Memoirs From Mordhaus

by Volitan

Summary:

The end is the beginning of the memoirs from Mordhaus.

A folio of works that catalogue the general insanity of Dethklok with very little rhyme, reason or continuity.

Chapter 1: Prologue: The End

Notes:

I am an amateur author of false name,
I borrow worlds of another’s fame.
I stake no claim on recognised locations,
Neither do I own canon situations.
I merely come here to spend a while,
Reading other’s work; writing my own style.
I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.
I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.
I do not mean to step on legal toes,
I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.
So please, do come in, relax, unwind.
I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Memoirs from Mordhaus, Prologue: The End

 

The chapel of rest was silent as the closest mourners said their last farewell before the lid of the coffin was forever closed.

The tiny elderly woman appeared asleep, her eyes closed amid the happy wrinkles; waist-length white hair pulled into two neat plaits on either side of her head, little silver cogs graced the hair ties at their terminus, and a platinum clockwork crown that previously ticked like a watch was still and silent.

"Oh, I came across this yesterday." Whispered the woman's son, placing a hardback book in the little space at her feet that contained a few other personal items.

The funeral director quietly asked permission before picking up the book, inspecting the cover and then the fly-leaf.

"Being the only Death Care establishment in Mordland, you could say that we've seen a few things over the years - and my Granny, who set this place up had so many stories... But that's a first edition of 'Memoirs of Mordhaus', signed by all of Dethklok, personal messages scribbled in the margins. That's number thirteen of the exactly-one-hundred first editions printed. Number thirteen has never found its way to an auction or a display at a gallery or museum. It was thought it was a myth!"

"Not a myth, you're holding it" the son said, gently running his finger tips over his mother's arthritic knuckles where they were clasped over her stomach.

"You know, The Memoirs are a collection of stories from the band, there's no rhyme and reason to the flow - just stories randomly put together in one folio..." the funeral director gently placed the book back into the coffin, "Are you sure she would want it cremating with her body, sir? It must be worth..."

"The worth is that she's laughing her arse off in heaven right now." Chipped in a man from the corner of the room with a grin, loosening his dog collar from around his throat.

"Oh, I didn't see you come in, Reverend." said the death care worker.

"You know, she'd genuinely be in histerics knowing that the collectors won't get #13." the priest clarified with a grin; the other mourners broke into fits of giggles.

"We still have editions 1-through-8 in the bank vault." said the most senior of three woman, her previously black hair streaked liberally with grey.

"Oh, are you collectors?" Asked the funeral director.

"Something like that." They chorussed simultaneously, laughing once more.

"Come on, let's say goodnight and leave her to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day." the lady's son said, leaning down to whisper in another language and kiss her forehead.