the scribe. He was clearly an intellectual one and could see right through the innocent, flowery exterior of the rhymes, and into the innately dark nature it possessed. It was the snake concealed by the colour of the flower, slinking slowly through, waiting to unleash its venomous fangs and tear apart the lives of everyone forever.

Sandwich could see everything- the deaths, the pyramid, the despair… and it was about to kickstart the war designed to end all wars. Or rather, the war which would open up a new era.

"Why do you look so disturbed, boy?" Sandwich asked with ironic curiosity.

The scribe's pale face turned even paler as he stammered, "Sire… sire… I uh… I uh… feel that… I apologise for… for… my indiscretion. I will… um… I promise I… will not look so nervous in the future."

As the scribe stuttered away, Sandwich's own breathing became shallower and shallower, as the world around him slowed down to the pace of his fading heartbeat. He was running out of time…

TIME IS RUNNING OUT

RUNNING OUT

RUNNING OUT

He still had one last gift for the Warrior, as his breathing became more ragged…

TO THE WARRIOR GIVE MY BLADE

BY HIS HAND YOUR FATE IS MADE

BUT DO NOT FORGET THE TICKING

He could hear the ticking- the countdown to his impending sleep. The eternal sleep which would bury him in a legacy forged through death and betrayal. And a reputation as the most despised and feared entity throughout the Underland.

WHEN THE WARRIOR HAS BEEN KILLED

The hero they deserved and needed was to be killed.

WHEN THE WARRIOR HAS BEEN KILLED

He was to be the penultimate sacrifice in a war of sacrifices- the last was the love of his life. Sandwich could already feel the inner torment as the rock was sealed in place.

WHEN THE WARRIOR HAS BEEN KILLED

Of course he wouldn't be killed so literally- Sandwich wasn't even done with him yet. Sandwich hadn't completed the affliction the Warrior was to endure. Sure, he would embed the pain deep in the Warrior's heart with his words, but that was not the last thing to do on his bucket list. He was going to destroy the Warrior once and for all with the final prophecy.

"Call this one the Prophecy of Ragers," he told the scribe.

The voices began to intensify faintly as he felt the blood in his body slog through his veins. He didn't have long left to live.

"If you are not trying to hold on to time, you are not so afraid of losing it."

"If I don't go with Boots, I'm not going at all."

"... many creatures would prefer not to fight. But if your first instinct is to reach for your sword, you will never discover that."

"I was going to say that life is short. There are only a few good things in it, really. Don't pretend that one isn't happening."

"Don't go, Ares, okay? Don't."

"Where we differ is that I believe that fate ironically gives us a choice. A choice of whether to believe that we are consigned to a designated fate, or a choice to change our destinies. We aren't being forced to become slaves of fate."

Sandwich was wheezing weakly now. Not… long left. He had seen past the prophecy of Time- the Gunner, the civil war, the bloodbath… but he was far too weak to craft anything more. He was vaguely aware that he had begun to babble gibberish that rhymed, but he was far too tired to care. He had given up on caring for far too long.

He could see the return of the foxes. The bloody bastards he had tricked were finally returning with a vengeance and a ruthless cunning plan to eradicate Regalia. For a second, he thought he felt a tinge of guilt for incurring the wrath of the foxes and causing the future of Regalia to be in jeopardy.

But who honestly gave a shit? He'd be dead by then and he frankly couldn't be bothered whether he was the cause of Regalia's fall or not.

Most of his prophecies after the one about the Prophecy of Time would be rendered useless anyway.

The scarred rat trotted into the room and took in the surroundings with a sharp inhalation. Then, in a voice devoid of any emotion, he asked the guards, "Is Nerissa still asleep?"

"Yes, Lord Ripred," the guards replied in unison, in a voice equally indifferent.

"Destroy the room. Burn all the inscriptions and throw the manuscripts away. Sandwich should no longer be in control of our fate. We've suffered under it for far too long," the scarred rat said with uncharacteristic grimness, "Do not speak of this task to anyone."

"And what if they ask what happened, Lord Ripred?" one guard asked.

"Tell them that an accidental fire destroyed the room," the scarred rat replied, "Regalians are fatalistic. They will not question what happened here."

Sandwich managed a brief smile. The rat was everything that he had hoped for. Ruthless, intelligent and complicated. He would make up one of the four catalysts at the very end.

Oh yes, Sandwich had seen the only possible outcome of this one. Four ragers. The scarred rat and the exhausted Warrior squaring off against the diabolical fox and the misguided Overlander. The battle of the century. The fall of ragers. This was the final battle for each and every one of them. Sandwich could not see any future behind that showdown. And that could only mean one thing.

The Warrior's time was finally up.

It had taken a very, very long time, but the Warrior was finally even with Sandwich. Finally even.

Sandwich had finally run his course. He had lived through the lives of so many individuals in a single lifetime. He had seen four hundred years of Regalia and the Underland. He had finally encountered his antagonist(or was Sandwich the antagonist? He wasn't sure). He had put his mind through the most intense torture.

With his dying breath, he cursed the room and the city he was in. He didn't do it because he hated the city, he did it because… it was just fun.

Fun.

He would exist through all those who were cursed to share in his suffering. He would live through the centuries as the God of the Underland, as their Creator and Saviour. Who cared whether he was blaspheming or not, he was already damned to hell anyway. But there it was- he was officially God.

As his eyes began to close, he thought he heard a voice in the distance saying, "This is the death I've been waiting for."

He recognised that voice.

It was the Warrior.

So even the Warrior shared the same sentiment as him in death. Both enemies had finally agreed on something and had something in common- they had been waiting for death for far too long. In death, they were united.

And it was hilarious.

So Sandwich laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

Hope you enjoyed this opening chapter to my story! I know it could get a bit confusing at times, but I made it deliberately so just so that you could see how insane Sandwich was.

I predict that this is a pretty busy time for everybody, and to be completely honest, I'm pretty busy myself. I think at best i can update my story with a chapter a week, but I'm not entirely certain. Regardless, I hope you all can somehow weasel out the time to drop a quick review. I've been planning this for quite some time and I hope you all are looking forward to this.

Question: What was your original perception of Sandwich before reading his chapter and what is your perception of Sandwich now?

Fly you high!