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The weight of a crown was such a deceiving thing. Light leaves of gold inlaid with precious stones dug from the belly of the earth, made to rest effortlessly upon the brow of a man with the world on his shoulders. The calluses formed around the hammer that smelted it were invisible to the untrained eye, the blood of generations soaked into the metal leaving a copper taste on the tongue of any that came near.
George was not blind to the weight of his crown, resting upon the polished wood table, scrubbed to perfection as all things in the castle were. The suffering it was built upon was made to be unseen. But it was oh so clear to George who knew the signs of hidden toil, knew how to spy the smooth edges of gems cut mercilessly into place.
Mercilessly beautiful. That was the essence of all things natural.
If the world found you unfit, you were met with an unforgiving knife to cut you from her embrace, a forgotten tragedy. It was a fate all royals were aware of, had been raised from birth to fear and prepare for.
Within the walls of precious marbles and handspun gold, the king always saw blood.
George breathed in the constant copper tang that sat in his lungs alongside the dew of rain pearling on the glass of the open window. The moon’s pale glare shone upon him and he couldn’t be bothered to glare back.
The night was a rare moment of silence amongst the screams of duty. The paper, quill, and ink upon his desk lay dead in his wake, the choking glamor of his wardrobe hidden from his sight, replaced by the plain silk of his nightgown.
Alone at last. The night air chilled him like a lullaby, but its song couldn’t smother the whispers of fate.
George knew the cruelty of the world, was often the harbinger of its ruin when he raised an iron fist to his adversaries. The weight of his crown brought cruelty upon himself, bureaucratic whispers his poison and hired shadows his reaper. The sacrifice of his mind, body, and soul was for the people, their callused hands carving the throne he sat upon; it was for his family, their blood forever mingled with the symbol he wore and the power in his veins. For all his selflessness, in the deepest recesses of his cowering soul, George knew the true reason for his determination.
I will not be forgotten like the kings before me, names a curse in peasant’s mouths. I will die in greatness, immortalized in respected paint and stone.
His delicate fingers wrapped tighter around the plushness of his covers, the darkness of his thoughts forcing away the call of sleep. With closed eyes, George tried to dream, focusing on the thudding of rain and comfort of his sheets. But the moon continued to glare and tonight it seemed, even the silence couldn’t quiet his own voice.
Moonlight continued to survey him, its watchful eye glued to his form like a white sheet, shadows growing longer. It became too much to bear.
George opened one eye, letting it settle on the vanity mirror across from him, his own face made dull and grey in the dark. He was accustomed to the paleness of his complexion, as if already prepared to be remade in alabaster. He was a dead man walking.
And as a dead man, George knew the many shapes of death. Only a fool couldn’t spot them from the shadows. In that captured moment of rain and quiet, a figure loomed above him from his silvered reflection. George saw death.
His eyes widened and his heart beat the blood into his throat, ready to be spilled as he recognized the flash of a knife and telltale darkness of cloth. Another reaper had come to claim him.
With the speed and silence of an owl, a gloved hand smothered his mouth, a cloaked body silent as it slid upon him and trapped him in a cage of fabric and legs. George didn’t even try to cry for help. Of all the shadows the king had faced, none had gotten so close to him unawares. This reaper was a master of their craft.
The cold press of metal to his neck was familiar but he still shivered at its touch.
“Hello your majesty,” a hushed voice rasped from beneath a black hood. Haloed by moonlight, George could see nothing of the man threatening his life. All he knew was the cloth void wrapping his shoulders and the rumbling of his voice.
Will this one finally be my death? George wondered, prone within his own room. But he hadn’t survived countless attempts on his life only to roll over and let death win.
With the same expert finesse, gaze never wavering from the intruder, George slid the knife from under his pillow and curled the handle into his palm. Not until the blade sat firmly between them did the man notice the silver dagger at his nape.
Hand still firmly over George’s mouth, the man looked down and chuckled. “I expected no less from you, your highness. Although, should you stab me I’d still have time to slit your throat.”
George’s brow pinched, all practiced authority directed into the fury of his expression.
If I’m to be forgotten, you shall be forgotten with me. The point of his dagger dug deeper into the intruder’s belly. It drew a soft gasp from the man.
“You’ve made your point, sire.”
George continued, pressing harder.
“Stop,” the man growled, pressing his blade further in return, the sharp edge threatening to break skin. “Let me speak before you try and gut me.”
George stopped, letting the stalemate linger, and observed. The man in black breathed down on him, the barred edges of his teeth visible beneath a face half covered by an odd white mask. Now that George had the time to notice, he noted the wetness of the stranger’s clothes, dripping from the heavy downpour. That meant he hadn’t come through the castle halls, he’d climbed directly from the window without the king hearing so much as a drop out of place. Whoever wanted him dead this time must’ve paid very well for such a skilled hitman.
“You know why I’m here,” the man began in a low tone. George almost laughed at such an obvious statement. “You play a deadly game here in your castle and to put it lightly, you really piss off a lot of powerful people. Many of your colleagues want you dead, your majesty.”
That was a truth George had accepted long ago. It was no surprise to him that many of the aristocracy were displeased with his choices. The game of the crown was a game of balances; to satisfy the people or to satisfy those who ruled them. In all the time George had reigned, he’d never managed to appease both.
“They hired me to kill you and they offered quite a hefty sum for your untimely resignation.” George tightened the grip on his knife. “But I won’t.” George’s brow furrowed further, searching for any sign of a lie for what assassin would take such a risky bounty only to abandon it when the prize was in his grasp?
“I think you’re good for this kingdom, my lord, and it’d be a shame to end your reign so soon,” the man said, his tone ever eloquent but firm. “So I have a proposition for you. In exchange for some payment and waving of my crimes tonight, I won’t kill you and I’ll give you the names of the traitors.”
George stared at this unknown man with his life in his hands. Even from the gilded cage of his castle, George knew accepting the proposition would come with dire consequences for the stranger. A hitman’s reputation was the pinnacle of their livelihood. Despite the man’s obvious skill, clients would be hesitant to hire a man who’d sold out his own patrons. This was not a deal to make lightly.
Who was this stranger who’d risk his life for the crown? Who was this man, who’d only seen him from afar and thought him good enough to spare?
“I’ll let you speak now,” the man said. “Try to scream and I’ll change my mind.”
George nodded, finding relief as the worn leather was removed from his mouth. Even now that he found himself free, he did not speak. He simply breathed in the air he had the honor to breathe again, glad to find his heart still beating.
The fear of death moved aside and George stared with a curiosity he hadn’t felt in a long time. The first words from his mouth were not what he expected.
“Who are you?”
The man looked down on him, his mouth setting into a thin line.
“Just a dream, your highness.”
George let his dagger lower back to the bed.
“It’s nice to meet you, dream.” The smallest uptick of a smile graced the man's face.
“What do you say, sire?” The blade still sat on George’s throat but the king found no threat in it.
He responded quietly. “That sounds suitable.”
“Wonderful.” As silent as he’d struck, the man straightened, sliding his dagger into his belt and lifting himself from the king’s bed. “Let’s hope your promises are as unbreakable as your nerves.” With bewilderment, George watched the man step back from his bedside, a gloved hand outstretched. Mindlessly, he grabbed a hold of the black leather and let himself be pulled to his feet.
They stood on the hard marble floor, the moon’s eye now shadowing both of them, the stranger’s body leaving him in darkness.
“Forgive me, my king.” The man bowed low, kissing his fingers where a ring would be. The gesture only lasted a second, the stranger quickly stepping away to the table and grasping the waiting quill. Still, the king lingered, fingertips gracing over the spot where lips had touched. With his back turned, the man took a spare sheet of parchment, quickly dipping the feather tip into the ink well and scratching upon the smooth surface.
George listened to the etchings of the quill, spelling the names of those he’d doom come morning. In the blink of an eye, the paper was held before him and he accepted it with a gentle hand. He quickly skimmed the names and found no surprise in who he found among them. When he looked up, the masked man stared back, a waiting silhouette.
Without a word, George walked past him to the vanity. Popping open a drawer, he searched briefly before withdrawing a single necklace, one of many made for him but only one was needed to acquire the wealth this man desired. He turned, holding up the long golden chain engraved with flowers, rubies, and diamonds.
The tensing of the man’s shoulders was all he needed to know that it was enough.
George dropped the necklace into the stranger’s waiting palm and withdrew his hands to clasp them behind his back, head held high and proud. Despite the plainness of his attire and the vulnerability of seconds before, all must know even in the comfort of night, George was king.
The man tucked the jewelry away into his robes. “Thank you.” He bowed one last time, turning towards the open rain and jumping onto the windowsill.
“Wait,” George ordered.
The man paused.
“Where may I reach you, sir dream?” The stranger smiled at the nickname.
“If your highness wishes for my presence without the desire to kill me, send word for the Faceless. I’ll hear.” Without waiting for more, the stranger turned back to the night air. Raindrops came down in ribbons to pelt his broad shoulders and covered head. In the glare of the moon, he was but darkness, unseen by even the stars. The stranger leaned forward without so much as a rustle, dropping from the window sill. The black of his cloak disappeared over the edge of stained glass and marble walls and he vanished.
George stared at the spot, hands still clutched around the paper revealing the thorns that’d plagued him for years. He’d check before executing them of course. He wasn’t one to accept truths blindly, but if the stranger was truthful then his rule would grow even more powerful. Unforgettable.
He quietly closed the window, locking it back into place with a click. The warmth of his bed welcomed his return gladly and he sunk into the pillow hiding the shape of his knife, as if it had not almost been used a minute before.
George closed his eyes once more and somehow found more peace in the wake of his near death. Beneath his eyelids, the darkness matched that of the stranger’s clothes and as he slipped into slumber he could only wonder who the man could be.
The next morning he’d send out his eyes and ears, always watching, always listening. The evening after that, he’d hang twelve men for treason, and the next, he’d send word for the Faceless.
If a man such as he could breach the castle unseen, possess a strange loyalty to the crown, and unearth so many worms, what else could he do under the payment and sanctity of the king?
Blood would always pool in the walls of his kingdom. But George didn’t mind its stain, the crust it left on the walls because it was always there, always remembered. He would add to the layers of red like an artist until his touch was embedded so deeply it would become essential to its foundations. With the Faceless, George had a feeling the blood would run with ease.
George had a feeling the Faceless would never be forgotten.