long live the king
by Morgan Shaffer
long live the king
Dedication I wish to thank Mrs. Hand for her awesomeness and for being the best creative writing teacher. I’d also like to thank myself because this took forever to write, and I managed to finish it. Yay me!
0. the outsider The darkness is prevailing. It engulfs the room, leaving the seven inhabitants isolated from each other, even though they sit only meters apart. They are silent, not daring to be the first one to the break the peace, no one wishing to be the bearer of bad news. Every last one of them is aware of the situation at hand, but they are hesitant, reluctant, to bring it up. Simultaneously, they all ponder proposing to just ignore the issue, to look away and pretend that there is nothing wrong, that their slice of peace is perfection it should be, but doing so would endanger everything they have fought for, everything they have killed for. Finally, after what seems like eternal silence, a match is struck and a candle is lit. The tiny flame frightens away the dark with its gentle light, brightening the room enough that the figure sitting in front of it can be seen. The person sits proudly, her long, ebony hair tumbling down her back in loose curls. She wears a plain black mask that covers her face from chin to forehead, and only her beady black eyes show. She glances at the blobs of dark matter where the other six occupants sit, and then down at the matches in her hands. She sets them onto the table and pushes them into the center. One by one, the others reach out, their arms and hands coming into the light to take a single match for themselves. They strike the match and light the candle in front of them. Once all seven candles are lit and each member can be seen, the first clears her throat. “I call this meeting of the Council to begin. We all know what we are here for, so let’s just get this over with.” Her voice is hard and cold. “The new moon will return in a few days,” she states, and the other members look up as if they weren’t already aware of this. Above them, a
glass ceiling reveals nothing but darkness. It is a cloudy night tonight, and the stars and sliver of moon are hidden. The woman pauses for a second, and then continues once their attention is back on her. “It would be best if we choose the next King tonight. I have already –” “What’s the point?” A calm voice cuts her off. Six heads immediately swivel towards the speaker. He is young and small; his traditional black robes engulf him because they are too large. A red bird’s head mask hides half of his face, its scarlet plumage sticking up into the air. The top half of a beak covers his nose and ends in a sharp, curled point. His eyes, grey, and mouth are visible. He is the only member with a colored mask, and he wears it proudly. He carries on without hesitation, “I mean, the last few ceremonies haven’t exactly gone as planned. The people are becoming restless. Maybe it would be best to just skip the next couple of months until things cool down.” The others shift in their seats and glance among themselves, contemplating his words. The ceremony has been skipped before, but usually there was a good reason for doing so, such as a storm or sickness sweeping through the nation. “There is little justification to do so,” one of the others pipes up. It is another woman who sits to the left of the first. She has on a loose cat mask that is tilted slightly. “People being ‘restless’ is not a reasonable excuse to postpone one of our nation’s great traditions.” “’Just skip?’” The first speaker seethes, ignoring the other’s words and settling her glare into the youth across from her. She hunches over like a predator about to strike, her eyes becoming slits. Her target stares back with a smirk plastered on his face. “You seem to have forgotten your place, High Priest. Your duty is with the gods, not with peasants. Their wants have
nothing to do with you. By bringing them up just proves that you are too young to hold such a high position,” she chastises, her voice filled with venom. The youth loses the smirk and he sinks in his seat, his eyes turn towards the table in embarrassment. The woman focuses her attention back to the other members, wiping the memory of the frivolous proposal from her mind. No one dares to speak up against her. They are well aware of the fight she had put up when it was announced that the child in the bird mask was to become one of their members. He was too young to be a part of oligarchy that ruled over their beautiful nation, but supposedly the gods had chosen him, and none of them wished to argue with higher beings. “It would be best if we choose the next King tonight,” The first repeats as if nothing has happened. “I have already compiled a list of worthy candidates for the throne. We shall take a vote on who shall be our new King.” She pulls a sheet of paper from her robes and places it on the table. “Our options are as follows: Nathanial Brodrik, twenty-two, no dependents, blacksmith. Samantha Anchridge, thirty-eight, takes care of a younger sibling, seamstress. Jack Faivery, thirteen, no dependents, apprentice stable boy. Alexander Gophin, twenty-three, married with one child due in eight and a half months, farmer. Nathanial Smith, fifty-four, five children and eight grandchildren that have moved on, unemployed. Sally Newteen, sixteen, no dependents, lives on parent’s wealth.” The woman lists, then scans the paper again, double checking that she has named them all. There are six in total, three more than usual. How peculiar. “Proposal to take off Jack Fairvery and Sally Newteen’s names off of the list,” A member in a dog mask says quickly.
“Second,” another echoes. Two others nod their heads in agreement. The first speaker frowns and sees that the youth is smirking again. She can’t help but think that those who are against having children in the running are showing weakness. It is not common to have someone younger than twenty to be put on the list, and they are almost never named King, but there was little reason to just ignore them. The people on the list were chosen by the gods to become King, whether they are adults or children. To take off a name was to ignore the gods’ choices. Regardless of that, majority ruled. “All in favor of Jack Fairvery and Sally Newteen being taken off of the list say ‘I.’” She states neutrally. Four voices follow. “All in opposition say ‘I.’” This time, no one speaks. “Jack Fairvery and Sally Newteen shall be taken off of the list. That leaves Nathanial Brodrik, Samantha Anchridge, Alexander Gophin, and Nathanial Smith.” “Proposal to elect Alexander Gophin,” the youth announces. A few mumble their approval, and even the first woman nods her head in agreement. He would be a good choice. “Are there any other proposals?” She asks after a second. No one responds. “All in favor of Alexander Gophin to become the next King say ‘I.’” Five voices ring out. “All in opposition say ‘I.’” A man chooses to raise his voice. The only one who doesn’t vote is the first woman herself. As their self-appointed leader, it was best for her not to give her opinion unless it came down to a tie. “Then it is decided,” she states. “Alexander Gophin shall become our new King. I will begin preparations to inform him in the morning. Everyone else should start on their own plans if they have not already done so. This meeting is adjourned.” Five members lean forward and blow out their candles. They are wisked away, sent back to their homes. The youth remains, grinning again at the table. She waits for him to leave, but he
seems to be deep in his own world. “High Priest. It is time to go, the meeting is over.” Her voice is neutral, indifferent. The youth glances up, his grin dropping. “Oh. I wanted to apologize for speaking against you. It was forgetful of me. I shouldn’t have reminded the Council that there are people whose lives we destroy every time we meet. It is best to leave the others to drown in their ignorance instead of pointing out the plight of our people.” His voice is monotone, but his eyes crinkle in delight. He is mocking her and she knows it, but she refuses to react to him. “If that is all you have to say, then you should go.” “That’s not it.” He sobers and, reaching up, takes off his mask. The woman stiffens. It is against protocol to reveal one’s face to another member of the Council for safety reasons. She has seen the youth before, outside of the Council, but that didn’t make it alright for him to just show his face so recklessly. “There are a few… strange rumors floating around the capital. The gods haven’t spoken to any of my priests for a while now, and the people seem to have gotten word of this. I wasn’t joking when I said they were growing restless. Every day, more and more people line the streets and proclaim that the gods have turn their backs to us and that our leaders are the cause of our misfortune.” The youth pauses, letting his words sink in. He rests his elbows on the table, and he holds his mask out in front of him, admiring the detail. “There are whispers of rebellion,” he murmurs, “some seem to believe that our great ceremony is nothing but an elaborate hoax.” He drops his voice even lower, flicking his eyes up to meet the woman’s. “There is a plan to interrupt the proceedings in a few days.”
The woman stays quiet, mulling over the information. She wonders if this is all a lie. This wouldn’t be the first time the High Priest has made something up to mess with her. …But no, this time was different. Even she had heard the rumors, so she knew that he is at least partly telling the truth. “Do you believe they will act this time?” She asks, just as low. The youth shrugs and leans back, his lopsided grin returning. “I don’t know. Possibly. There have been many plans like these recently, but someone always chickens out before anything really happens. It is completely possible that someone will finally snap and follow through. Maybe we’ll catch ‘em, maybe we’ll be too late. Only the gods know, and, well, they haven’t exactly been too keen on telling us what’s up.” “It might just be best to wait and see what happens. Since this will be their first actual try, I doubt it’ll work out. If anything big happens, like a riot, then you could always call a meeting afterwards and we can officially discuss what to do,” he adds. The woman nods. “That might be for the best. I will consider it. You may go now. You have much to prepare for.” The youth waves goodbye and then snuffs out his candle. She is now alone. A single candle flickers, its light the only thing holding back the shadows. She sighs and looks up. Without the light of the other candles, it is impossible to make out the ceiling, but she knows it is there, somewhere up above. After a second, the woman chuckles. It would be pointless to take heed of the youth’s warning. Regardless of what happens, nothing will change. Things will continue on as they
always have, and the Council will keep ruling over the people. The ceremony will commence, and Kings will be chosen. Nothing will change. “Long live the King.� The woman reaches out and kills the light. Immediately, the shadows take over.
1. the wife The life of a farmer’s wife is certainly not a life of privilege, but Sarah Golphin finds it acceptable in nearly every aspect. Sure, she could have married a rich land owner and had never needed to lift a finger, but she enjoys farm work, and she loves her husband. He is the love of her life, and she wouldn’t trade him for the world. Sarah is currently lying in her cold bed, her husband having left it hours ago to begin the farm chores. She lies on her back, staring up at the beige ceiling, thinking about whatever crosses her mind. She should have gotten up ten minutes ago to start making breakfast, but today she feels like relaxing for once. The Great Naming will take place later that night in the capital. The city was two and a half hours away, but she, as well as the rest of the village, plans to stay up until the royal messengers come and deliver news of the new King. After that, a wonderful nation-wide festival will begin, and everyone will spend the night partying until dawn. She closes her eyes and smiles. She can’t wait for everything to start, but she still has to complete her wifely duties before the day is up, so she had better hurry and get up. With a yawn, Sarah stretches out and forces herself to get out of bed. She stumbles to her wardrobe and throws on adequate clothing that isn’t too fancy. She’ll change into one of her festival gowns later that night; if she puts it on now, it’ll just get dirty.
The farmer’s wife skips out of the room and into the kitchen where she quickly starts the fire. She then heads outside to collect the eggs from the chicken coop and feed the animals. The chickens have laid six eggs, and she scoops them up and places them into a basket that she carries back to the kitchen. She goes back out and scatters feed onto the ground for the chickens. She walks inside again and starts on breakfast. She cracks four of the eggs into a pan. As they begin to fry, she places a loaf of bread near the fire to warm up. She flips the eggs, and they are soon cooked to perfection. Transferring them to two plates, she sets the eggs onto the table and places the now-warmed bread beside it. A jar of grape jam is pulled out of a cabinet and is also set onto the table. Sarah, humming a silly little tune, dances outside. “Honey! Breakfast!” She screeches towards the farm. Her husband, a hunched-over scarecrow in the distance, straightens up and waves his arms in the air, signaling that he has heard. She watches as he makes his way to the house. He moves slowly, calmly, yet there is a spring to his step. Sarah grins to herself, suddenly giddy with unexplainable joy. Once he nears, she stands on her tippy-toes and pecks his cheek. “Mornin’ Alex,” she breathes. “Mornin’ Sarah,” he replies and wraps his arms around her to give her a hug. “I missed you.” Sarah pulls away and playfully swats at him. “How could that be, it’s only been a few hours since I last saw you.”
Alex shuffles his feet and looks down. “Still missed you,” he says as if it was something to be ashamed about. She giggles and takes his hand in hers. As she leads him inside to the kitchen, she says, “Well, you can’t miss me anymore because you’re talkin’ to me now. Now start on your breakfast so you can go back out to the field. The sooner you finish diggin’, the sooner we can go into town.” He grins at that and obediently sits down to eat. Sarah slices up a few pieces of bread and steals one of his eggs for herself. Within a few minutes, most of the food disappears, leaving only the jar of jam and half a loaf of bread. “Back to work,” Alex sighs. He stands and walks over to where his wife is sitting and kisses her forehead. “I miss you already.” Ruffling her hair, they share a sad smile, and then he leaves. When he is gone, Sarah fixes her hair and gets up. She brushes a few crumbs off of her dress, collects the dishes, and takes them over to the wash bucket. She scrubs the plates with a hard chunk of soap, rinses them off, and then sets them out to dry. Hopefully they can be used for the next meal. Alex comes back around six at night, covered in dirt but grinning all the same. Sarah sits at the kitchen table, watching meat sizzle over the fire and rhymatically knitting baby clothes. Her husband’s smile falters for a millisecond, but then is quick to return. “You really want a baby, don’t you,” he laughs at Sarah’s upturned nose.
“’Course I do. I want to have one within two years, so I gotta prepare for once I do have one.” Sarah explains, but then snorts when Alex laughs. “A baby will come when it’s time for it to come. It took my mom five years to have me, you know. It could take you even longer.” Sarah sets her knitting needles down carefully. She gets up and checks on the meat. “Do not doubt me, Alexander Golphin. I will have your baby in two years,” she proclaims. Seeing that the meat is cooked enough, she takes it and sets it on a plate. The potatoes are also ready, and all of the food is moved to the table. Sarah pulls out two knives and forks and another plate for herself. As they eat, they continue to banter back and forth about babies until the conversation moves onto the festival. “I can’t wait for it,” Sarah giggles, cutting into her slab of meat. “I don’t get why you get so happy about it; it happens every month.” “I can’t help it, I just love it so much!” “Well, just a few more hours until it starts. We can leave early if you want. I’m all done with farm work, so it would be no big deal if we head out soon.” Sarah looks up from her food, smiling brightly. “Really Alex? That’d be great!” They finish their dinner in record time, Sarah because she wants to leave, Alex because he wishes to please his wife. Sarah collects the plates and scrubs them clean as her husband washes off most of the dirt covering him. They both change into their festival clothes.
The sun is low on the horizon when they set out, the sky a brilliant orange. They walk on foot, even though the nearest town is an hour away, because they cannot afford to buy a horse. Sarah finds herself not minding, though. She is alone with her husband in a peaceful area, her belly is filled with good food, and she is headed to the festival. To her, this is bliss. There is nothing in the world that is better than this moment. Sarah hooks her arm in Alex’s and laughs, because why the heck not? “I love you!” She sings, “I love us!” Alex laughs and sings along, repeating the two phrases over and over and over again. They unlock arms and grip each other’s hand, swinging their arms back and forth. They laugh and sing and say whatever comes to their minds, drunk off of life. It takes longer than expected to reach town, partly because they are too busy goofing off to care about walking quickly. At first, they don’t realize that the other people are standing in clusters and whispering to each other or that armored horsemen are positioned at the entrances of the town, watching. They walk their own marry way, still giggling and murmuring sweet promises to one another. “Alexander and Sarah Golphin, I presume?” A loud, stern voice calls out to them. Immediately, the two stop walking and notice their surroundings. The townsfolk wear black and dark grey. None of the traditional festival decorations are up, leaving the brick buildings bare and naked. The horsemen stare them down, preparing to chase them down if they try to flee. “That is us,” Alex replies. The owner of the voice steps forward. It is a woman in full armor without a helmet. Her long light brown hair cascades down to her waist. She hasn’t bothered to put it up, which is unusual. She shifts her footing and twirls a strand of hair with her index finger.
“Alexander Golphin is needed at the capital. We have come to escort him,” she states, her voice deprived of any emotion. Sarah takes a sharp breath in. “What for?” Alex asks. His form is ridged now, his hands clenched into fists. “He has been chosen as the next King.” At this, Sarah takes a step back. How could this be? It isn’t possible! People are chosen to be King because they are special! That’s not to say that Alex isn’t special, but he isn’t exactly leader material. “That can’t be!” Sarah nearly shouts at the woman. “The gods have no reason to want Alex!” It is true. He is just a simple farmer. The gods have always craved the rich and powerful, not peasants. The knight’s gaze is frigid. “That hardly matters. He has been chosen, so he must partake in the ceremony. That is the way things are. If anyone dares to defy us or fight the system, punishment will be dealt.” Her eyes flick over towards the townsfolk observing the spectacle as if they might suddenly decide to protest. None of them do, and she returns her attention to the couple. Sarah clings onto Alex’s arm and looks up at him. He won’t let this happen, right? He isn’t going to give himself up and let them take him away, right? Right? “You don’t have to do this, we can just leave now; they won’t be able to catch us!” Sarah breathes.
But Alex’s jaw is set, and he suddenly relaxes. He glances down and meets her eyes. “That’s not true and you know it. They have horses. Even if we manage to escape, they will hunt us.” He pauses to reach out and wipe a tear that was rolling down Sarah’s cheek. “I have to go with them; I’ve heard the stories of what happens when the person they’ve named King tries to run. I have to go with them.” His voice is equally low as hers. The knight shift her footing again but they ignore the sound. “I love you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. I gotta go.” He whispers and leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I love you,” he repeats. And then he pulls himself away from her and walks forward. Without him, Sarah collapses to the ground, falling onto her knees and curling onto herself. She reaches out towards his figure, unable to see him through the tears that stream from her eyes. “No,” she sobs, “please don’t do this!” She chokes, her body shaking. “Please don’t leave, I love you!” Alex shows no sign of hearing her. Sarah’s outstretched arm drops and she curls her fingers into the dirt. She weeps, whispering “I love you” over and over again. Her husband is gone, and the townsfolk head back home, the thought of celebrating leaving them feeling sickened. She is silent now. Her eyes burn, but she has no more tears left to shed. Sarah is alone, more alone than she has ever been in her entire life, even though she sits in the middle of town. She feels nothing but a pulsing emptiness. There is nothing left inside her, no emotions, no desire. Everything suddenly seems meaningless. It is as if something has been ripped from her and she is now left with a part missing, a part she will never be able to fill.
Sarah stares at the rings on her left hand. They once meant the promise of a better life, but that dream has died. Maybe, just maybe, things will be different this time. Maybe he will come back to her. With a final breath, she murmurs to herself. “Long live the King.” Above her, billions of brilliant stars twinkle to the melody of the cosmos.
2. the knight The man complies; he tugs away from his broken wife and shuffles towards Cynthia. She is pleased with his actions; if he had tried to run, she would have had to bring him down. Her orders were to apprehend Alexander Gophin and take him straight to the city palace by any means necessary. This isn’t the first time she has been given a similar mission, and she has had to injure to-be Kings before because they insist on fleeing. Outsiders and family members have been hurt as well in their attempt to ‘save’ their loved one. Shaken, the man reaches her. His wife sobs incoherently, but she is ignored for the most part. There is nothing anyone can do to help the wife, and Cynthia must focus at the task at hand. She leads him over to an awaiting horse and helps him up onto it. As she does, she hears her fellow horsemen shift and prepare for a chase – the to-be Kings have a tendency to bolt as soon as they get on a horse – but the man sits contently and waits for the knight to get upon her own beast. She takes the other horse’s reins in her hand. With a soft tap of her heels, they begin to move.
In a matter of minutes, they are out of town. The other horsemen fall in around Cynthia and the man, creating a body barrier that blocks outsiders from entering while simultaneously preventing the King from escaping. They amble along a dirt path, keeping a slow but steady pace. The King isn’t expected for another three hours, so they have time to waste. If they stick on this path to the city and keep the same speed, they should make it in maybe two hours or so. The knight keeps her attention to the road in front of her, scanning the horizon for any signs of disturbances. She is placid, allowing the lull and rhythm of riding to make her calm. She feels at peace out here in the middle of nowhere, even if she is working. Around her, trees begin to sprout from the fertile ground and a forest engulfs them. The thick canopy above blocks out the miniscule light coming from the stars. The group pauses to start fire to the torches the horsemen have brought. Once lit, the knights surrounding Cynthia and the man hold up the torches. The light brightens the surrounding area, turning great onyx pillars into dull trees. Now that it is possible to see again, they continue moving, this time slightly quicker. The woods soon fall apart around them, and they are again in farm country with great fields of soil paralleling them on either side. The horsemen put out the torches. The starlight provides enough light to ride by. In the distance, a town sits in front of them, glowing from festival fires. “We go around,� Cynthia commanded lowly to the horsemen, and they shuffle in agreement. It would be best to avoid other people in case they decide to intervene. They speed up to a gentle trot and diverge from the path and into the fields. The dirt has yet to be sowed with
seeds, so the knight figures that it would be alright if they cut through it. Messing up a few mounds isn’t that big of a deal as long as no one notices them doing this. They find another path that goes in the direction they want, and they follow it. “What is your name,” the man asks an hour into their voyage. Cynthia is startled into looking at him; he has been silent this whole time, so why does he speak now? “That hardly matters,” she is swift to reply. “You’ll never see any of us again.” The man gives an easy shrug. “I still want to know. Once I become King, it’ll all be over anyway, so I want to…” He laughs, which surprises Cynthia even more. One in his position tends to be somber, not happy. His laugh is strained and forced, but it is a laugh nonetheless. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I have this urge to know.” That didn’t make any sense to her. He wanted to know what? She asks him this. “I don’t know, I just do,” is his answer. It confuses the knight even more. Maybe he is going crazy from the sudden stress, or maybe he is in denial or something. “It’s like, maybe everything will get better if I know, but at the same time, I know it won’t. He quiets, and the knight doesn’t make a move to keep the conversation going. She tells herself that it is pointless to talk to him. One of her horsemen, however, seems to have a different idea. “What’s it like to, you know be King?” The horseman is young, recklessly so, and this is his first mission with the knight. From what she has heard, this is also his first time escorting someone, so it’s no wonder why he breaks the unofficial rule to not converse with captives.
“It’s weird,” Alexander Golphin starts. “All throughout my life, I have always waited for the festival days and loved the celebrations. I knew what the purpose of the King was, and what happened to the person named King, but… I never really cared about that. It was a party to me, and for a while, it was the only time I could be with Sarah.” He looks up at the sky, unconsciously fiddling with his wedding bands. It doesn’t take a detective to conclude he is referring to his wife. “It feels like death, I suppose.” His voice is soft, but his words are acidic. Cynthia winces. “I know that I should be happy for this, that by being King, I am helping secure my nation’s well-being, and that it is my duty to do this, but… What if it is all for not?” “You mean the gods?” The young horseman boldly cuts in. The knight is just about to chastise him, but the man answers before she can. “Yes, I do. Ever since the old High Priest died and the new one was named, things have been different. It snows too hard, it won’t rain some months, and every other crop fails. I can’t help but feel as though the gods have turned against us.” “You’re not the only one who believes that. Do you think that the new High Priest is the cause of it?” The young horseman asks innocently. “I’ve heard he is young and inexperienced. Some of the older priests complain that he doesn’t know what he is doing, and that the gods refuse to speak with him.” “It’s completely possible…” Cynthia decides that she has had enough with the gossip. “Things have never been very good here,” she snaps. “And it has been nearly a decade since the gods have last spoken to any of
the High Priests. The only difference between the new one and the old one is that ours has no interest in lying to the people.” The young horseman turns to look at her. “How could you know any of that?” “I’ve been around a lot longer than you,” she responds, and then taps her horse into a canter, dragging Alexander Golphin’s along with hers. Everyone else is forced to also speed up, or be left behind. They race blindly in the darkness, Cynthia so determined to drop the conversation that she doesn’t notice the figures in the distance, and her horsemen are too focused on keeping with her that they don’t either. A bow is lifted, an arrow pulled back, then released. It happens so quickly; something flies millimeters from Cynthia’s face, and a man behind her is screaming. The horses are terrified, bucking and rearing in fear. Another arrow wizzes by, and then another. One misses its target, but the second pierces flesh. More archers appear, taking aim and shooting at them. “Fall back and regroup!” The knight barks, turning hers and the man’s horses, and taking off. Pebbles and stones are tossed into the air and pelt onto them. She catches sight of even more men on foot rushing towards them. The two flee until their horses are breathing heavy from the strain, and only then do they slow down. Cynthia swivels her head back and forth, looking for the other knights. They are behind her, quickly catching up. She counts eight heads, not counting hers and the man’s. Good, everyone is still alive. A few of the horsemen are tugging arrows out of their armor, but a few injuries are much better than death.
“There’re getting bolder every month,” one of the knight’s men greets as he angles his horse beside hers. “There was what, five archers last time? I counted at least twelve tonight.” “There were also people on the ground.” “Yes, there were. I saw a few clubs and pitchforks, but I don’t think that anyone was hit. It’d be best to assume that they will be better prepared next time.” “If that’s the case, then maybe we should request for scouts to check for any groups hiding away.” “That could be beneficial,” the horseman says, and then he moves back to his proper place behind the knight. She waits for the rest of her men to fall into their positions before they begin moving again. If Cynthia is correct about their location, then they are only about thirty minutes away from the city. “Uh,” Alexander Gophin speaks up. He hadn’t made a noise since before the attack, sitting silently while he listened to what was going on. “What was that about?” “Not everyone approves of our nation’s King tradition. Some are willing to risk their lives for the sake of keeping you away from the palace,” Cynthia explains. “It’s all for nothing, of course. If you are killed or kidnapped, then someone else will be declared the new King.” “Has it always been like this?” She doesn’t want to tell him, but he has every right to know. It wouldn’t matter if he found out, she supposed, him being King and all. “No, well, yes. People have always been angry about the ceremonies, but it used to be a quiet anger, something that is whispered in the dark. There always seemed to be proof that the gods were still here for us, so no one ever really had
any reason to act. The old High Priest used to give speeches every once in a while, proclaiming that the gods were pleased with the sacrifices we made, and then he would give out gifts to a few towns.” “I remember that,” the man says. “Once, when I was little, a bunch of horsemen in white robes came to my village and gave every family a few pounds of rice during the winter.” “Yes, it was things like that. Of course, things changed when the new High Priest came into power. I’m sure word never left the capital, but supposedly the day he was given his position, he announced that the gods had abandoned this nation, and then he shut himself away for nearly a month.” She pauses. “After that, the people who were angry with the tradition had a reason to defy the law. ‘Why sacrifice for gods that hold no interest in us,’ they asked. When they found no answer, they decided it would be best to fight the ceremony instead of allowing new Kings to be named.” “And you guys have been attacked since the new High Priest…” he draws off, leaving the question to hang in the air. This is probably all new information to him. The other knights didn’t actually try to make it public that people were fighting against them. “Not really. There have been a few riots and failed attempts, but it was only recently that people actually began to attack us.” “Oh. That’s not as bad, I guess.” “It’s getting worse,” the horseman behind Cynthia piped up. “I wouldn’t be surprised if assassination attempts start popping up in half a year or so. We’ll stop them, of course; we foil every plan, but maybe they’ll get lucky one day.”
It was a bleak note, but it was time for them to stop talking. “We’re nearing the city. It’d be best if we stay quiet for the rest of the journey.” The knight sighs. She wished to say that they will be able to carry on the conversation later, but she knows that isn’t true. They travel in silence, watching as the rural landscape transitions into that of an urban one. People step out of their homes to see them pass. At first, they greet the horsemen with disdaining looks, but as they go deeper into the city, the people pile up and cheer at them, shouting nonsense and reaching out to brush their fingers against the King. The horsemen swat at wandering arms, keeping everything out of the body shield they are creating. It takes forever to press through the crowed, and at multiple points they have to stop and wait for people to get out of the way. It is dreary and boring work, but all of a sudden, they are at the palace gates, forcing themselves inside it. The gate closes behind them, keeping the people at bay. The knight dismounts, and the man does so as well after a second. “Climb the steps,” she gestured at the steps to the palace doors, “and enter. There should be people up there waiting for you. Good luck.” It’s a stiff goodbye, and it is weak and not good enough, but she can’t take the words back. Alexander Golphin nods and turns away from her. He takes a step forward and pauses. He shakes his head and begins moving again. The knight is suddenly filled with an impulse, and, for a reason she could not name, she goes with it. “Cynthia,” she calls up at the man. “My name is Cynthia.” Her horsemen give her questioning looks, but she ignores them as the man turns and walks back to her.
He fiddles with the rings on his left hand before he slides them off and offers them to her. “Here. I know I probably shouldn’t be giving these to you, but I don’t…” He stops and breathe. His eyes are beginning to become bloodshot, and he grimaces. “I understand,” she says, even though she really doesn’t. She doesn’t understand, and she never will. She reaches out and takes the rings, two bland bands that probably mean so much to someone else. “Should I give them to your wife?” “Yeah, if,” he chokes, “if you can.” He turns and walks away, and she watches him until he passes through a door. Cynthia looks down at the rings. She feels cold, numb, empty. She knows what is going to happen next, because it is the same every time. There is no use trying to force herself to think happy thoughts when– When– “Long live the King,” she mumbles because it is a lie, and she knows it. The knight twists her hand and allows the wedding bands drop to the ground.
3. the priest He stands at a window, looking down at the lights below. He can vaguely see people dressed in bright colors, but they are of no interest to him; it’s the parade of knights that catches his attention. They move slowly into the crowed, the sea of people parting to allow them to pass through. The onlookers cheer and shout, waving their arms about as if possessed. Even from so far away, he can hear a few of the louder shouts. “Bring us the King!” and “Our Savior has arrived!” are some of the most irritating screams, and the words spread through the crowd like wildfire. It isn’t long before most of the people are saying something like that. His lips turn upwards. So his people wish to be saved? How disgusting. If they really wanted things to change, they would take action instead of relying on some silly little tradition. It is repulsive to see so many believe that things will get better by pleasing the gods… He is brought out of his thoughts by a knock on his door. “Come in,” he says just loud enough for the other person to hear. The door opens and a young woman saunters in.
“High Priest,” she greets, bowing, “Alexander Gophin has entered the city. He is expected to reach the palace in thirty minutes, and the ceremony will begin about an hour after that.” He is tempted to retort that it would be impossible for anyone not to know that the new King is near with the way the crowd outside is screaming, but he chooses to keep the comment to himself. “Good to know. Is there any other news, Nelf?” The woman, Nelf, straightens herself and fiddles with her white robes. They are similar to his own, but his has golden embroidery along the edges. “Yes. From what I have heard so far, Daniel has yet to fulfil your request, but he hasn’t given up yet. I believe his exact words were ‘I still have a few hours, damn it. Quit bothering me and go back to work.’” She quotes, and then they both snort. She sounds absolutely ridiculous imitating Daniel. “Some of the older priests have begun complaining about the way you have been running things, and they demand that you step down.” “Yeah, well, they’ve been saying that for two years now. I’m not going anywhere.” “That is wonderful, Sir,” she snips dryly. “A few of your followers have requested permission to go down into the Gods’ Vault once the ceremony has ended to see if the gods have tried to contact us.” “Tell them not to. I plan to check up on things once Daniel returns, assuming he does make it on time. Please keep them away from the vault; if anything has changed, then I must be the first to see it.” “That is all there is to report,” Nelf states.
The High Priest nods and waves her away. “Bring Daniel here if he appears. If anyone asks for me, tell them I am very busy and cannot take any visitors at the moment.” That is a lie, he has no pressing issues to attend to since it is the night of the ceremony, and the young woman seems to know this. She presses her lips into a line, but says nothing. She bows and leaves, closing the door behind her. He is alone again for the most part. He turns his attention back to the window to watch the proceedings. The crowed seethes and ripples. From his viewpoint, he is unable to see the horsemen anymore. There is another knock at his door. He glances at it, puzzled. He had been expecting Nelf earlier, but no one should have any reason to bother him any time soon. Deciding to just ignore it in hopes of the intruder leaving, he goes back to watching the people below. Someone has started a small fire, and it glows and glistens in the distance. A few figures dance around it, shouting strange words that are nothing more than muffled noise by the time they reach his ears. After a few moments, there is yet another blow at the door, this time with fevered impatience. The High Priest gnaws on his lip, wondering if he should answer it. He sighs because yes, yes he should; dealing with irritating people is sort of his job, no matter how much he pretends it’s something else. “Enter,” he barks, and the door flies open. A woman stands in the doorway. She is tall and slender, wearing black robes that snugly hug her body, and her ebony hair is tied up tightly. She takes an almost tentative step in and glances about the room as if there are assassins hiding behind every object. The door closes behind her. Once she is finished surveying the room, she brings her attention to the High Priest. She takes a step closer, tilting her head up so she can look down her nose at him, reminding him
of his lack of height. He recognizes her immediately as the unofficial leader of the Council, the oligarchy that rules over his nation. “Close the window.” Her voice is quiet, but at the same time, as rigid as a cliff face. “We need to talk.” The High Priest bites his lip and glares at her because there is absolutely no reason why he should close the damn window. They are five stories up; no one will be able to hear anything she has to say, unless she starts a shouting match or something equally ridiculous. He spins on his heels and pulls the glass frames in, locking the latch. He isn’t sure why he listens to her order, but he does anyway. “What do you want?” He asks, forcing himself not to add on a sarcastic remark such as ‘don’t you have some children to slay?’ or ‘shouldn’t you be bathing in the blood of virgins right now or something?’ Being rude will get him nowhere, and because he is sort of technically part of the Council, he is supposed to be at least somewhat respectful towards her. “I looked into the information you gave me during the last meeting,” The High Priest stiffens immediately and flicks his eyes around the room. “From my understanding, you seem to have overestimated the situation.” His eyes find hers as soon as she says this. Impossible, he thinks as she continues. “Though, admittedly, the people are ‘restless,’ as you put it, we have decided that there is no reason to take action, and we have concluded that –” “’We?’” The High Priest cuts her off, feeling sickened. He thinks he understands what she is implying, but for safety reasons, he wants to make sure. “What do you mean by ‘we?’”
The woman slits her eyes and tilts her head up more. From another perspective, she might have looked idiotic, but to him, she seems to stand even taller. “I summoned the other members of the Council yesterday to discuss your apparent fears. You were invited, but you never showed up, so we assumed that you were busy dealing with the gods, or, more specifically, the lack of gods.” That was a blatant lie. He had received no word about a meeting. “It was decided yesterday that you are worried over nothing, and we shouldn’t waste our time dealing with a few rebellious members of society. The Naming Ceremonies will continue every month as they always have. If you truly believe that there is a problem going on, then you may deal with it as long as it doesn’t interfere with your normal duties.” The High Priest shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. “Do you truly believe that nothing is wrong?” He hisses. “Our system is flawed; with every ceremony, we lose the faith from our nation! The gods have abounded us; even they don’t want to associate with us! And you think that everything is alright?” The woman says nothing for a second, and then, “If you care so much about this, then do something about it.” And, with that, she turns and leaves the room, not bothering to close the door. Do something about it? He growls and slams his fist against a nearby wall. It is a childish action and he knows it, but it makes him feel slightly better. Nelf is in the doorway again, a sour look on her face. She must have passed the other woman in the hallway. “High Priest, Daniel has returned. I requested that he come here, but he insisted on going to the vault, and said it would be best if you meet him there.”
He sighs; finally, some good news. “Alright, let’s go then.” They walk out of the room, the High Priest leading and Nelf a step behind and to the left him. They pass priests and servants scuttling about without purpose. One person moves into their way. “Hello! Do you have a second to spare?” The man asks. “No, we’re busy,” Nelf is swift to reply, brushing the man to the side as they continue walking. Behind them, they hear the man mumbling about how children no longer have any respect for their elders. They reach the Gods’ Vault. Though the name makes it sound spectacular, it is, in reality, just a stone door in a stone wall. It is locked, always locked, and for all that the High Priest knows, there are only two keys in existence that can open it, and one of them is in his possession. Daniel leans against the door, watching as they near him. He is wearing dark peasant clothes that are stained with dust. A rucksack is slung over his shoulder. “Hey, long time no see,” is his form of greeting. It has actually only been a week since he had been sent off, but no one cares enough to point this out. “Did you find it?” The High Priest asks. “Well, yeah, but let me complain a bit about it first!” Daniel says, exasperated. “You sent me out on a wild goose chase after something that doesn’t even exist! A phoenix feather? How the hell was I supposed to find that? Are phoenixes even real?” “That doesn’t matter. Did you find it?” The High Priest repeats.
Daniel’s shoulders sag. “Yes, but –” The High Priest holds out his hand and Daniel quiets down. He slides his rucksack off and shuffles through its contents. He pulls out two feathers and hands them over. The High Priest brings them close to his face to inspect them. They are both primarily scarlet with a bit of black at their tips. The first is long and sturdy and the second one is short and fluffy. “I didn’t know what type you wanted, so I grabbed both. Nearly got flayed alive because of it, too.” Daniel explains. “These will work, thank you.” The High Priest turns to the door. He pulls out a key from one of the pockets hidden in his robes, and unlocks the vault. Opening the door, he steps inside. The room is filled with inky blackness, and the light from the hall slices through it. The air is dry and smells faintly of incenses. Along the walls, great tapestries hang from the ceilings, depicting great moments of history. In the center of the room stands a stone table. The top of it is smooth from wear, and the sides are rough. One of the corners has begun to crumble. A longbow sits on the table, and a letter is folded beside it. Unlike every other flat surface in the room, neither of them are covered in dust. The High Priest walks forward and takes the bow and letter in hand. Nelf and Daniel file in behind him, gaping at the tapestries. They, unlike their leader, rarely have the chance to enter such a scared room. “High Priest… Were those there last time you came in here?” Nelf asks, referring to the bow and paper.
“No,” he states without elaborating. He sets the bow back down and carefully opens the letter. He smiles as he scans over the contents. Daniel shuffles closer to sneak a glance, but the priest lets it go. The paper falls face down on the ground. “Is it from the gods?” Nelf pipes up, her voice hopeful. He picks up the bow and examines it silently, and then puts it down again. “Possibly.” It was cruel to answer so vaguely, he knew, but it would be best to allow the two to believe it might have been. Of course the gods haven’t sent them a bow and a letter, the gods haven’t even attempted to contact anyone for almost ten years, but Daniel and Nelf didn’t need to know that. The High Priest places the feathers down on the table beside the bow. “Time to go,” he says, turning around and walking out of the vault. The others follow him reluctantly. Once they were all out of the room, the High Priest locks the door. “Why’d you leave those feathers in there?” Daniel asks. “I’ll explain it to you later.” He begins moving down the hall at a rapid pace, and the others struggle to follow. He pauses by a window and looks out. From this angle, he can see that Alexander Golphin and the knights still haven’t made it to the palace. He grins viciously, remembering the conversation he had earlier with his so-called leader. So the Council refuses to believe that there is anything wrong and won’t do something about it. Well fine, he’ll just have to take action into his own hands. “Long live the king,” he hums softly to himself.
Daniel and Nelf, just within hearing range, exchange a look, confused as ever.
4. the queen When she had been a child, still innocent and incompetent, she had dreamed that the King would pass through her little town one day. They would bump into each other in the streets, and once his gaze caught hers, they would fall instantly in love. He would rush her off to his palace, even though she was nothing but a lowly peasant, and marry her. She would become his Queen. They would live happily ever after. On her twelfth birthday, her father had taken her aside when he had overheard her talking about this. “Sweety,” he began, his voice soft. “You can’t be queen.” “Why can’t I?” She had been insolent when she was younger, refusing to listen to her elders. Her father was a weak man, and he couldn’t find himself breaking his precious daughter’s heart. He bent to her will and backed off.
“Never mind, my child.” He left it at that, and shooed her back to her friends.
When she was fifteen, his father put down his foot. “You can’t be queen,” he stated, this time stern and unyielding. She had been playing with her old dollies, dressing them up and then stripping their clothes. “Why.” She didn’t spare him a look, assuming that he wouldn’t follow through as usual. “You can’t be queen because every month, after the new King is named, he takes poison.” That caught her attention. She blinked owlishly, and looked up at her father. “…What?” “He kills himself so that his soul may go up to the heavens. The gods demand for a sacrifice every month. You know that, I’ve told you many times before.” It was true, her father had described the ritual to her, but she had always assumed that a peasant had been sacrificed, while the King lived on. What’s the point of a King if he dies? He didn’t have an answer for that, nor did he have one when she asked half a year later. In the end, even up to his death, he could never tell her the purpose of naming a King, only that they kill him. “He doesn’t die, not really,” she had whispered to herself every night. “The King is the child of the gods, and though his body might succumb to death, his soul will keep on living. Every time he dies, he gets to spend some time with his family, which makes the gods very happy. Because of this, the gods give us gifts. The King wants to stay with the gods, but he loves us humans very much, and he feels entitled to help our country. So he goes back down to Earth
and takes over the body of someone who doesn’t matter. The Council finds out who the King is, and they ask him to release his soul back. It’s just a big cycle.” It was a silly, made up lie, but as she repeated it over and over and over again, she began to believe it from the bottom of her heat. When she was sixteen, she managed to force her way into a job at the palace. For three years, she watched the King walk to his death, only to return a month later. It was spectacular, better than she could imagine. There was always something similar about the body the King inhibited. Gender, age, height, speak, and mannerisms tended to be different from body to body, but he always had the same walk, the same wild look in his eyes. To her, it was even more proof that it was the King’s soul inside the body. But… But sometimes there was something strange about the King, something that sent unexplainable dread seeping down her back. He would be twitchy, terrified, prepared to bolt at any second. He would fight the guards and have to wear chains to keep him at bay, and even then, he would still spit out vile words at anyone who passed. None of this made sense to the girl. The King was supposed to want to return to his real home, so why would he try to prevent his separation from his body? How could he protect their nation if he was trapped as a human? Sometimes, she would get close to the King while he was being held and listen to him. All of the other servants would scatter when they knew that the King was near, so it was easy to sneak near his guards.
“Let me go! I’m not ready to die! I have a family! I have a job! I have done nothing to deserve this!” The King raved. Another time, the King cried. She thought it was unnatural that he would do such a thing, but his body was that of a very young girl. And, yet another time, he was an old man, staring down at a ponytail in his hands. His wife, upon learning that her husband held the King, hacked off her hair and had given it to him. The King was quiet, and he hardly spoke a word. When he was being led away, his eyes caught hers. His eyes were deep and filled with an indescribable bleakness. People like that were outliers; most of the bodies complied with every order they were given without question.
From her observations, she concluded that the King didn’t always have full control over his host. Conscious hosts seemed to be unaware that they were carrying such an important soul inside them, and they were reckless with their life. It was sad, she thought, that the hosts had no idea. They should be joyful and ecstatic to be contributing to society in such an important way. Instead, they suffered for their last few hours on Earth, never learning the truth.
And then, a few weeks after she turned twenty-one, everything changed. The High Priest came to the palace and ordered everyone to gather. Excited, the other servants gossiped to
themselves. She ignored them, more interested in whatever the High Priest had to say. It wasn’t every day that he came down from his towers to speak. “The Council has decided that the treatment of the King is too harsh,” he said, not bothering to start with pretty words. “From this day forth, someone will be appointed to watch over the King upon entering the palace, and make sure that he… Understands the reason behind our great tradition. That person will be named Queen for symbolic purposes and will reside here. The current plan is for the Queen to hold the position for the rest of his or her life, but it is questionable as to if that will be the case.” He had to pause in his speech, glancing about as if he expected sudden interruptions, but none came, so he continued. “The Council has given me permission to choose the Queen. Though I have many candidates among my ranks, I have decided it would be best to give it to someone who has dealt with the Kings in the past and has experience with them. One of you will most likely end up becoming the Queen.” There was another pause at this point, then. “Though it brings me grief to admit this, I am not familiar with any of the palace servants, otherwise I would simply choose who is worthy of the position. Instead, I have talked it over with your superiors, and it has been agreed upon that you may simply volunteer for the role, and if you are found acceptable, you will be given it.” The High Priest smiled as though he thought it was a grand plan, but she wasn’t as sure. It seemed silly to simply allow an unknown to be given a place beside the King. Why not choose an aristocrat or a knight? Servants were lowly, many of them having come from poor families. Peasants weren’t fit to stand beside the King.
Even though she thought this, she still stood when the High Priest asked all who wished to volunteer to rise. She was the only one who dared to do so. A week later, she was given the position.
She is the Queen, the one who stands beside the King in his last moments of life. It is a harsh, cruel job, but in the twelve years she has done it, she has found herself to love it. She adores working with the King, even if he shows no sign of remembering her. She knows deep down in her heart that his soul hasn’t forgotten. Today is another new moon, and the King should be arriving shortly. She has yet to receive any information about his host body, but that is common. She will find out what kind of person her King is this time around. It is always exciting to meet his hosts, to see how they will react to learning the truth. It makes her feel jittery to know that soon, soon she will be reunited with her King. The Queen paces her room, sorting through her befuddled thoughts. It is always wonderful on ceremony day; the rest of the month is boring without her King nearby. She never has enough to do, and then the night before the Great Naming, everything suddenly piles up. She finds that working, making use of her time to benefit others, is a way to make the dreary days go by, but due to her position, she is expected to wait around. She halts beside her wardrobe and throws it open. Now that it is almost time for her King to come, she should get ready. First off: clothes. She scours through her wide selection of dresses and picks out one. It is white and gold. Beautiful, she thinks, but at the same time, she has to
fight the urge to throw it to the ground. It looks similar to the robes the new High Priest wears, and oh gods, does she dislike him. She puts the dress back and picks out another, and this time it is red. Red is good. She shuts the wardrobe doors and puts the dress on. It fits her a bit too snugly for her liking, but she thinks it makes her look queenly. She combs her hair and applies a bit of makeup to cover a blooming blemish on her face. The Queen leaves her quarters to head down to the palace doors from which her King will enter. The hallways are vacated, and she moves quickly and easily without the presence of scuttling servants. She turns a corner, humming to herself, when she spies someone who should not be here. “You,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. “What are you doing here.” It isn’t a question; it is a statement pointing out the fact that he should be tucked away in his towers. “Good evening, Queen,” The High Priest smirks, acting as if there is nothing wrong. She can feel herself bristling at his words, even if they weren’t hostile. She has come into contact with this new High Priest before, and she finds him to be a vile sort of person that should be hidden in the shadows. He is too young, he has too much power over people, and he isn’t afraid to defy his elders over the most trivial of things. Some of the servants believe that he is part of the Council, but the Queen knows better. The High Priest is nothing more than an unexperienced boy who is destined to ruin everything, and she has known that since he was given his position when he was only sixteen.
“You should be preparing for the Great Naming ceremony,” she states. A shrug. “I’m as prepared as ever.” She is at a loss for words. It is insulting to see someone with so much power be so careless. “You should go anyway. Even if you are ready, you should recite your speech for the Feast.” “Ah, I think I’m going to skip this time around. They don’t need me to be present so it shouldn’t be a bother.” Shouldn’t be a bother? Like hell it would be! The Feast was when the King takes poison and separates from his body. The High Priest is supposed to be present at all times during the Feast; skipping would go against his duty. “I mean, I’m always there, and nothing ever happens, so I’m assuming that it will be alright,” he continues, keenly watching her. The Queen’s face scrunches up in anger before she is able to get her emotions under control. “I can assure you that is not the case. Your absence will be noticed.” “Oh well. It’s not like it’ll really matter. The whole ceremony is a scam; the King is just someone getting killed for a frivolous reas–” The Queen turns and storms off. She doesn’t need to hear the rest of his sinful words. He is wrong, just like he always will be. The new High Priest may be too stupid to realize that the King is the gods’ child, but she knew better. Behind her, the High Priest cackles, apparently getting the reaction he wanted.
Fine, don’t go the Feast. Skip the whole ceremony! The more he acts out, the sooner he’ll lose his job, and a new High Priest will be elected, hopefully one that knows what he is doing. That would be for the best. By the time she reached the palace doors, the Queen has calmed herself down, losing the agitation the High Priest brought her. Gods, she hated him, but she had to put that aside. With a bit of luck, he’ll get caught behind an arrow or run over by a horse. The door open, and she unconsciously brushes her hands down her dress, forgetting all about the priest. The King steps in. She knows instantly that he is a peasant, probably a farmer, and he is covered in dust from the ride here. The Queen moves over to him and gives her softest smile. “Hello, King. What is your name?” She asks. “Alexander Golphin,” his voice is stiff and he glances around. “Um, can we just get this all over with?” Her lips twitch down. No, they can’t ‘just get this over with,’ she wants to scream, but she holds herself back. Instead, she says, “Of course, let’s go and get prepared.” She takes his left hand, making note of the light streaks on his ring finger. Married? Oh well. The Queen leads him out of the entrance, down a hall, and into a room. From there, she helps him into better, fancier clothes; clothes fit for a king. “Alexander Golphin, you are the current host of the King. Because of this, you must be killed to release the King’s soul from you. The gods will reward you greatly for your sacrifice,” the Queen explains while she leads him out of the room. It is a straightforward explanation, there
is nothing soft about. The truth hurts, but it is for the best. She has been doing this for years, and she has found that the hosts take things better when told bluntly. The man tugs away from her and stops. The Queen turns, tensing to prepare herself to chase after him, but he stands still. The King looks down at his hands, but she sees nothing of excitement there. “There isn’t a king or whatever inside me.” “Of course there is. You are just unable to notice it.” “Can you see it or something?” “No, but I don’t need to. The gods informed the Council of who you are, and they sent you here. The gods have told us that you have the King’s soul, so that means you do.” The King looks up at that. “I thought the gods haven’t talked to anyone in years.” The Queen freezes. She knows it isn’t true, but it is confusing to hear it coming from the King’s mouth. “Lies.” She grabs at the King’s arm and they begin walking again. “Do you really think that the Council would allow the ceremony to continue if there is no point to it?” The man doesn’t answer, and they walk in silence for a while until the Queen grows tired of it. “I am taking you to the Feast. You will be given a seat at a table and food will be placed in front of you. You can chose to eat if you wish, but you don’t have to. After about an hour, I will give you a cup, and you are to drink the contents. After that, you will die.” He doesn’t reply to that either. They make it to a door. The Queen opens it and gestures for him to enter. She hears a small, almost nonexistent gasp, and she follows. The room the Feast is held isn’t a room at all; instead, it is a giant garden surrounded by the palace walls. Above, the sky is alive with light
from stars not hidden by a ceiling. On the ground, white tables are aligned in rows. The Queen leads him to a table separated from the others. The King is sat in his chair, and the Queen perches beside him. There are other people there, most of them aristocrats and other important figures. Once everyone is seated at their seats, waiters clothed in black, serve food. She nibbles on a slice of perfectly cooked meat, but the man only sits rigid. She wants to tell him to eat and at least try to enjoy his last few moments, but something holds her back. Today has been strange, and for some reason, she has a bad feeling about all of this. It isn’t the King, though she finds herself disliking the host. With every other body the King has inhabited, she has felt some kind of connection to them, but this time… It is weak and unnatural. She doesn’t want to be near this man, even if she had been looking forward to this night all month. Not in the mood to talk to her King, she glances about, trying to see if the High Priest really has skipped. He is nowhere to be found. She should be happy about this because surely she isn’t the only one who notices this, but she just feels dread. As the night progresses, people stand from their tables and give speeches, praising the Council and the King for their service and sacrifice. The Queen has no interest in listening to this, and time moves slowly. Finally, finally, someone stands and announces that it is time for the Feast to draw to a close. A woman in a sleek black dress appears at the Queen’s elbow and hands her a goblet. The Queen smiles, knowing that soon her King will return home. “Long live the King,” she tells him, handing him the goblet.
His eyes trained onto hers, he lifts it. And then– And then– And then a red-feathered arrow rips through the air and lodges into the King’s throat, its tip coming out the other end. Scarlet blood squirts out of the wound, streaming onto his fancy clothes and splattering onto her already red dress. In an instance, the King is dead. He sits straight, his eyes wide open in horror, the goblet, still gripped in his bone white hands, tips, spilling the poison intended to kill him. The people at the other tables are screaming and running around, trying to spot the assassin. The noise is meaningless to her. The King is dead. Her King is dead. This wasn’t meant to happen, not like this. His death is a sacred tradition, not a gruesome mistake. He… Could he go up to the heavens if he dies like that? Was the King’s soul alright? Or did he die as his host slipped away? Poison has been used in the ceremony since the King tradition started hundreds of years ago. It was the way, as it always has been the way. But now… How could anything go back to the way it used to be? There are two red feathers tied to the end of the arrow. They swing down, brushing up against each other, glowing. One of them suddenly, unexpectedly, bursts into flames. The fire
trails down the arrow and meets skin. From there, it blossoms, consuming the King’s body and spreading to the table. The Queen knows that skin doesn’t burn like wood, and that the tables are made of stone, but this fire appears to simply not care, clambering over the white surface anyway. It reaches the ground and devours the green bushes and flowers. It keeps moving, never stopping, eating all that it can touch. Her arm hurts vaguely. Numbly, she turns her head to see the flames licking her. She stares down at it for a minute before processing that she is burning. She raises her other hand and smacks at the fire, only for it to spread. Now, both of her arms are covered in the fire, and it spreads over her. One thing races through her mind: it hurts. It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts so much, more than anything in the world. Within a matter of seconds, she is covered by the flames, burning. Oh gods! Make it st– 5. the rebel Max rides upon a stolen horse moving at full gallop. With the speed he’s traveling, he’ll burn the horse within twenty minutes, but that doesn’t matter to him. He is running away, and he needs to cover as much ground as he can as quickly as possible. Once this horse gets tired, he can always just steal another. He’s reached farm country, and there are plenty of unattended horses milling about.
He lets out a whoop of joy as the horse jumps a wooded gate. As the horse hits the ground, he digs his heels into its skin, urging it to move even quicker. He is being chased and he knows it, but at the same time, his followers are a disoriented mess that couldn’t track a dragon. He laughs, and his voice is drowned by the roaring wind. He had caused quite a spectacle, hadn’t he? The High Priest had warned him that phoenix feathers shouldn’t be messed with a few weeks ago, but Max hadn’t expected such a commotion to come from them. By the time he had escaped the city, the flames had nearly spread over the whole palace. He wonders if the fire would somehow end up being doused out, but then realizes he doesn’t care. The more people who dies the more fear will come from it. Ah, yes. That is what he wants, fear. Once word that the King was assassinated before he could be sacrificed, doubt will seep into every house. ‘The gods will turn on us,’ the people will think. Of course, the month will pass with no great calamities because the gods haven’t demanded anyone to be killed in their name for nearly fifty years. Maybe the gods will even be pleased that the tradition was ruined by Max’s arrow, and they will send forth pleasant skies and a few rainclouds for the farmers. When the people see this, they will connect the dots and realize that it would be best to stop sacrificing people. When the Council brings forth a new King, they will protest and revolt. Or, at least that was what the High Priest had told him. Max didn’t care one way or another about the gods; his only objective was to stop the Great Naming, and in turn, set fire to the tradition. Too many innocents have been senselessly murdered over the years and for what? To please the gods? Just the thought of it made him want to puke. Though the belief that the death of one is worth the lives of others is understandable, killing people over nothing doesn’t.
He knows this personally. Nothing comes from the horrid tradition, so it would be best to just throw it all away. Under him, the horse pants and begins to slow down. Darn, he hasn’t gone as far as expected. Max tugs at the reins until it stops, and then hops off. He leaves the horse, lazily walking towards the nearest village in the distance. If he is lucky, the horse will head off in a random direction and confuse his trackers. It takes a while to reach the village, and he knows that he is wasting precious time by keeping such a slow pace, but he can’t find himself caring. His mission has been completed; the hard part is over. Now he just has to escape with his life, and everything will get better from there. Unless it doesn’t, and he gets caught. Max doesn’t doubt that is a possibility; he isn’t going to fool himself. Especially with the way he is heading away from the capital, the knights or whoever is after him could very well manage to regroup and run him down. He has heard of cases like his before, where someone did something wrong, flees, and then gets found. Of course, none of those stories involved the murder of the King, or the destruction of a palace, so things might actually work out for him. The village is shabby and run down, but then again, Max’s point of view is biased, considering he just came from a flourishing city. Even so, it is unusual to see somewhere in such a state of grief on the night of the new moon. Almost every place he had passed had some sort of celebration going on, but this one was… dead. There are no lights in the windows, no people crowding in the streets.
He moves carefully through the town, keeping vigilant. Is this some sort of trap? Have all of the residents died of a plague? But no, he spots a sign of life. A person is crouched on the ground near the middle of town. As he draws closer, he sees that it is a young woman, or maybe a thin man in a dress and has very long hair. “Hello?” He asks. The person twitches and slowly looks up. “You okay?” Max is probably a mass murder now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a gentleman and see if this person is alright. “No,” she – definitely a she – says, and puts her head back down. Max steps closer because now he is curious. “What are you upset about?” “Go away,” comes the muffled reply. “Alright. Where is everybody? Why aren’t they celebrating or something?” He pressed. The woman shakes. “The King came from here. Go away.” “Oh is that it? The King is dead.” She looks up, her face twisted in anger. “Of course he is dead! If you’ve come here to gloat, then go away.” Max doesn’t understand what that means, so he chooses to ignore it. “I killed him,” he says because now is a good a time as ever to start spreading the news of what happened. Her face turns to that of wariness. “What do you mean?”
He walks up to her. As he moves closer, he can see that her eyes are red and there are streaks running down her dusty cheeks. “The ceremony was never completed; I killed the King.” He suddenly realizes that this idea may not be one of his smartest. Telling a lone, crying woman that he murdered someone she most likely knew was just asking for him to get attacked. The woman is on her feet in an instant, striding towards him. She reaches up and grabs his collar, forcing him down to her level. Max closes his eyes because, damn, his lapse of judgment really was going to get him killed. She stares deep into his eyes, grinding her teeth. “You’re telling the truth?” Max peeks open an eyes. He really wasn’t expecting that sort of reaction. “Yes.” After a second, she lets go of him, and the man pushes another question. “Was he someone important to you?” “…You could say that.” Her voice is laced with mistrust, but Max notices her fiddling with a ring on her left hand. Oh. Oh. Whoops. “…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, but it comes out feeble because it isn’t true; her husband’s death has the potential to save hundreds of others. “You aren’t, though, I don’t blame you. I – I would rather him be murdered than sacrificed.” Her words aren’t cold, but they are biting. Something tells Max that her anger isn’t directed at him anymore. “I understand how you feel. I’ve lost someone, too.”
It was the truth. His daughter had been chosen, years and years ago. He had tried his hardest to save her, but regardless of what he did, he couldn’t protect her from those who wished to kill the King. In the end, out of desperation, his own hands had been the ones to take her life. Max never regretted his decision. She gives him a weak smile. “Well, if you really did kill the King, then you should go. There has to be people after you.” “Yeah.” He doesn’t make a move to leave, nor does she. Max suddenly has an impulsive, selfish thought. “Do you have anything left here?” “No.” “Well, you want to come with me?” He smiles at her, hopeful, and for a second, she smiles back. “I can’t go with you.” She gives no explanation, but she is standing taller than she had been a moment ago. “You should leave. There is a barn not too far away towards the East. I’m sure you can take a horse or something; it’d let you move quicker than your feet will.” Max doesn’t understand, and he does feel a bit let down, but he did kill her husband, after all. “Thanks.” With that, they both turn and leave, Max heading for the barn, and the woman off to who knows where. It doesn’t take long for the man to reach the barn and steal a horse. He canters away, more mindful of the horse’s endurance this time.
As he rides, he wonders if he should feel guilty for what he has done. He had never thought he would feel guilt for killing the King, but after meeting that woman, there is sadness. The King is nothing but a tool, he knows this, but at the same time, he is a person who has loved ones. With the King’s death comes the destruction of families. But… This is why he agreed to take on his mission in the first place, to prevent this from happening ever again. That woman’s husband was going to die anyway; it had been too late to save him from his fate. Because his death was by Max’s hands, he wasn’t killed for a silly tradition; he was killed to save the next line of Kings before they are even chosen. To ensure that the next generation will be free of the tyranny of the Kings, some people have to die. “Long live the King,” Max says, because the tradition has had a long life, and now it is time to end it. He can only hope that will happen soon.