The King and the Apostate

“Speak now.” Demanded the iniquitous king. The apostate did not shudder when the gleaming edge of a sword lay upon her scalp. 

“Your words will save you.” 

The sky was fraught with ash, causing the setting sun to run as red as her children’s blood. Embers from her burning home fell upon her shoulders as she sat in the mud crying. Bodies littered the muddy paths between the burning vestiges of her village.

“One who has lost everything cannot be saved.” A brave retort made the blade press into her skin, letting blood from her scalp. 

“You have no fear.”

“Aye.” The blade lifted and a drop of blood fell upon the ground.  

“Look at me then.” She remained silent, proving her lack of fear through defiance. 

“Look at me, martyr.” The king’s anger grew but his wisdom calmed him. He placed the blade under her chin and tried to raise it; however, the weight of her anguish was far heavier than the blade could lift. 

“Show me your bravery.” The apostate lifted her hand and grabbed the blade, pulling it towards her throat. 

“Your people are watching from above. Will they see you die a coward?”

“No.” The blade trembled now. 

“To die without fighting is to die a coward.” The apostate released the blade and pressed her bloody hand to damp soil. 

“I did fight.” Said the apostate, “I told them to stop.” 

“And how many were felled by your words?” The apostate grabbed a handful of soil and tossed it to the side. 

“None.” The apostate grabbed another clump and tossed it just the same.

“What are you doing?” She ignored the king and kept digging. The king knelt in front of her and tried to look her in the eyes but she refused to meet his gaze.

“What are you doing?” He asked again.

“I’m digging my grave.” The king plunged his sword in the dirt and supported himself with it.

“And if I don’t kill you?” 

“I’ll die without you.” 

“With my sword?” He stood and took a step back from his sword which he left standing in the dirt.

“No.” He stared at the apostate for a moment in disbelief. 

“Take the sword and strike me down.” He demanded.

“Why should I strike you down?” Asked the apostate.

“So I can see your strength. So I know it’s there.”

“I am stronger than you can know.” 

“Then strike me down.” The apostate continued digging her grave with her bare hands. The king clenched his iron fist with anger in her silence. 

“Killing you wouldn’t be revenge.” Said the apostate.

“How so?”

“My family isn't in pain anymore.” The apostate didn’t say anything more, confusing the king. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Their pain ended when their cries were silenced. Killing you would only free you from your suffering.” The king didn’t know what to say. 

“You will stay here with me. That will be revenge.” Said the apostate.

“And if I leave?” Asked the king.

“You’ll remember me.” The apostate’s grave was rather deep now. Her fingers were tired and her nails stripped from their roots. The king trembled as he grabbed his sword. He stared at her for a moment before he pulled it from the soil. 

“And if I kill you now?” His voice trembled along with his body.

“You’ll never forget me.” The king shook with intense anger. 

“You will fight me, blasphemer! Get your revenge!” Screamed the king. He unsheathed his dagger and threw it into the apostate's shallow grave. The apostate grabbed the golden hilt of the dagger and lifted it. The blade gleamed red in the setting sun. There was as much blood on this knife as what was on the king’s sword. 

“What is keeping you from killing now?” Asked the apostate. He pointed his sword at the apostate and said,

“Fight me!!” 

“Fill your blade with the blood of the innocent once again.” Demanded the apostate. 

“You, innocent?! The innocent worship God!”

“The innocent don’t kill.” 

“I am doing God’s will!” 

“By breaking His Commandments?” 

“Silence, heretic! Silence!!” 

“You killed my children.” 

“Silence!!!” 

“Strike me down!!” The king shook with anger. He clenched his teeth and swung his sword about wildly. 

“You have committed more sin than any one of us.” Said the apostate with a tear streaming down her face. She finally looked the king in the eye. What the king saw in her stare terrified him. 

“Agatha?” He shook his head, “It can’t be.” The king looked over to the dead bodies littering the streets. 

“No, it can’t be.” He turned back to Agatha and said,

“I thought you were dead.” 

“I ran from you, father. I ran from your sickness.” The king shook his head in disbelief, “I gave you a chance to live in ignorance. You should've killed me.” The king looked at his dead grandchildren surrounding Agatha. He then looked to the sky and let out a ferocious howl. He looked back down at his daughter and hung his head. A violent sob exited his body as he turned his sword on himself and plunged it deep into his chest. Agatha watched blood spill from his wound as he staggered backwards. The king fell to his knees and looked up towards the sky. Tears streamed down his face as he started to mumble a final prayer. He asked for forgiveness before his lifeless body toppled over. 

Agatha saw the king’s men approaching so she climbed over her father's corpse. She then grabbed the sword with both hands and waited. Once the king’s men were close enough, they could see the woman holding the sword in the king’s chest. The soldiers wailed at the sight of their dead king and cursed Agatha who remained motionless. The king’s men brandished their weapons and ran towards her, splashing through bloody puddles as they did. They thrust their spears and swords into her without hesitation, killing her near instantaneously. Agatha’s body slumped over into the shallow grave she had dug for herself, but no one came to bury her.