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The ambassador stared ruin in the face. It stood in corporeal form, a broad, imposing man whose influence outweighed hundreds of men, his hands having forged and crushed many a destiny.
Including his own.
“Namon Darüven, you have served me well these past few years.” The king leaned forward, his brutish arms interlocked on his lap, the puffed sleeves a trademark abundance.
“It is my honour to have done so, Your Majesty.” The words reeked of vomit, the king’s blunt, bored face an irritation akin to stomach sickness.
Namon worried of an outcome he feared inevitable. He braced himself for it, pulled strings for a new plan, assured he was ready.
All the preparation in the world could not quell the dread deepening with the king’s every word.
“You are my Ambassador, tried and true, my representative to the world. I trust you grasp the meaning of that?”
“I do.”
“Do you?” His voice took a graver tone. “Your stance on some of my plans speaks otherwise.”
“As your Ambassador,” Namon refrained from growling the words. “I seek what’s best for our nation, no matter what. In what world will war do us any good?”
“This is not about what you think!” He flinched when the king banged the table, his large fist not landing far from him. “These efforts are greater than you nor I, greater than this nation. This is to reclaim what’s been lost — our people, stolen from life or for labour — and give solace to those still here. Seldaika’s transgressions have gone on for too long, it is time it ends here.”
Namon stood alone on that table, bare, exposed, the surface devoid of anything else. “And what happens when some of those sent out die on your death wish? What will you tell their family members? Their friends, their neighbours? How can you emerge from the palace and look your nation and its people in the eye, while you declare that our men have died and suffered on foreign soil? How dare you.”
The king budged no further, his voice deep and deadpan, a simmer. “An ambassador of mine is there to vouch my terms and seek the best agreement, without personal opinion muddying the waters.”
Namon huffed, flexing his right hand. “I understand, sir. My opinions on the matter do not lessen my devotion to you nor our nation. I will continue to do everything for our betterment.”
“Your determination is a striking feature, a reason why I picked you.” He held his breath, dread rising, shuffling on the spot as he glanced behind him. “And now, it is a reason I must let you go.”
“I understand.” He bowed with shaky legs, his outstretched hands tingling. A cold pit gnawed at him, the king’s words a harsh sting.
If he blinked, this would be a dream, one where the words weren’t said and no souls bled.
If he blinked again, he knew who would be here, a great boon to knock sense into the king and perhaps change things for the better.
Namon turned on his heel and left, his reality cool and prickled, knocked as if the sky flipped.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The king’s words boomed behind him, useless noise.
If he wasn’t an ally to him, then Namon would rise to the role of his enemy.
And he would revel in it.
Two guards met him where the stairs flowed from the desk, spears aimed at him.
Namon took a step back, glancing behind him. “I need to leave.”
“Leave?” The king chortled. “Who said anything about you leaving? Namon Darüven, former Ambassador of the Crown of Feudrain, are under arrest for conspiracy against the nation’s interests. I hope you enjoy imprisonment.”
He gasped, taking another step back. To one side, the curtains were closed, no windows open. On the other stood the gilded door the king strode through, also shut.
The guards got closer, a long stride the difference.
Namon’s foot met the edge of the desk, leaving him to face his destiny.
He put his hands out, wrists upward, and hoped for the best.
The guards gripped him by the wrists, bound again in rope.
Daylight shone through the corridor they dragged him through, illuminating the elaborate paintings and gold detail to his left.
Each step upon the floor carried him a step closer to doom. The guards’ breathing a routine process for an unroutine order.
Namon writhed his hands. The note in his right pocket weighed upon his conscience, calling his name, urging him to escape.
High Councillor Darüven. Foreign to his thoughts, chilling to his being. A position he never considered, though the choice was laid bare.
A prison of four walls for a noble cause and a clear conscience, or a prison of obligation to exchange his conscience for the greater good?
Both a terrible choice, with the door coming fast.
Namon stopped in his tracks, dragging the guards with him. “Excuse me, gentlemen, may I trouble you to let me send a note?”
“You can do that when we’re down there.” One of the guards said. He tugged him forward, stopped by Namon and the other guard standing still.
“What’s the purpose of it?” The other guard asked.
“You wouldn’t deny a man the chance to let his loved ones know he was jailed, would you? I have the note pre-written.”
“Hmm, I suppose if we can see the note then why not?”
“What would the king say if he found out? This man’s no ordinary prisoner!”
“Don’t you think I know that!” The other guard let go of Namon’s wrists, gesturing. “The ambassador has enough scandal from the king without any note searches on top of it. It’s better that we see it than the king.”
“Ugh, would you just do your job already?” The first guard rolled his eyes.
Namon tugged at his bindings, shimmying his wrists against each other. The ropes scraped his skin, shifting and moving. His fingers pulled at a loose part.
The first guard pulled at his hand, Namon slipping out of it.
“I offer my gratitude for your grace, gentlemen.” He gave them a mocking bow, with a gleaming smile and sparkling charm in his brown eyes. One flick of the wrist brought his note to hand, the second flick sending it out the window.
“We said for you to show us the note.” The second guard clasped Namon’s wrist.
“You did see it, though.” He smiled, winking at them.
The guards rushed him through doorways and rusted corridors, careening him down paths he never took. Gaps between torches grew wider, their flames ever smaller.
He tried not to think about it. Not his failures nor his comeuppance nor the king's betrayal.
Hollowness rattled him. It blinded his senses, grounded him to the floor, stilling him in inertia coating over the passion bubbling underneath.
He registered not the guards shoving him with a bundle of clothes into a little corner room.
The door creaked and banged in his face. Droplets met the floor, one dripping through his hair.
Thoughts mulled in his mind, plotting his escape. Plotting as the guards grimaced when the walked past, plotting further as he sighed.
"How has it come to this?" Namon leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling and muttering a swear.
All this for the love of the country, to save his countrymen. And he failed.
If anything, he worried his efforts made things worse, shuddering at the thought of the future.
This jailing was not his fault, some would say.
But what he pledged to do next, would certainly be.
Feudrain's fate rested upon the crows.