Brundhild, you drag your weary, battered body up against the crumbling tower’s stony walls. Your heavy breathing becomes muted by the tumultuous pounding of thunders and whirlwinds beating against the heights of King Gunther’s castle. The rupturing storm shakes the ground beneath the castle’s steeple in wanton tremors, forcing you to crawl along the steps like skittish vermin. With each flash of lightning, you shriek in terror and tumble down the flights of stairs.
You pant and writhe on the cold, lonely steps with moans of agony escaping your queenly lips. You cry in desperation to the gods beyond. Pagan or Christian, you heed to worry. You weep for the world in what’s to come, but even greater for what is never meant to be; you weep for your youth in bygone joyous days, and you weep for the scathing treachery of your love’s betrayal.
With each greater fall, you harden your heart and take another step. Slowly climbing the spiraling cases, you steel your resolve.
When you reach the belfry, you peer through the window and survey the dormant world beyond. Where are you, Katharina? You gaze past the horizon and see nought but primordial darkness where even the stars and moon are overthrown by the shadows of night. Are these the formless waters that slept before the first spoken word? A primordial void where even the inclination of distinguishing between light and darkness is but a sibylline notion? As your mind begins to stray, a rush of lightning strikes against the lighthouse and throws you onto the floor. In a final fit of hateful wrath, you pick yourself up and start to sing:
After Siegfried’s passing, || the winsome queen will mourn.
Against Ute’s sons, a || greater conflict is born
In solemn matrimony, || she’ll take Etzel’s hand,
And plot the deaths of noble || men and widow fair Rhineland.
Spitfires and thunderbolts will || fly across the sky;
Panthers will sweep nations, || leaving thousands to die;
Bombs will fall, causing || treasures forever lost;
And empires will burn like our || pyre’s fiery holocaust!