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The golden blood was flowing in lazy waves, remnants if a once fiery beating heart, hidden away under layers upon layer of cells and extravagant material. Walls of steel, so carefully crafted to create a boastfull façade now pierced through and gradually crumbling under the weight of their makers ambition and hubris.
To some it’s be a thrilling sight – The Imperator, The monarch, the woman who ruled Okhema with such unshakable will and conviction, or as many deduce, drunken delusion – now is nothing but a distant memory. Simply a name on one of the histories countless pages. Or perhaps just a children’s fairytale, a story told not to be taken seriously, warning them about the consequences of excessive pride. No matter which, such misconceptions are bound to happen as they would never admit the impact she had. Impact, they could never accurately define.
But she won’t be completely forgotten or rendered insignificant either. No one forgets war easily. No mortal lightly accepts even the possibility of potentially losing of their loved ones, friends, companions, purely due to one madwoman’s sick imagination. They will always be haunted by their screams and cries, whilst being forced to fight in a conflict they didn’t ask for, or deemed trivial. The gold-red liquid watering the ground out of their open wounds, the horrid injuries the survivors would’ve had to endure.
In light of that, maybe this calls for a celebration. A festivity to commemorate this one-in-a-lifetime happening. “No one mourns the wicked” as the elders would say. Such a striking phrase.
But I couldn’t bring myself to cheer. In reality, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything at all. My body felt like solid rock, similar to the stone-like Titankin, wholly deaf to the commands of my mind. All I managed was to stand still and watch.
Watch how my monarchs body lay lifeless on the hard ground. How it bends down the blades of soft grass to its will. Just as it had bent down enemy armies when it still breathed.
Watch how the liquid gold streamed down her torso, slowly absorbed by her gown and the earth around her, sinking down deep underground to one day, like water, fuel the creation of glorious life forms, just as she persevered to form roots in the history of Amphoreus to inspire many after her.
Watch how her face, despite everything, was still adorned with an eternal knowing smile, just as it had been when she first asked me for my loyalty.
However, the light in her eyes, the blazing fire the ruler once carried with such dignity. The torch capable of setting entire legions with flames of hope. The mantle of the Flame- Chase, the symbol of the seemingly never-ending pursuit of peace and the determination of burning out the best possible outcome. The warmth, which captivated me for years, has now been extinguished long since.
Or perhaps not long. I couldn’t tell. I was aware that some time had passed since I’ve viciously pierced my remaining purpose cleanly in the chest, then slowly took a few steps backward, unable to risk feeling the weight of her dying frame on myself. I lowered my bloodied weapon as in disbelief at my own actions. The time felt so fickle. It could’ve been days or months and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
This helplessness consumed me.
I wanted to feel sorrow. I wanted to fall to my knees and burst into tears at the departure of the one person who’s been there for me since the beginning, the person I’ve defended innumerable times, who promised me a grand feast I’ve longed for and has fulfilled so many of my requests. I desperately wanted to feel horrible about what I’ve just (?) done. To look at my hands bathed in blood and regret not killing myself instead. After all, what is a city-state without hands and mind if not merely a collection of broken and lost parts, unable to effectively cooperate and function with one another?
I wanted to feel rage. I wanted to scream, shout at the top of my water-infested lungs in fury. I wanted to curse all the wicked gods, Titans, Aeons, other, now ascended and deceased Chrysos Heirs, even the tyrant herself. Anyone, whom I could shift the blame to for this misfortune, for making me commit this hideous crime. I’d be willing to curse out my own conscience for choosing my survival.
I wanted to feel joy. I wanted to let go of the sword I clenched so thigh, release its dirtied handle and along with it my feelings and regrets. Bury them deep in the waters of my psyche and allow myself to join the very people who were undoubtedly now celebrating the execution of the crown in the privacy of their own homes.
Alas, my body did not move an inch. My thoughts running an ultimately pointless race, were met with a thick barrier of indifference . During all the years executing her orders, killing, fighting I’ve unconsciously constructed a veil of apathy as a form of escapism or dissociation. Something to protect me from the horrors of the battlefield and my own demons. It would seem that the one thing that kept me sane throughout all the blood shed was now blocking me from expressing any reaction, feeling anything. My brain, thoughts, emotions seemed to drown in a vast ocean of nothingness.
If to feel is to be human, then I’ve officially lost that status.
My mind suddenly drifted to Aglaea, the Goldweaver, the Dressmaster of Okhema, the bearer of the authority of Romance, the dazzling golden trout. She, after becoming a demigod, was forced to bit by bit lose her humanity. I’ve had to witness it. The shift in personality. The gradual decline of happiness in her voice. It was a miserable sight. Was I to become something akin to her? A walking shell of a person, a being with no guiding light?
I thought about her works, tapestries, collections so delicately woven together, portraying various moods and styles. Even if I’d never admit it, I’ve always seen them as pieces of art, not clothes to be worn by the highest bidder. The intricate themes and notions sown into each fabric made it impossible that its maker was loosing her grip on emotions. Though that’d never stop her. The Aglaea I knew was too stubborn to give up her life-long passion, just because of some prophecy. Fortunately, fate granted her the opportunity to incorporate her work into her destiny.
But then again, she too would one day fall into eternal slumber, stroll along the River of Souls, leave.
Truly nothing can last forever. No romance, no feast, no clear day, no war, no conquest. Sush is the way of the world. Such is destiny. To it we are nothing, but color coded pieces on a checkboard, waiting to be used, then eliminated one by one.
Nothing, chunks of rock cut off from their birthplaces to be walked all over by being who think of themselves as superior, enlightened, to be carved and dyed to fit their taste.
Nothing, but strands of fabric, ready to be sown together, cut and then discarded or disfigured. Nothing, but a bunch of threads forcibly tied to each other, to be hanged on display.
Nothing, but bouquets of flowers, plants stolen for their beauty and artificially kept alive, only to eventually wilt and get thrown away.
Nothing, but a pack of lions, ruthless, jealous creatures, treated as mere pets.
Nothing, but a set of dolls, gullible obedient creations, compliant to every command, every motion presented to them.
Nothing, but a scattered dozen of coins, trinkets of imaginary value given to them only by ourselves. Value we’re willing to kill one another for.
Nothing, but words on an otherwise blank paper, written in a not yet understood language, read out loud out of curiosity, but carrying no clear meaning.
Nothing, but delicate clouds in the sky, prone to even the tiniest influences and fully dependent on their environment and others to survive.
Nothing, but a few fish in the sea, made to adapt to the watery depths, knowing nothing outside of their comfort and still insisting on their sole existence.
To fate we’re nothing, but objects of value we’d like to believe we have.
She was nothing, but an object. A queen piece, that sacrifices itself to ensure a chance of beating the opposing king, or even forcing a stalemate. A hand, that points the people to conquest and promised victory.
I am nothing, but a object. A fish, who swam away from its home to follow a lie I was naive enough to fall for. A knight, that gave its everlasting loyalty to a queen for a beautifully-clothed promise. A sword, one of many, led to endless warfare by her order. The dagger, that a hand unprecedently picked up and thrust it into her chest, her heart. That dagger, that rests deep inside her wounded organ, unable to leave. The hand, that raised it, used it and forcibly put it there, now helplessly lays on the ground, far, far away from its handle. Way too far to grant it, its deserved exit.
It’ll never leave, never move on. The hand isn’t charitable enough to award the dagger that courtesy. It’s blade will forever be stuck in her heart. It will inevitably erode and gain layers of dirt and rust. And unless someone comes along, pulls it out, washes it clean of its sins and puts to another use, it’ll never depart.
Eventually that is bound to happen, perhaps by that time the dagger will grow tired of its stillness and wish for change. It may want to gain a new identity, relocate, fulfill its materialistic dreams. But amidst the new, will it ever truly forget the hand, that once held it together during desperate times? Does it really deserve the freedom of a new life after all the ones that it’d stolen, including the hand herself?
I stood and stood firmly in place as if waiting for somebody, something, anything to wake me up from this dazed state as if, like the cloth binds the blade to its handle, I was bound to this scene by the shackles of fate. Golden blood restlessly continued flowing all around us, as well as dripping from my weapon and myself. The air was still. The place remained enveloped by silence save for my ragged breathing and the occasional:
Drip, drip, drip