Chapter 11: Dark tower [Part 2]

Chapter 11 – The Tower's Prisoners

How does one reach the "top" of a tower that spirals endlessly, beyond the grasp of logic and the limitations of infinity?

Does reaching such a point mean transcending reason itself? Would a being with dominion over all existence need to move upward to claim its peak—or would it, by its very nature, already exist at the summit? Would it be rising, or would it merely remain still, and in doing so, ascend beyond the comprehension of those bound by movement?

The Dark Tower is an enigma, a prison without walls, a paradox without resolution. It does not merely house the lost—it erases the concept of arrival.

There is an old story, whispered across ages, of two royal brothers who found themselves ensnared in its unending ascent.

Two princes, identical in blood yet divided in fate.

One held a rose, the other a sword.

One was adorned in the regalia of sovereignty, the other in the attire of a warrior.

Their names were Tom Taylor V and Tom Herble VII, sons of a hidden dynasty, unseen by the public save for the rarest of occasions. They were not meant to rule, nor were they meant to die in the light of history. Instead, their legacy dissolved into myth, swallowed by the Tower.

Their exile was ordained by Great Alex Hall, the fourth heir to the throne—though history would remember him as a schemer rather than a ruler. His accusations against Tom Taylor V were many, ranging from theft to murder, from indecency to treason. Each trial was met with the same verdict—innocent—yet the charges continued. The courts of Ondon whispered of jealousy, of a throne hanging precariously between hands that could seize it and hands that could only hold a blade.

Then came the invitation—July 23rd, 1423. A royal ball, a grand affair.

They arrived by carriage, led to an unfamiliar place, surrounded by fields of roses that bled into the horizon.

The roses were not merely decorations.

They walked through them, past them, into the Dark Tower—and in that moment, their names were forgotten by history.

The entrance led them into a vast, spiraling chasm of endless stairs, stretching in both directions. Upwards. Downwards. Neither leading anywhere, neither leading nowhere.

Tom Herble, ever the skeptic, took the largest rock he could lift and cast it into the void.

They listened. They waited.

The stone did not land.

It did not echo.

It did not return.

That was the last piece of definite truth recorded in their story.

The rest has been consumed by time.

Some say their uncle trapped them there, casting them into a place where inheritance and law no longer mattered. Some say they were murdered, their bodies left to rot in the darkness. Others claim they were erased, reduced to nothing more than a whisper woven into the Tower's endless walls.

Yet I do not believe this story ended with death.

I do not believe it ended at all.

The Dark Tower is not a place of decay.

It is a place of eternity.

No hunger. No fatigue. No escape. For in the dark tower, there is no "coming" or "leaving", no contrast or sameness, no giving or taking. A single stair holding infinite hierarchy of infinite dimensions and infinite hierarchies within them, each stair being above and transcendent over the concept of stairs and dimensionality.

Each stair having all fundamental and philosophical concepts, all lesser and higher fundamental concepts, all theoretical and practical concepts. All philosophical mathematically concepts. Each stair being above containing duality amd transduality.

The twins are still there. Somewhere in the spiral. Somewhere in the steps.

And so, when I achieve immortality, I will seek them.

For time does not conquer the Dark Tower.

It lives within it.