A Burden Unbearable

The young boy sat with his head against the cold window. The pitter-patter of the pouring rain fostered a wondrous curiosity within him, evidenced by the glimmering shine in his eyes. But he sat looking at the boy. Sunken-faced, the wrinkles around his once boyish cheeks growing more furrowed, he sat on his chair with his unwavering gaze set on the boy. Benumbed by his frightening contemplation, he sat staring at the boy, worried for the world he was to leave that innocent soul. For he knew, that while the boy simply heard the patter of the rain against the Earth, they were the orchestral drums sounding the impending doom of the world. Even as the chalice grew lighter with every gulp, the wine did nothing to soften the damning blows to his ears.

He knew pain. He knew loss. He knew war, suffering, and betrayal. But the sting of desolation shatters all purpose. Purpose that has led him and all the ones before him to move forward. To fight the raging winds and ensure that the candle is not extinguished so that whoever voyages on further may benefit from the faint illumination. But what is the use of having a candle if there is nowhere to go?

His palms gripped the chalice once more, only to be stopped by an arm he recognized immediately. "Perhaps you have had enough?"

"Perhaps your mother is a whore." An insult that was a caution in disguise. A disclaimer advertising to his friend not to descend into the dark, humid depths of his despair that he is sulking in. A plea to save himself.

"Harsh words. But forgiven like always. Will you stop your drinking, please," he exclaims as he steals the chalice away from his friend. Disgust shoots across his eyes like the shooting stars in the sky and disappears just as fast. His friend was suffering, and he would not abandon him, no matter the hostility.

"I say that you are just punishing yourself for nothing, really."

Wine-soaked eyes scurried to curse the man who just uttered those words. "Is that right? Why, of course, I simply relish the thought of plunging into an ocean of sadness. Why do you insult me so?"

"Because you called my mother a whore."

"Well, maybe I was right."

Alright, that is enough. Bloody hell, you are Lord Richmond, the duke of Sussex. You are the prime minister. Pull yourself together."

The chalice may have left his reach, but the bottle did not. Another swig of the sweet stuff, and the stitches on his heart started to unravel. "Why? What is the use? Soon, there may not be anything to rule. Prime minister, Lord Richmond, what is the bloody use?"

"You speak as if the world has ended."

"The world is ending," Lord Richmond screamed loud enough to puncture his lungs. He could tell from the periphery of his eye that he startled the boy. His friend gently placed a hand on his shoulder, and asked the boy to go to his mother. He whisked the bottle away from the table and placed it gently on the mantle above the fireplace.

"Bartie, you are a man of high rank, of exemplary education, how is it that you do not see what I see?" The question was genuine.

"What do you see, Arthur? Tell me."

"Do you really want me to spell it out for you?"

"Do I look like a charlatan? A buffoon? Answer me," he hollered.

No, Bartie, you are no charlatan. You are just a stubborn thorn who refuses to admit the truth."

"Which is what?"

"That before us is an opportunity to end the fucking fight." Passion always has a way of seeping through the most tranquil of minds, and it is always indelible to the listener. Lord Richmond chuckled. "I never took you for a fool, Arthur. Silly me."

The rope had been stretched beyond its bearing, and it finally fractured. "Fool? Me?" He paused only to breathe. "The heavens themselves sent you the key to divine power, and you stand there wallowing in unfounded misery like a shameless woman.

"Do you hear me? Beings from the sky descended upon this land, to offer you a boon, a weapon that vests within you the consecrated power to defeat that godforsaken Frenchman Napoleon once and for all, to annihilate that cursed country, decimate those cursed people, and you, you choose to embellish in your shameless misery like a woeful woman? I refuse to pity you."

His tears ceased. "I envy you, Arthur. I envy your mind. I envy your intellect that so conveniently refuses to acknowledge the presence of anyone besides the English and the French. Truly." Mockery never sounded so sour to Arthur's ear.

He continued on, "what do you suppose will happen to the Germans? The Prussians? The Spanish? Are they also cursed? Are they godforsaken enough to die by my hand?"

"Oh please, stop sounding like a poet."

"This isn't poetry Arthur. It's the truth. You know what will happen to every living soul on this Earth the moment I open that box. The moment I surrender myself to that tempest, you know it."

Arthur turned to face the fire, for it burned his skin less than the reason Lord Richmond put forth. He reached for the bottle of wine above him and liberated his soul from the confines of morality inculcated into him. His resolve grew firmer, his heart more brittle, and his mind more dogmatic. He turned to face his friend.

"Abandon morality. Abandon the doctrine of good. Abandon your love for your fellow man. Abandon civility. There is but one choice, Bartie." In that moment, Lord Richmond knew that he had lost. The creatures from heaven may have given him a plague to annihilate his enemies. But they gave everyone else something much more potent — an idea. An idea that if everyone else loses, they win.

"They did it Arthur. The creatures from above, they did it."

"What?"

"They won without ever fighting."

"What are you talking about?"

"All they had to do was make us believe that we were the chosen ones. We are the ones to live, while the rest perish."

"Yes Bartie. We are the ones to succeed. This is the second coming."

"Did you ask yourself why?"

"Why what?"

Why would they choose to give us the weapon? Why give us it at all?"

"Because, we deserve it Bartie. We deserve to win."

"If you were them, would you willingly give to them a thing so consequential without any qualms? Would I give to them something so valuable without condition?"

Arthur's hands were no longer in his pockets. Fists curled, his spine held steady with the tension of frustration. His vision no longer saw color; there was white in the possibility of winning the war, and there was black in his friend. And the contrast was maddening. Between the imperfect world they lived in and the perfect stood just one character.

"Enough with the altruism. You are no saint. You are no perfect being. You have stabbed countless in the back to step on their corpses in your endeavor to reach high station. Please stop pretending as if there is no blood on your hands Bartie."

"Yes, you are right. There is blood Arthur. But my sins will be nothing before the monumental mistake you are asking me to commit. You are asking me to burn the field so that they can create pandemonium."

Arthur's hand swung across the mantle, pushing everything to the ground. A picture of Lord Richmond's son, a wooden flower, the bottle of wine shattered and spilt, all lying on the floor. There was calm, albeit for a moment. There was a storm, and there was carnage. Arthur's hands retreated back into his pockets.

"Bartie, do you know what will happen if we use the weapon that they are giving us?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suspect not. Let me tell you. When you open the box, a plague will befall this realm. A plague so devastating that it will ravage anyone that stands in its path. A plague so obedient it will only hurt those that you command it to.

"When all is done, when the slaughter is finished, and your so called pandemonium is raised and put down, we will wake up to a new world. A new world that is pure, unridden by abnormality, waiting for us to shape it as we see fit -"

"A house built on bones is destined to crumble my friend."

"But my children will be kings. Kings of the new world. Where they will live peacefully, without compromise, without the ugliness and hurt that we are accustomed to."

Lord Richmond promptly shifted closer to Arthur. His hands clasping at Arthur's collar, he asks "And when your children's children ask you how they have what they have, what will you say to them? That you cleansed the world of all that is not yours so that they could sleep in a bed that wasn't meant for them?"

"Yes. And they will be all the more glad for it." He paused. "Nelson is losing the war, Bartie. Our ships are sinking. Our boys are dying. You have the answer to all of this. End it now, and end it for all eternity. I beg you," he pleaded as he fell to his knees. Arthur's hand clasping Lord Richmond's, he kissed it earnestly.

"In the new world, they will see you as their savior. The new Christ You can create a world without pain."

Lord Richmond could hear the songs they will write about him. He will be an exalted personality, someone who altered the course of humanity, a new god. The glory, the praise, the immortality all awaiting him. His eyes peered at the portrait of his son lying on the floor. He could imagine all the wealth he could give his son. Excess beyond what his vanity and wantonness could consume. An effortless revolution at his fingertips.

But will his son be able to sleep at night? Will he love his father knowing what he did? What will his son see in him but the hollow carapace that is his father? He pulled his hand away from Arthur. His body weighed heavily on his knees. Stumbling, he reached his chair and settled.

"My conscience won't allow me Arthur. I am sorry."

Arthur's hand swiped across Lord Richmond's neck. The shard of glass stained red by wine pierced through his airway, letting the atmosphere imbibe his life mercilessly.

"I am sorry Bartie."