The Red King [Book II]

XVIII

In James' dream, he was at the dinner table again. Chin tipped up, he was stuck looking down the length of his nose to peer above the table's edge; he was just tall enough to rest his jaw on it if he wished.

ㅤWith the edgy comfort of a royal child, his back was straight and only delicately kissed the frame of his chair. Place settings were laid for two people across one another, away from the table's heads. James' plate was empty and he was only given a single knife, positioned perfectly on the mat where it should've aligned with company.

ㅤWith tall arched windows going nowhere, and a black and white checkered floor beneath his feet that he wasn't tall enough to reach, James recognised this place.

ㅤ'It's strange, isn't it?' his guest mused out loud, as they often did. 'What they tell us to do—even more than the fact that we do it anyway.'

ㅤJames felt himself easily shrug. 'What's the alternative? If it upsets you, you can always pretend.'

ㅤDespite the absurdity of the situation, the conversation fell naturally from his lips, thoughtlessly relaxed, as if dining with a friend. With no food on his plate, he remained idle.

ㅤHis company snorted. 'I'm not as good at pretending as you are. Though, that doesn't make it all real. You can't insist things into truth.'

ㅤEven if he could study the details of the pillars, the cracks, the grooves, he couldn't view the other diner, incomprehensible of the sight, his eyes out of focus. It was more comfortable to cast them vaguely downwards instead.

ㅤ'That's true,' he seemed to allow. 'But, I'll say it again: what's the alternative to that?'

ㅤIn his daze to figure out where this familiar place was, he spoke regardless of his will, his ill-fitting body separated from his mind. The chandeliers were attached to nothing overhead and the mahogany was a little too glossy.

ㅤThe pause after his question stretched for too long.

ㅤ'Well, that would be death.'

ㅤJames stared across where the other would've been. Between them, the candle flame was perfectly still as if solid—warm and frozen.

ㅤ'People can die more than once,' one of them said. 'And that's not something I believe can be healed, no matter how minor of a death it was, or how hurt your heart was. It'll all suffocate you in the end anyway.'

ㅤ'And that's why you resigned yourself, is it? You were waiting to suffocate so it could heal the one thing it could...'

ㅤ—'Pain.'

ㅤ'Is that really so hard for you to believe?'

ㅤUnable to decipher who he was in this conversation, the voices muddled, James could only listen in confusion. This exchange sounded too clinical to be with family. He was openly reasoning about a matter he knew nothing about.