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It had been decided the night before,
when the senior men had seethed,
at the king's command.
Calls to mercy were a fine fiction,
for royalty, perched upon a throne,
but these were hard men,
who bore the trials and anguish
of the real world,
and nursed its scars for proof.
If the king
no longer possessed the stomach
to command the deserved reprisals,
then they should be rid of his entrails,
and let those
with a greater constitution,
perform the necessary duties.
An assassin had been chosen.
One who had
raised his voice in contempt,
against the king's quarter,
and risked his neck,
in the process,
would not now hesitate
to extend it,
once again.
The man had half a mind
to snatch the enemies white flag,
and in symbolic derision,
twist a noose for the deed.
But a sharpened blade
between the ribs,
would have to suffice.
The king's guards
had been given the choice
to close their eyes,
or be rid of them.
They had elected the former.
The chosen man,
climbed through the tent,
and readied his blade.
Pulling back the covers,
he struck,
plunging the sharp point
into the mass beneath.
Just then,
he felt cold steel
pressed upon his neck,
and braced himself
for the fatal blow.
It did not come.
Instantly,
he was bound by callous hands,
he could not see,
but were clearly accustomed
to the task.
A torch
flickered through the darkness,
as the weary face of the monarch,
came into view.
I knew it would be you,
the king said,
sadness saturating every word,
I had seen
that ravenous look in your eyes.
I had seen it in the mirror.
That war
is a necessity of self-preservation
is a shame.
That some men
may stomach its atrocities,
yet
find peace
a morsel
impossible to digest,
is the true tragedy.
Such men are fit for hovels,
little more.
Then, spent,
the king summoned his guards
to whisk the man away.
when the senior men had seethed,
at the king's command.
Calls to mercy were a fine fiction,
for royalty, perched upon a throne,
but these were hard men,
who bore the trials and anguish
of the real world,
and nursed its scars for proof.
If the king
no longer possessed the stomach
to command the deserved reprisals,
then they should be rid of his entrails,
and let those
with a greater constitution,
perform the necessary duties.
An assassin had been chosen.
One who had
raised his voice in contempt,
against the king's quarter,
and risked his neck,
in the process,
would not now hesitate
to extend it,
once again.
The man had half a mind
to snatch the enemies white flag,
and in symbolic derision,
twist a noose for the deed.
But a sharpened blade
between the ribs,
would have to suffice.
The king's guards
had been given the choice
to close their eyes,
or be rid of them.
They had elected the former.
The chosen man,
climbed through the tent,
and readied his blade.
Pulling back the covers,
he struck,
plunging the sharp point
into the mass beneath.
Just then,
he felt cold steel
pressed upon his neck,
and braced himself
for the fatal blow.
It did not come.
Instantly,
he was bound by callous hands,
he could not see,
but were clearly accustomed
to the task.
A torch
flickered through the darkness,
as the weary face of the monarch,
came into view.
I knew it would be you,
the king said,
sadness saturating every word,
I had seen
that ravenous look in your eyes.
I had seen it in the mirror.
That war
is a necessity of self-preservation
is a shame.
That some men
may stomach its atrocities,
yet
find peace
a morsel
impossible to digest,
is the true tragedy.
Such men are fit for hovels,
little more.
Then, spent,
the king summoned his guards
to whisk the man away.
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