Desolate

If there was ever a desolate landscape, this one would have to do. As the sound of resonating anvils filled the hall, dust rolled in through the eastern-facing window. It coated the floor with such a thick brown powder that perhaps as a boy I would have written my name in it. I am no longer such a boy.

The roaring sea to the west, perhaps, would bring me consolation. I was snapped from my thoughts, of vast sand dunes and saltier waters, when I heard a squire’s voice, warning me of the upcoming trial. I sat up, regaining my posture, and leaned my left cheek into my hand. The trial was trivial; a local farmer’s boy had stolen a knight’s wine barrel for his family. The boy was dragged in by his wrists, legs scrambling to find purchase on the granite floors. New flooring, put in as soon as my father passed. I have the throne of a conqueror, I told the builders, I should have a throne room that is equally fitting. Decorated with flowing red banisters and supported by beams that had depictions of knights riding into battle, I could tell the room was working terror into the boy. I paid no attention as his crimes were confessed, my eyes tracing over his familiar cheekbones and fine golden hair, whiskey-brown eyes seemingly begging for mercy. I finally spoke up.

“The boy wanted a drink.” I stood up, strolling down the silken red path to bend down in front of him. “Shall we give him one?” It hit me. He was the farm-boy I played with as a child, my father leading me out of the castle’s walls to interact with those of a lower class society. His name, I could not recall, but I could recall the face he had on. Men wear many faces, but within the castle walls, fear rears it’s ugly head most often. His head lifted up, eyes focused on me. Tears sprung to his eyes as I waved a hand to have a wine barrel brought.

He was drowned, that day, in a barrel very similar to which he stole.

I looked in the mirror as I awoke the next morning, guilt weighing at my stomach and pulling it down as I strode to my dresser and pulled on my robes. I refuse to let the servants dress me- a King dresses himself. I examined my features briefly, noting that fine black hairs were covering my chin. Finally. Powerful men have beards, I recall, chuckling to myself. I walked out into the hall to be greeted by my guardsmen. Once my fathers, and their fathers were his guards, so on, so on.