Seventh King

Stop

Father's training has always been my private hell, but I guess this is one “tutoring session” that will always stand out in my mind, when I look back on it later on.

It’s rare for a criminal to slip through Father's fingers, but, rare does not mean impossible. Some quick-witted criminal gets lucky or clever and escapes the King's clutches, only to be snapped up by some young up-and-coming officer who gets the glory and the live news interview and their picture plastered all over online news and social media. Xerxes comes home in a foul mood.

Four hours in, it is nearing midnight and I'm dead on my feet. It hurts so much that it's stopped feeling human. I've had enough. I want this to stop. I consider, just for a moment, lying down on the mat and closing my eyes and never moving again.

But Father won’t let me, even though I'm not much use for anything but taking a hit and falling. “Get up!” he snaps. “Do you think an opposing King will care if you’re tired? Do you think a soldier will stop to let you rest?” With one hand, he snags the front of my shirt, dragged me back to my feet, and shook me so hard I felt my teeth rattle. “You must be stronger!”

For all those pretty words and shouting, I'm not fit to do anything but dodge one blow before the next knocks me to the ground again. I feel the mat against his face and thinks, That’s it. I’m not getting up. He can shout and kick all he wants but I can’t. I feel the thud of father’s footsteps coming closer, shut my eyes, and wait.

In the next moment my eyes snap open, and I curl in on myself and clutch at my arm with a choking cry of pain. My stomach twists, and I grits my teeth against pain and fear and the sudden sensation of sickening guilt.

“How many times have I told you—” Father seizes me by the upper arm and drags me up again. “Ignore it! Push through and stand up agai—” He stops, abruptly, and I glance down and see why. Blood wells up from my forearm, trickling through the gaps in his fingers. “What the hell,” Father snarls, then grabs my wrist and wrenches my hand away from the wound.

The underside of my arm is slick with blood, the cuts not yet fading, and I can only stare dumbly down at them slowly recognizing the wounds as the shapes of words.

STOP

DONT HURT THEM

Father released me so fast that I nearly fell again. The sting remains, but the cuts are closing up and fading by now, the words—my soulmate’s words, my soulmate did this to me—wiped clean from my skin. I faintly almost inaudibly could hear the words I'm sorry. Repeated over and over in a whispered voice, but they weren't in my father words they were too soft-too apologetic-too sincere.

-Was, it was my soulmates then? Maybe- hopefully...no, I'm probably just imagining it.

The training session ends and, I limp to bed and all but fall unconscious the moment my head touches the pillow. Briefly, still aching, I roll over and face the ceiling. I raised an aching hand and spread out my fingers, palm to the ceiling.

You're hurting too, aren't you? I let out a shaky breath. I'm sorry, I can't do more. Just be patient with me, please. I'll find, you and I'll be your friend I promise. I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks, They won't hurt us if we're together, right? I slightly smiled, before turning over to lie on my stomach. Before closing my eyes letting my fingers run over my forearm attempting to feel that phantom marks that were there before.

"I love you." I whispered, not loud enough for anyone to hear, attempting to suppress the guilt I feel for what has be a new scar on my soulmates body. I closed my eyes and let myself drift off to sleep.