The Kingmaker

Nightmare of Memories

 Crescent moon's soft gleam

Unheard prayers meet its gaze

Night's silent witness  

The crescent moon hangs low in the black sky, casting an eerie, ghostly glow upon the forest path. A few wispy clouds drift across the canvas of stars, parting occasionally to allow faint moonbeams to peek through. The lingering drizzle from the rain yesternight has left the air crisp and the foliage glistening with dew.

The only sounds filling his ears are soft breathing and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Even though Seijuro is dressed in two layers of fur coats,  this night does not feel right. They set forth at dusk to meet his father, who was hunting for runaway slaves. Now, only the fires coming from hundreds of lanterns are guiding them. If he could ride faster, Seijuro would have done that already. But he does not wish to be seen as a craven.

He will have to watch them be beheaded, as he must. There is a reason why the lowest slaves have guards. Not to protect them from any outsider but to prevent them from breaking free. Their tongues will be severed if they commit the first offence. The second offence will involve gouging out their eyes. The third is mercy, as they will be finally set free from this world.

Seijuro is glad Tetsuya is not here. The young Dancer detests such malpractice. Duty is duty, however, and as long as he is not in power, he has no choice but to follow whatever his king father tells him to do.

Is this how the slaves feel? He shakes his head.

"That is them, am I right?" he asks his servants as he dismounts from his saddle horse. He fixes his gaze on the men, women, and children connected by chains. Three of them are bleeding so badly that flies are feasting on their open wounds. A child has lost her teeth, whilst the woman who is cradling her has lost some of her fingers.

His stomach tightens as he cages the anger inside him. If he acts now, everything he has worked for will be for naught. He apologises silently to them, to everyone else he had and has to sacrifice to achieve his goals. He does not pray, for he has no god. If gods were real and merciful, would they allow such cruelty?

"A good evening to you, Crown Prince Akashi Seijuro."

He turns on his heels, the heavy silk of his crimson robes swirling around his feet, to face Midorima Shintaro, who has finally returned. The minister's emerald silk tunic accentuates the hazel depths of his eyes, whilst towering black boots adorned with silver chains give him an air of authority. Over his big shoulders hangs a fur coat made from the finest sheepskins. His back straightens as he stands with his feet apart and his legs slightly bent. His frame is towering and strong, like a fortress, yet his elbows and knees are razor-sharp, and the muscles of his shoulders ripple beneath the thin linen, revealing his lethal grace.

"The more I see you, the more you resemble those damn far Westerners," he says, not bothering to greet him back. How could he when he was alone in this kingdom and his supposed friend had had a splendid time in another land? He is acting childish, but is anybody seeing what is wrong around him?

Midorima dips his head, as though he expected the cold treatment. It irks him more.

"I see that His Majesty himself has invited you to watch." With each step the Minister of Foreign Affairs takes, the clicking of his boots grows louder until he is beside Seijuro. "I am twenty and six old now, by the way."

Seijuro sighs. He may have no love for this kingdom or for the entire empire itself, but he ought not to blame his only friend, who has been with him since he was born. Midorima had only been ten when the late queen had entrusted him with this responsibility.