I am accustomed to being unliked, even hated. Truth be told, I am familiar with far worse than that. Such is my lot in life as king, and it is for this reason that I can give no quarter, not even to those I had known in a time prior as friends. Still, as much as the heart tries to forget, to harden itself, it invariably cannot, for it is prone to swell and burst at the slightest provocation.
So, it was with heavy heart that I did battle with the son of a dear friend who is longer counted among the living. Nothing to do with me I assure you, just the cycle of life running us over again and again. His progeny on the other hand had revolted against my authority and even now leads a handful of men against me, a matter I could not let stand.
Though, if I were to tell the truth, I had to admire the lad, entirely in secret mind you. His simple reason for this revolt, I was the wrong man for the job and he the better. Still, it was the myriad of insects that gather round such men that compelled my anger. To such as they, there is no noble purpose. They cared only to advance their station in life by way of shortcut.
A new king would require a new staff and these trusted men would be among the first chosen. But I was king and could not allow for such folly, though it be made in perfect frame of mind. The people had to see me be strong and my wrath burning brightly. If others found me weak then they too would rise up, splintering my kingdom's factions the more so, until several such armies would emerge and eventually devour themselves.
Such is the burden of being king. As a simple, singular man I had not the power to move mountains, nor could I ever, but I had to make the people believe I could. Only their unfaltering loyalty can keep this kingdom safe. Without their assistance I can do nothing. Yet, as is the case with ironies, they could never know this one simple fact. They had to believe me to be better than a man. I had to be a god. All of my actions had to speak of a higher, unfaltering nobility.
It is why my personal walls were built so high and so far away from my people and their ever prying eyes. So that they could not see me struggle in my daily life. So they could not bear witness to me give in to the forces that surround all men. They could never know for certain that I am just as weak a man as any other.
In their presence I had to walk upright and never falter or even stumble. I had to feast and make merry. In short I had to be everything that the people required me to be. So I am in effect, everything that they had created me to be. However, I could not think on such matters now. I have a revolt to put down.
I take to the field, surrounded by a company of my finest troop, but this is not a battle between armies. No, this is a war between men. I had entered the conflict as king with a crown upon my head. I would leave the same or not at all, such is my driving notion and nothing has the power to dissuade me from my all encompassing path.
The battle is fierce with my men standing their ground in protection of their king and his men fighting to establish a new order of things. Even he, the commander of my enemy, enters the fray. Such bravado moves me, but not enough to throw myself into the maelstrom. I am the leader of my faction after all and must maintain a position of authority.
I watch from my place of security, surrounded by my personal guard and am in such awe of my rival that I even forget, for only a moment mind you, that he is my sworn enemy. He displays such ferocity, such tenacity, that I… One of my soldiers gets behind him and renders him unconscious with a blow to the back of his head. And thus I prevail.
To his credit, my opponent did not give up easily, that's for sure. It took all the men of my company and half of them did not return home. Had this been a battle with a rival nation I could have let my adversary free, perhaps even given him a position, but I could not. He had transgressed against the crown, he has to die.
The day for the execution is like any other, but at its end one less soul would be counted among the living. I'm prepared for the undertaking, with two of my bodyguards in escort, two banner bearers to herald my approach and four youths to hold my tent. It is a sunny day after all and admit it, had you such an entourage you would definitely do the same.
The prisoner is brought before me accompanied by a priest and two of his acolytes which hold the condemned fast. He casts his eyes upon me and in them still burns the fire of his conviction. It is as though he believes victory is still possible, either that or his hatred of me is so strong it will not allow for any other expression.
But why? Have I really done so terribly wrong in my lifetime appointment? All I have done is advance the policies that my predecessors put in place. Truth be told, I've done very little with my monarchical powers. So why am I the hated one? I know not and he will not answer, even under threat of torture. I'll guess he'll be taking that secret to the grave.
We form up in front of the castle gate and the doors are opened before us and into the open pathway. We march past the people who stand in silent vigil with their eyes wide open and their bodies still as gravestones. There are no jeers or accumulation of rotten produce to throw. That is simply not how we do things.
You see, ours is not the typical kingdom that you may be used to. We do not make sport of our executions. No. They are a solemn, religious event, carried out with reverence and in the presence of a proper priest to ensure that all is carried out with the appropriate amount of devotion.
In this manner do we traverse the road that lay before us and I make sure that our parade is of the utmost discipline with neither slouching nor bending. That is, to the extent that I felt was unnecessary to our actions. I am not a monster after all, no matter what my critics, those I allow to live that is, should say.
At last we come to the place of execution, a steep cliff side from which we can see the sun as it sinks low, drawing nearer to our company. I stand with my entourage at a distance and watch the events as they unfold before me while being produced a simple field chair to sit upon for my comfort.
The acolytes, powerful men in their own right, maintain their hold on the prisoner with their backs to the setting sun, each holding an arm. The man to be sacrificed is still struggling, as any of us would, but he does not beg or even whimper. He just continues to stare me down and it sends a shiver down my spine.
The priest advances upon him while holding a rounded, stone mallet high, invoking the blessing from the sun, before leading us all in a prayer. Essentially, he thanks the great ball of light for providing us with its incredible power and that we, its grateful children, will root out all the heretics who have turned their back on their father. Prayer concluded, the execution commences.
It's a grisly spectacle to be sure and takes all of my stomach to keep from getting sick. The officiator, employing his ceremonial weapon, smashes the right knee of the condemned. I hear the sickening crack and see the blood, bone and flesh explode, followed by the victim's screams. He remains standing only by the strength of the two acolytes. But it's not over, it has only just begun.
Next is the other knee which fares no better and is just as messy. Again the sacrifice remains standing only because he is still held up. Then the criminal is thrust down, forced to kneel upon his ruined knees, while his face is contorted in agony. It is so graphic and overly violent that I find myself squirming in my seat.
The priest returns to his dark, disturbing work. Two blows have been given, two yet remain. The shoulders come next. They are given one at a time. The same blood, flesh and bone exploding with each strike. Now is the condemned ruined, ready for the final assault upon his person. The acolytes drag the mangled body to the edge of the cliff, whereupon they cast him down the face of it.
The execution is concluded and the priest offers further prayers to the dying sun. I'm glad I don't have to bear witness to such barbarity often, as it's a punishment reserved only for those guilty of high treason and heretics, of which there are few. Still, if there's one consolation it is that the crown and all it protects are safe for another day, or so I thought.
I know something is wrong when I hear the priest stop short his prayers. At first I think I'm seeing things, obscuring shadows given off by the dying rays of the sun, but it's no illusion. A hand holds firm to the edge of the cliff. A second hand follows. Then a body hoists itself up. I can't believe what I am seeing. The condemned has returned.
His flesh still bears the marks of the execution, but is not encumbered as it should be. Upon what should be ruined legs does he stand, his head held high by muscles that should be incapable of supporting it. Flesh lay exposed, bone protrudes and yet it seems not to bother him in the least.
I do not dare move or even breathe as I marvel at the awesome spectacle. I think at first that we are witnessing a divine act, but it seems the priest has a different notion. The mallet still in his possession, is brought down upon the crown of the condemned man's head. The stone explodes, throwing fragments every which way, penetrating the face and bodies of the priest and his acolytes, all of whom fall to the ground, clawing at the embedded projectiles.
I'm finding it increasingly difficult to accept what I'm seeing. Indeed, if this were a tale recounted to me, I would have believed none of it. But I bear witness to such miracles and have not the luxury of denial. I wonder for a moment what other wonders I am to behold, for these are not normal circumstances. Truly, these are extraordinary circumstances that dictate their own logic.
The condemned flashes his eyes upon me and I see the fire in them. He advances, passing the felled bodies of his latest victims, without ceremony. They're not his true targets, just some fools who got in the way. It is I, who am his true target and it makes me squirm all over again. But I am not alone.
Before I even knew what's happening, my bodyguards charge as one to deal with the threat. They each take to a side and draw forth their swords, which they swing so as to cleave into the neck of the condemned. The steel of their blades proves no more resilient then did the stone of the mallet, for these weapons as well shatter, launching themselves into the flesh of their wielders, while incapable of doing the same to their target.
The attack has caused the condemned to check his step, but only for a moment. What's more his eyes never leave mine. The whole while I can see the fire rise, though it feels so cold, intensify and it gives me cause to doubt myself. He stands resolute with flexed muscle, taking full advantage of his ruined body.
The pendant bearers flee for fear of their lives along with my tent bearers who throw away their charge into the dust rather than have it fall on me. This leaves just me to my fate and the agent who would see it carried out. Wasting no more time, I draw forth my sword. Not certain if I would fare any better, I opt to thrust the sword into his chest. It breaks, but does not become a deadly projectile directed at me. Instead it simply falls harmlessly upon the ground.
I hold then the handle of my weapon, uncertain of my next action, but the opportunity is soon robbed of me. The condemned draws nearer and extends his hand. I watch with trepidation as his digits open wide, wrapping themselves round my neck. His eyes never wavering as he raises me into the air, crushing my throat.
I can hardly breathe as I struggle to free myself, but it's no use. I cannot prevail against this power, against this opponent. Only one thing spares my life. In my struggle I dislodge the crown that was set firmly on the top of my head. It falls from its place and rolls about in the dirt before coming to a rest against my adversary's foot.
All at once the fire dies in my killer's eyes. He releases me and my body slumps to the ground like a sack of old potatoes. I struggle to breathe as I clutch at my throat to remove the vice that's no longer present. I'm on my hands and knees, sweating profusely when at last I am able to draw breath. By that time the condemned had retrieved the crown from the dirt and even now stares at its golden face. He turns his face to me and smiles.
I grow very cold. In a single motion he spins about and flings the golden headpiece after the final rays of the falling sun. My adversary may have begun this fight with designs for the crown, but I now see that any such ideas have been discarded. Through sheer reflex I reached out, but I know it's in vain. I crawl to the edge of the cliff and extend my hand into the encroaching darkness. I can't see my crown. It is lost to the surrounding hillsides. But I try all the same.
For a time I remain in that position, but not alone. The condemned, my adversary, was there as well. His gaze turns upon me and I feel it burn the back of my neck. I avert my eyes further and look completely away. He laughs. He turns and laughs again. All the way down the pathway the cliff affords, does he laugh at me.
He knows I'm ruined. I can't return to my people without the symbol of my authority. I am no longer the king. I'm smothered then by my previous resolve. I would return king or not at all. The first is denied, leaving only the latter. I stand up, walk to the edge of the cliff and take a step more than the ground allows.