Bleeding Hearts

Azarel gasped as the cold blade passed through his chest, staring into the sneering face of his daughter, his first child, as the chill of the blade was slowly replaced by the searing heat of pain that travelled through his body quicker than he could speak. In her face he saw anger, grief, pain but no regret, her eyes burned with hatred as she stared down at his now prone body on the cold stone floors, quickly turning warm with his own blood.

Perhaps he should have expected it, for her to be his end, he knew she hated him, both his children did -and honestly so did he- and he knew it was his fault alone. He had turned their hearts against him. When his wife, his dearest Evangeline, who he had loved so much but never enough, was still alive he had blamed her for his children’s distrust and dislike towards him. He had blamed her for so much, his Evangeline, who he had killed, not with his hands, no, he was far too much of a coward for that, no, he had killed her with his words, his actions, sharper than the sword which was currently sticking out of his middle, he had bled her heart dry, spearing it and spreading it out before him, until it had become too much for her gentle soul to bear and she left.  In her final moments, she was merely a shadow of the woman he had met and married and perhaps he was a shadow of the man he had been then as well.

It was then, after she breathed her final breath that the distain turned to hate, the caution to fear, the silver of respect that had been there was destroyed by the grief, in its wake, pain, deep sorrow and unbridled loathing. He would say love turned to hate so quickly but his children had not loved him for a long time.

“You killed her!” his eldest had hissed, the fire in her eyes burning hotter and more fiercely than the fires of damnation themselves.

He had yelled at her, argued, wanting to pass off the anger, the guilt that wracked through him, after all that was what he had always done, to Evangeline, to them. He denied it, of course he had, screaming back threats and warnings, spewing poison from his lips. He didn’t kill her, he never touched her, she was already on her way onward anyone could see that. He didn’t-

“You might as well have.”

It was not an accusation, the air around them rang with the truth, cold and unforgiving, for while his daughter’s anger had always been hot, swift and searing, melting the flesh off her victims bones, his son’s was cold, chilling in a way that could pierce your heart, leaving you breathless as you tried to gasp for air and freezing your lungs further with each inhale. Yes, his children, Evangeline’s children, were hot and cold. Apart, they crippled their victims, together, they destroyed them, melting their flesh and freezing their bones until they were hard and brittle and so easy to break, till there was nothing left of them but dust.

He had left then, unable to look at them, to see his wife’s eyes in his daughter’s, burning with fury in  her face, his face reflected back at him twisted a vicious sneer, he couldn’t see his wife’s face in his son, a mask of frigid hatred, as his eyes, eyes that Evangeline had always been so pleased to say were just like his, shone with disgust. He left his children there, sobbing over their mother’s body.

 The physician had said she passed peacefully in her sleep, that with the illness that had already gripped her there was no better way for her to die, at least her last moments had not been in pain.

It was a lie and everyone in that room knew it.

He never went to her funeral.

He remembers little else in the years that passed. His family, what was left of it had grown further and further apart, his children barely staying in the same room as him, unable to look at him without letting their true emotions show.

His kingdom slowly fell apart, one war after the other, there was no more dancing, no singing, no celebrations, there was no joy. Not long later famine spread through the land, as if Evangeline’s blood, the blood that was on his hands, dried up the water and scorched the earth. The people, his people that had been one of the best kingdoms in all the lands had fallen. It was his fault as well, he knew, his pride and rash actions that had always been tempered by her steady hand and wise words now had free reign.

In time, he had stopped listening to his advisors, accusing them of conspiring against him, there was more blood on his hands and he couldn’t wash it off. Yet still he justified himself, claimed he was right, it was only a matter of time before they would leave him, before they would betray him, make him look weak. So he struck first.

In hindsight, it really should not have come as a surprise when they revolted, when he found out that his children were the leaders of that rebellion. But at the time, all he had felt was fury, so he struck first, as he always did and sealed his fate. He swung at his daughter, his child, fury driving his actions, anger pushing him onward until he could hear nothing but the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. She had moved at the last second, the sword that was meant to pierce her heart went into her shoulder instead. He had struck, he had drawn first blood, he had started the battle and she would finish it.

 His son had left with the others, bringing down the kingdom as they went leaving just the two of them. They fought, the world melting away around them until the only things that existed were the cold steel and the heat of the battle.

He injured her, always aiming to kill but never succeeding. She had always been a better fighter than he was. In the end, she killed him, with his own sword no less, he didn’t know how she had managed it but she had. He was bleeding out, it was fatal he knew, he had lost too much blood to survive. He knew he deserved this, slow, agonising  ,to reflect on his mistakes before he finally journeyed onwards to face his judgement but he couldn’t help but beg, for absolution, for forgiveness, for a swift end, not with his mouth, there wasn’t enough time to say all he had to say, all he needed to say but with his eyes.

He did not deserve it, he knew it, she knew it, yet in his daughter’s eyes, in Evangeline’s eyes, in all the grief-pain-fury, he saw it, a sliver, just a sliver of pity.

The sword in his middle was pulled out positioned, this time just over his heart and was plunged down and he knew no more.

________________________________________________________________________

Queen Lyowe stood by the now dead king and lay his sword on his chest, the hilt above the gaping wound it had just left. Usually, the sword would go to the victor of the battle but she did not want it. It was bathed in war and in the blood of too many for her to hold it without felling the burn of it.

She stepped back and turned to look at her brother who stared at the man before them in contempt.

“He did not deserve it.”  Alrand hissed, ice hanging onto each word.

“I did not do it for him.” She replied.

They stood, side by side mourning everything and everyone, their mother, their kingdom, their father who had died long before his body was put to rest, the people they were and the people they had become.

As night fell, the last traces of Azarel’s kingdom that had not been shattered, burned to the ground and in its ashes, a new one was born.