Respite

Path of the King

Grey sits at a large conference table surrounded by a cohort of council members who are there to congratulate him on his coronation. He barely hears what they are saying. Half the time, he merely listens with feigned interest, thoughts wandering, as his mind drifts elsewhere. He cares little for the political repercussions of his victory. All he thinks about are the consequences of his actions and what they will entail to him personally. In the end, it is something that will last longer than his fleeting reign as a king. Once the meeting concludes, he exits the room with long and measured steps. His shoulders slump and he slouches his back, sighing, as he leaves behind the pontificating cast of politicians.

Grey makes his way through the wide, empty corridor in hopes of retreating to his royal chamber. Royal. It is not a word he ever would have thought to associate himself with under normal circumstances. These are anything but. While passing by, he notices the ornamental vases that stand on a console table by the wall; the dark, grainy surface of polished mahogany reflects the bright light of a crystalline chandelier that seems to hang precariously from a thin metal chain. He looks at the object with a feeling of tightness growing in his chest. He stops and picks up the container which is painted in patterns of flora and interweaving vines. It looks like it costs a fortune, and for all intents and purposes, it does. He wonders how much this small, seemingly insignificant trinket would have improved their lives if he had been able to sell it back then. He could have easily supported the entire orphanage with that kind of money. He could have helped Headmaster Wilbeck send the kids to school. He could have made things so much better and saved them all the trouble and headache. It all came down to a single piece of glass—is that what their lives are worth?

Grey tightens his grip around the neck and it shatters into pieces; the sound echoes through emptiness. There is no value to be found in the hollowness of its existence. Neither is there any to be found in his...

Grey approaches the end of the hall where, off to the side, he finds himself staring at a portrait with his name engraved on the frame. The sharp features of his face look down on him like some mocking form of satire. There are no bags underneath the absence of his bloodshot eyes. His cheeks are neither pale nor sunken in as they were when he took the photo. The lack of any visible imperfection makes him feel sick. But one thing they couldn't hide was his haunted gaze. It was cold, unfeeling. Dead. Just like hers.

Grey shuts his eyes and shakes his head, unwilling to fall victim to those memories. Not now, at least. He enters his bedroom which is unfathomably large and overly extensive for any single person to live in. It is dark inside. The curtains are tied, allowing in soft and partial beams of moonlight that hover above the panoramic view of his country. There are two chairs and a couch arranged around an oval-shaped table in the middle. He does not understand why a single person would need that many places to sit. It is not like he will invite any guests.

Grey strides past the tinted windows, ascending a small flight of stairs of all things, and sits on the edge of a giant bed that has far too much space for his liking. He stares at the glass case next to the bedside table that contains his appointed crown and bejeweled sword. It is nothing but decoration, of course. He will ask someone to bring him a real one, maybe even a dagger to slip under his pillow while he's at it...

Grey sinks into the softness. It is unsettling. His body is used to the hard mattresses that fill the living quarters of his old barrack. He shifts and turns, trying to find a comfortable enough position, but to no avail. He stares at the ceiling. Thinking about nothing and everything all at once. All the events that took place since the tournament is but a blur to him. Those following days, he hadn't slept a wink. He knows what awaits him during slumber. He asks himself, pondering if this is the price he must pay for abandoning his friends. Deep in his heart, he knows he deserves it. Sometimes, he feels an uncontrollable urge to look at his hands and make sure they are not stained with blood. Other times, he takes off his shirt and clutches his own stomach to see that there isn't a hole, with blood seeping and soaking his pants. The warm liquid scalds his skin when he recalls the weight of her toppled body in his arms. Her unmoving form. Her limp arms dangling by his side. The smell of copper and iron tinged with sweat and a faint trace of something sweet hiding in her hair. He repeats their final conversation in his head countless times. Her weak voice whispers to him. He shudders.

Grey gets up and walks to a cabinet in the corner of the room. There, he pulls out a glass and a bottle containing a dark amber liquid. He sits on the couch and pours himself a drink. The burning liquid slides down his throat with practiced ease. He savors the sensation more than the taste itself. Alone in the dimly lit room, he drowns himself in debauchery. The bottle is almost half empty now. He starts to feel drowsy, an uplifting sort of dizziness makes the pain just a little more bearable. He continues his drunken stupor for another hour or two. He begins to lose track. Concepts such as time are meaningless at that point. Without even noticing, his eyes burn and leak a liquid of its own. He ignores it, just as he ignores the guilt that he has buried away beneath a sense of procedural routine and obligation to a country he harbors more hate than love for. He lays down on the flat of the couch, neck bent at an angle that will definitely leave him sore come morning. Both the bottle and the glass are empty. His thoughts are filled with little more than notions of hopelessness. His future is just as bleak and wretched as his current state of well-being.

Grey struggles to stay awake. His eyelids are heavy and can only function while he is conscious. The hard rigid surface offers a small modicum of familiarity for his back. Before long, his eyes close, unable to fight off the alcohol which permeates his blood and body. He surrenders himself to whatever dreams and nightmares may befall him, knowing that the settling darkness was never peaceful nor free of thought. He hopes that his sense of time will work in his favor tonight...

Grey wakes up to a gentle knocking at his door, his head pounding in disproportion. The maid calls out to him. He tells them he will be out in a moment. His body rolls over the edge and lands unceremoniously on the floor, hitting the leg of the table and causing the glass to roll down and fall off as well. He suddenly understands why the bed is so big.

Grey balances himself and stands up with great effort, displaying none of the dexterity and finesse that has earned him the highest title for his status. He takes a few cautious steps, careful not to accidentally fall and break his neck or do something equally stupid. Appealing as the idea was to him at that moment. He couldn't change the path he has taken, no matter how much he regrets it. Even so, he must live on and continue forward. One step at a time. If only those steps weren't so unstable and fraught with the looming sense of death...

.

.

.

A/N: I tried out this style in another fandom and I love how it sets up the mood and tone for the story with the repetition.

Next chapter: A Glimpse of Us