With a Heavy Heart the World Turns

The king’s carriage slowly rumbled along the cobbled stones, its heavy frame creaking and groaning each time a wheel found an unevenly set stone. All around, hooves clattered along in a deluge of clonks and thumps as the mounted king’s guard shouted orders at the crowd that had formed before the execution stage. Their words were muffled by the heavy windows and thick walls of the carriage’s velvet-adorned closed cabin.

           “I do not want to watch,” Aven whined and crossed his arms. His eyes avoided his father, King Aldrayne, who sat across from him on a red velvet cushion fashionably trimmed and embroidered with cloth of gold. Nervously, Aven clutched at his trousers and crumpled handfuls of the soft black fabric within his fists.

           The king wore a raven-black long coat over a ruffled white chemise. A bejeweled ring adorned each finger, and the haughty necklace that rested upon his broad shoulders and proud chest was of heavy gold beset with rubies, emeralds, and opals. Atop his head, above a white-flecked black beard--bushy but meticulously maintained--and stern brown eyes, sat the crown of Pandamore, a hunk of finely worked gold even more lavish than all the king’s other adornments combined. He sat with his legs crossed, his black pants neatly pressed and tucked into knee-high boots of supple black leather. Across his lap lay a golden scepter, its bulbous end ringed with diamonds between two halos of silver.

           “I know, son, but watch you will. You’re nine years old. It is past time you begin learning the hardships of what it means to be king.” He sighed gently. “I get no joy from watching the execution of my own subjects, for each execution is my own failure. And it is my duty to observe the results of those failures. And, as my only heir, it is your duty as well, for one day the throne will be yours.” The king leaned back. For the first time, the prince noticed the weariness behind those sharp eyes. “Now, open the window. There’s a good lad. It is important to hear each charge as it is read.”

           Aven watched the hangman test the fallaway floor below the gallows from which hung two nooses, menacing in the morning's glow. Just to the right, sitting on a wooden stool behind a chopping block, a shirtless man who wore over his head a black hood with holes for his eyes worked his massive axe with a whetstone. The sound carried harshly through the eerie silence that had fallen outside the carriage.

“How many?” Aven asked quietly.

           The king’s gaze did not shift from the stage. “Six.” 

           Aven watched as the first man was led onto the stage, his arms bound behind his back by iron shackles. He was an older man, slender and hunched, with a weathered face and a hooked nose. A scowl further creased his wrinkled skin, and his dark eyes briefly wandered over the crowd before coming to rest on the chopping block towards which he was led. He spat on the ground but said nothing and did not struggle.

“The charge is murder during a robbery,” announced the guardsman who had led the man to the chopping block.

The moment the guardsman stepped clear of the man, the executioner approached with his axe and cleaved the man’s head off with a fluid swoop. The axe made a thud as it bit into the chopping block, and the man’s head fell into a waiting basket. The body and head were promptly removed by waiting guardsmen.

Aven’s heart pounded and bile rose into his throat, but he swallowed it down. Briefly he looked to his father, but his father’s gaze did not waver from the stage, his expression stern, his eyes transfixed.

The next four individuals, each charged with thievery, had been easier for Aven to watch. Their deaths had been instant as their own weight broke their necks, except for one smaller man who kicked and squirmed, but he stilled quickly enough.

Aven wiped away tears but steeled his resolve and spared another quick glance at his father as preparations for the final man continued. The crown suddenly looked as heavy as a boulder. Is this what it means to be king?

           The final individual, a remarkably small cloaked figured, was led onto the stage. Aven sat up as the cloak was removed, revealing a small girl with a wild red mane. She looked at the carriage with sharp green eyes, but her face carried the blank expression of one who had resigned oneself to an inevitable and imminent demise. The charge of thievery was announced again as adjustments were made to the rope to accommodate the girl’s small stature. Aven’s heart raced. He clutched his chest as though his heart would burst. He recognized her. She had been around the other peasant children several times when he had escaped the confines of the palace to meander the streets. She had even once played a game with him. She hadn’t spoken a word, but her movements were quick and nimble, and she had quickly won all the coin he had brought.

           “Father!” Aven yelped abruptly, tears already beginning to stream down his cheeks, “stop this!” His mind worked quickly, searching for a reason to give to his father. Surely, explaining that he had lost money to the girl when he had sneaked out of the palace would do nothing but ensure he was whipped upon their return.

           “A crime is a crime, even at your age. Shall we allow her to grow into a better and bolder thief like the others? Perhaps graduate to murder, like the first man you saw, for a handful of silver?”

           Aven refused to accept this answer. Still crying, he bared his teeth and scowled in anger. “You will stop this! I demand it!” he spat.

The king’s cheeks flushed. With imperceptible speed he leaned forward and struck Aven across the face with a powerful slap.

“You will not speak out of line to me!” the king settled back into his seat, his rage-hardened eyes returned to the stage.

Aven looked back to the stage as the guardsman led the small girl to the noose to be fitted. He looked to the carriage door, but his father would have him by the collar before he could get the door ajar. It was heavy, after all, and lie halfway between them. But there was a wide open window right in front of him. In a fluid motion—the movements practiced and honed by his play in the city chasing and being chased by other children—Aven grabbed the window’s edge with both hands, hopped onto the seat cushion, and launched himself through. Behind him he heard his father yell. Aven hit the ground on all fours and rolled through the momentum on his shoulder. The heavy impact of his shoulder on stone came as a jarring shock of pain mixed with numbness, but it did not slow him. He charged the stage.

The girl watched him approach with wondering eyes, the noose already secured around her neck. The hangman, unaware that someone approached, moved lackadaisically towards the wooden handle that would engage the fallaway floor. The guardsmen, upon seeing the prince approaching, hesitated and looked at one another. It was enough of a lapse for Aven to hop onto a barrel and leap onto the stage. Not once since he left the carriage did he stop moving. The hangman’s hand gripped the wooden handle as Aven approached the girl. His ceremonial short sword screamed from its scabbard as he leapt and arced the blade just over the girl’s head. It sliced through the aged rope cleanly enough to sever it in one blow. Before his feet could meet the floor beneath himself and the girl, it gave way, and they both dropped. The sword flew from his hand as he thrashed in the air, turning from his belly to his back. He landed with a thud, and the wind left his lungs. He gasped for air as his vision blurred. Before he could think to move, another form fell onto him, and the world turned black.

*****

           Aven awoke in his bed, a nurse and doctor at his side. Then he noticed his father, watching him from his perch upon a chair against the far wall by the window. Dim light spilled through, illuminating the stone chamber of his bedroom with a faint glow, and a soft rain pattered against the window's panes.

What happened? Aven wondered, barely able to form the question in his mind. Everything was fuzzy, and his head pounded. His father simply watched, unmoving. The doctor and nurse began poking and prodding and asking questions. It wasn’t long before his vision returned, but his head continued to pound.

           “What…” Aven began.

           Before he could finish the question, the events began to come back to him in short flashes. The executions. The girl. The fall. The girl…

           Aven tried to sit up, but the doctor restrained him.

           “Remain still, Prince Aven,” the doctor said gently.

           “The girl…” Aven managed to whisper in a raspy voice. “The girl!” he said more loudly.

           “Could have been the death of you,” the king scolded gently as he rose to his feet and took two long strides towards the bed. “But she lives, and for now fares better than you. For now.”

           Relieved, Aven relaxed and let himself sink into the pillows.

           “Rest now,” the king said after a brief, hushed exchange with the doctor. “Punishment later.”

           And with that he left, his crimson robes flowing behind him. He did not look back as he exited the room.

*****

           Aven started when he saw the redhaired girl chained to the dungeon pillar, her bared back to them. She sat on her heels, her face pressed against the cold, grimy stone. Already she had been lashed a several times. Illuminated by the torchlight, crimson streaks of blood glistened as they trickled from the wicked slashes left by the leather whip held by a nearby guardsman.

           “You will deliver the final four lashes,” the king said to Aven. “Then I will decide her fate.”

           The king took the whip from the guardsman and thrust it into Aven’s arms.

           Aven thrust the whip back into his father’s arms. “I will not,” he spat defiantly. The outburst sent a twinge of pain through his still-bandaged head, but he ignored it.

           “Very well,” the king said. “Then you will take her place. And the punishment will restart at one.” He nodded to the guardsmen.

           Aven looked at his father wide-eyed, but the expression on his father’s face was serious and unamused.

           The girl was unshackled and moved aside by a guardsman. She sank to her hands and knees at his feet, sobbing quietly. Aven took her place. Shortly after his shirt was removed and the shackles attached to his wrists, the lashings began. He screamed in agony each time, and tears streamed down his face. But he would not give his father the satisfaction of hearing him plead or whine. One, two, three, four, five…

           Just when he thought one more lashing would have him screaming for mercy, he felt arms wrap around his body. Red hair spilled onto his shoulder. A sobbing form clung to his back.

           “Enough,” the king instructed.

           Aven sank to his knees, arms stretched painfully by the short length of the chains. The girl clung to him tighter, squeezing his chest and pressing her head to his nape.

           “See to their treatment. Separately. Prince Aven is to be sequestered to his chambers until further notice.” He paused for a moment. “When she is presentable, bring me the girl.”

           And with that, the king turned on his heels and left. Aven listened to his heavy steps until they had faded completely.

*****

           Aven struck with his sword in a relentless flurry of flashing steel, but each attack was parried with ease. Mirabelle moved with the grace of a seasoned swordswoman, her red ponytail swinging and twirling as she defended. His final thrust, a mistake of the slightest over-extension cost him. The flat of her sword clanked him firmly on the top of his helm. While he had grown into a tall man of corded muscles, and boasted the harmonious balance of strength, height, and athleticism that came with young adulthood, she too had grown in her own ways. Though strong in her own right, she was but a whisper of his strength. But her finesse and agility came in astounding excess, and her immaculate technique not only negated his strength and reach advantage, it made him feel almost clumsy.

           Your feet slow. You move like pregnant dog, Mirabelle signed and stuck her pink tongue out playfully.

           He smiled back at her, baring his teeth. More than a decade had passed since their fateful meeting at the gallows, and at his side he had watched her grow into a woman, a callimastian and callipygian beauty with shining emerald eyes and rounded hips. Even through the black skull tattooed over her face—a measure taken by his father long ago to mar her beauty in an effort to make her undesirable to men, most notably, the prince—he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Only the repercussions she would face from his father and from court if he dared show his affections kept him honest. But his desire for her had only grown as they had aged. They had formed a bond that the king himself could not break. And so Mirabelle the Ghoul had become known to all as the Hand of the Prince. He often dreamed of running away with her. After all, she was and always had been his closest friend and most loyal compatriot. Perhaps they would get the chance, one day, to rid themselves of titles and court and expectations.  

           “But I know something you don’t,” Aven replied.

           He lunged forward and once again steel rang upon steel. She dodged and parried and ducked and deflected and pirouetted until finally a hard and precise riposte knocked Aven to the ground. She came to stand over him with a wide, white-toothed smile.

           What not know? she signed and gave a muffled chuckle.

           “You’re easy to beat when you think you’ve won,” he said.

Before she could react, he swept her legs out from under her with his own and rolled over her into a mounted position where he pinned her wrists to the ground. She panted heavily, mouth agape and chest heaving, but she did not fight him. He stared into her eyes and for a moment became lost in the vast sea of red-speckled green. Transfixed, he lowered his head. But no sooner had the thought entered his head than he heard footsteps approaching. Quickly he climbed to his feet and helped Mirabelle to hers.

“The king awaits, Lord Prince,” said Malkov, one of the five generals.

Only one week, the prince thought as he followed General Malkov. Only one week until the campaign begins. How much time would that allow him to be with Mirabelle, away from the court and his father, he wondered. Whatever time it allowed, it would not be enough.

*****

The sounds of battle roared. Screams of death, echoes of clashing steel, and sickening thuds of heavy maces crushing plate helms surrounded him as he and Mirabelle and his army pushed forward in the final battle of the campaign, the death throes of Karta’s eastern region’s military might.

Mirabelle fought at his side, sword and tabard bloodied. She moved through the crowd like a hero of legends, an untouchable and merciless tigress.

           His victory here, which now seemed inevitable, would win him the respect of his father and the love and adoration of the people of Pandamore. But he cared not about those things. The success of the campaign would bring him within reach of the one thing he truly wanted. Soaked in blood as he moved through fray he almost smiled at the notion.

           The battle had turned, and the enemy was on its heels. Aven signaled his bannerman to initiate the two remaining cavalry units to strike the flanks of the retreating army. He refocused his attention to the battle, striding forward amongst the sea of his rushing soldiers.

           Something struck just blow his neck, and his breath caught. He reached up to feel an arrow protruding from the riveted aventail. He felt a sudden wave of weakness and fell to his knee. He looked around but saw only his guardsmen who had encircled him protectively. As he fell to his back, Mirabelle forced her way through the small wall of soldiers. She threw aside her black and gold close helm as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him onto her lap. Tears began to stream down her face and her small body, beneath the fierce black and gold-plated armor, began to heave with sobs. She shook her head violently, red braid swinging wildly.

Cannot go, she signed passionately. You are my whole heart. In a rudimentary way, her fragile voice had managed to speak the final word as she struck her chest with her fist.

“You spoke…” Aven said, a smile forming on his pallid, youthful face.

She wiped the blood from his mouth.

“I’m sorry… I waited… too long...” Aven said. Damn the court. Damn my father. Damn them all. His eyes began to close, but his lips moved. “Kiss… me… my heart,” he whispered.

She did not hesitate but closed her shining emerald eyes and kissed the prince. He was there for a moment, holding her head, then his hand fell limply to his side.

She embraced him, refusing to let go, her sobs quick and gentle.

The battle raged on, but it was as if it were a thousand miles away.