by silentcrown

"One for the slum
Two for the crown
Three for the rags
Four for the gown
Five for the rebel
Six for the king
Seven for the war
In which the dead sing..."

Revolution marched its way to the palace.

It was as if a wave of carmine and obsidian had burst through the city's streets, hollering, howling, brandishing weaponry of every known kind. Hundreds of crimson-hooded rebels shadowed their leader, who bore an onyx mask over his features. Some whispered that he bore a mask over his soul.

As soldiers scattered, the revolution stormed past the palace gates. It was a torrent — one of gritted teeth, clenching fists, glimmering blades, and sparking firearms. It did not pause until it stood before the king, who fell to his knees and trembled with fear. He blubbered, he wept, and he cursed the rebels 'til he could speak no more. He would have been a pitiful sight to the empire. The revolution's leader knelt beside the king, unwavering, and tore the mask off his own features.

As the king's life ebbed to nothing, all in the palace saw the face of a dead man. For it was death himself who'd come to bring ruination to the crown.

The notion of Grimdark Fantasy shows that humanity is flawed. It allows us to imagine a world which didn't end well, where the light of a better tomorrow has been dimmed by bloodshed, misery, and despair.

It would be wise not to read grimdark tales to young children.

Let us erase the shine off of every knight, strip the maidens of their purity. There will be no high kings and heroes, no destined saviors, and no wise sorcerers to guide their way. Ash has buried the happily ever afters, war has torn apart children's innocence and joy, and the empire — one which used to glimmer with sunlight — glimmers now only with blood.

Instead of black and white, the pages you read have been stained red and grey, for grimdark has crawled from the shadows.

Now, how could one possibly wish for such novels to exist? Are they not wary, disgusted, afraid of them?

In truth, these tales have been around since at least William Shakespeare. Although the term "grimdark" is recent, the writing style is nothing new, merely renamed by history. One of the earliest examples is Norse mythology. And the writings of people such as Robert E. Howard, James A. Moore, Mark Lawrence, and George R. R. Martin all range from the past to the present of grimdark fiction as well.

We do not often recognize the true subgenre for a simple reason — we feel the need to make characters likeable. We make them appear noble, give them a sympathetic cause, prove that they are the victims and that they can be forgiven. Because of this, many novels do end up with heroes, but that is a subgenre for another day.

You see, most tales speak of good versus evil. The heroic protagonists may experience darkness, yet the world is better after they've made their sacrifices, after they've fought their battles and defeated all that is grim. They might waltz one night with evil. But they will soon slay it, and bring about a peaceful future to their world.

Yet grimdark fantasy worlds, and the characters within them, may meet unfortunate ends. Those who do get through will not be unscathed, or unscarred. They will most certainly not be genuine heroes. They will often be the characters who held the bloodied blades, who lost their moral code, and who were forced to sacrifice their humanity in favor of survival.

Those who sacrifice the most will remain alive. Or not.

Now, why do I write grimdark fantasy? I'm not sure. It can force us all to ask the complex questions we avoid — not only about ourselves, but about the society and universe we live in. Unfortunately, humanity has always had a darker side. And grimdark fantasy makes us pause, because there are times when the unsettling things we see in it are reflected in our own world. After all, stories help us make sense of reality. Grimdark stories help us understand, and explore, the painful truths within it. They show us that there is no such thing as pure good or pure evil, that humans aren't simple, that life can be upsetting and perplexing and flawed.

And, though I know I haven't supported this much with everything above — grimdark shows us that, even in the worst kind of existence, there may still be a shred left of hope.

Example of Grimdark Fantasy on Wattpad:
Revium by silentcrown

Synopsis:

There are no such things as heroes.

There are no such things as saviors.

But there are such things as criminals, and the monstrous ones belong somewhere worse than hell.

Within a broken empire, gears whisper secrets as magic tears through bone and soul. An empire in which rulers reside behind their walls, dance in gold and dress in silver, turning their eyes from the bloodshed of war.

The prison is their creation, and they call it the Revium, a home for the most awful criminals and the shrieking insane. It slaughters the innocent. And it holds no mercy for the blamed.

It survives to control their shattered world, born from the ridiculous wishes of locking away all they might fear. The Revium is made to fulfill their hopes, to submit to the crown, to obey its every command.

And yet the prison is no longer kind.

Excerpt:

Salvation would rise from the end.

Shadows flicked along the walls, first waltzing, then writhing. Perhaps their misery had caught up to them, or perhaps they'd merely grown exhausted of dance. They became feverish once the woman's steps began to resonate, for they knew she'd come to see the prison. And the prison would ruin them with its glow.

Her gown was ebony that night.

Children shuffled behind her, their ivory knuckled fingers clutching at her skirts. Their eyes held no feeling, and their limbs moved stiff, as if they were puppets — as if the woman tugged on their strings.

The prison knew when they neared. It thrummed with every turn of metal, shuddered with every scrape of gears, pulsing with a heartbeat of life foregone. The children did not fear it, for it had once been their home. The woman simply let her lips curl upward, stretched her fingertips to the prison's edge, and waited.

The prison's radiance flared.

It sent the shadows recoiling, and they vanished in their corners, hissing and baring their fangs. It was quite clear their threats would do nothing against the prison. But to pretend they were superior gave them a sense of protection, and it would've hardly been fair to take that away. Just as the shadows did, the rats ran too, claws skittering on metal. They were far more afraid.

The prison began to distort, its metal melting from obsidian to aureate, as its shape stretched itself toward the woman. She was still — almost a statue — her figure poised at the prison's bourn. She made no move of fear when its metallic tendrils wrapped around her hand, slithering over her skin and encasing it in gold. Within moments, she had become part of the prison, a gilded body awaiting the same thing it always did.

The prison's wisps of aureate wove around the children, whirling between their forms and leaving the faintest memories in their minds. Without warning, they froze. Then crept back into the prison as the woman left it, a silent bundle in her arms.

A child.

It did not awaken as the woman knelt, settling upon the floor and allowing the others to gather around her. Her gaze went to them, emerald eyes gleaming, as a gentle hum rose in the air.

And the children began to sing.

"Sleep where children roam,
In prisons not of stone,
In this war of old,
Your sanity will fold."

Once their voices had faded, the woman brushed a finger along the child's cheek, a smile twisting her features.

"I do worry for this world. People have grown weak, and that is what will end them. They fight wars over ridiculous things. They betray for money, for love, for what they think is power."

She let out a sigh, watching the child, as if expecting an answer.

"They will never know power. But you are my creation, just as you are the prison's creation, and you were meant to ascend. So if you fail us when the time comes, child..."

The woman pressed a kiss to the child's forehead.

"It will be my command that keeps you in the prison's hell."

Inspirations:

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Music

https://youtu.be/eWqw5iOh7Es