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The emperor is an emotionless man, they said. Since his parents died, he has never once shown sentiment; no one dares laugh or cry in his presence. The whole town was fascinated by his pale skin and the most beautiful black hair. Little did they know what a bastard he was.
Servants and maids chattered that the only time he seemed amused was when he was with the foreign visitor. Everybody, and nobody, noticed the flaming sparks in his eyes the first time he ever laid his gaze on that man.
The man was ever so different from everyone, but especially from the emperor. Dark brown waved hair instead of long raven black, beautiful almond skin instead of paper pale skin, the bluest ocean eyes instead of bright gold, and the finest facial features—a perfect painting. A man from an unknown land, far, far away from everything he has ever heard of.
As the strange, foreign man kneels and speaks in an unknown language, the emperor rises from his fire throne, and pardons those eyes.
May the gods forgive them, as the blue-eyed learned to talk, and the golden-eyed learned to cry. No one really understood, because men and women who desired one the same were to keep it locked, hidden inside themselves.
So the servants looked away when the two of them held hands, the soldiers turned their heads, and the counselors left the room, all in understanding pity. It was a secret that everyone knew—the emperor's most precious company, his only joy, and his only weakness.
And then the downfall of the kingdom arrived. Years of faith were defeated by the tiniest amount of uncertainty. May the Gods curse those who shout against their ruler, those who harmed the innocent town and let greed take over themselves. And may the Gods bless the gleaming blade that claimed the final two lives in the temple.