The four remains

Chapter 3

It's over. They finally caught the fugitive they were searching for. The pain in my limbs deepened. After the fight, I've just realized the extent of the pain I've been experiencing. My body burned everywhere. I looked at my arms—dirty, covered with dirt and mud. I might have passed for homeless if anyone saw me. The pain intensified with every movement, the scars that never healed were bruised once again, like the one in my heart. I will never get over the pain of my father's death and how it was my fault. No matter how many lies my mother tells me, no matter how many times she says, "It's not your fault," I could never believe her, and even worse, I could never believe myself.

Maybe I've been trying to convince myself that it isn't my fault, that my father chose his path, that he chose his death. But I try to listen to the voice that tries to lead me, and I can't. It hurts. It tears me apart. But there's not much I can do now. Locked in a coach, stuck here going toward my doom, my skin burns, torturing me. It feels as if my flesh is being ripped off my body.

I looked at the cut on my arm. For some reason, the cut hurts more when I'm alone, with no hope, only despair. I love you, Father. I want those words to be my last.

The coach pulled up to a stop. The driver and two other men appeared, grabbing me by the arms and forcing me to my feet. Despite how exhausted I was, I forced myself to stand. My knees buckled, but I remained where I was, letting my legs bear the weight of my body. "Is she the one who went against the king?" the man on the left asked.

I wanted to retort, but my mouth wouldn't open. It felt as dry as dust, and the energy was wasted. I couldn't bear it all. Another man replied, the one on my right, "Doesn't look like much, I tell ya, but she was a real fighter. Pity, she's on her way to death." He spoke without a hint of sympathy.

They dragged me into the castle, all the way to the cellars, throwing me into a cell and shutting the door.

"Poor thing, I wonder why she'd be so daft to protest against the king?" one of the men said.

I finally saw their faces. One had shabby black hair that looked like a rat's nest, and a sunken face that made it seem like centipedes lived in his eyes.

The other man wasn't much different, except his hair seemed to have a tint of brown from all the dirt. Both of them left me, chuckling as they walked back into the castle. I was left alone to rot in a cage, waiting for death to take me in its welcoming arms.

Maybe I would welcome death first. Maybe it was a question people asked in desperate situations, like this one. I felt delusional, thinking I could stand up against a tyrant, an unstoppable king who ruled longer than mortal times. His power is stronger than the peasants' will to live, and that's dangerous. Maybe now, my mother can finally live in peace, without me being a burden in her way any longer. As the darkness from my mind and the cell surrounds me, slowly taking me away from my body, my eyes shut, and I fall into slumber.

I could have sworn my death was due in the late afternoon, where everyone could see their hopes destroyed. Finally, may the king be the ruler and be known as unstoppable. "Wake up, you already know we don't have enough time!" a faint voice rang in my ears. It was quiet but urgent, like a child poking an animal with a stick, hoping it would do something magnificent, although all the poor creature wanted was rest. I mumbled something, not sure if it was loud enough for anyone to hear.

"My death can be delayed; it won't make a difference..." Once the words left my mouth, I realized they wouldn't ask for permission. They would open the chamber doors and drag me out without my consent—they wanted me miserable. Then why did a gentle voice call for my awakening?

I opened my eyes, searching for the gentle voice, only to see a young, handsome boy around my age. He looked similar to the tyrant king, the only difference being his features, which were soft and gentle instead of vicious and cruel.