Personal Duties

2

Though the front of the columns were spared, those unable to fit beyond the bridge were stuck with the elements; hardly able to hear their own thoughts over the wind. Shelter provided little respite though, as the monolithic palace they invaded felt little warmer than the outdoors. From the palace's secluded height, the sight of any real city was reduced through the fog to nothing more than lanterns. Homes were unlit, but at the docks, merchant ships would load crowds of civilians onboard, and hastily attempt to escape the fjord and reach open seas.
In the countryside that the army had treated upon, no one worked in the fields and hardly a soul could be found for miles. Crops had been quickly stripped from the ground and loaded onto the farmer's caravans. Hamlets and towns were home to nothing but abandoned wealth and the ghosts of former inhabitants.

Equally devoid of souls was the palace; servants and handmaids had all retreated into cellars until the danger subsided - if they hadn't yet left the city. If Leonan had body guards, they had been ordered to leave him.
Alone, he surveyed the arrangement of tin-soldiers stretching to the horizon, until his attention reverted to those who held the army's reigns.
As if he could sense their hierarchy, he looked down upon their Lord, Leonan's stature elevated above them by the height of his throne.

"More than a hundred generations of worthy kings stand at my side - my forefathers, and your saviors."
Leonan pressed his hands down with all his strength on the arms of the throne, pushing himself from the seat, and rising uneasily onto his feet. Though his robe masked his lower body, one could tell that he was off balance and hardly able to stand. Carefully, he reached for the sheath at his waist, and drew from it a knife. The blade reflected the oncoming sunlight directly, until he lowered it to his side. No longer than five inches, its white surface curved at the tip, embroidery and remarkably crafted steel composing its hilt. Lowering his voice, Leonan turned his eyes to the tip of the dagger, muttering, "If death is what you came for, all I ask is you bury me with Mother, and never disturb our grave." Directing the blade to his abdomen, Leonan thrusted the blade to his own flesh. As the wind blew into the throneroom, blood began to flow onto the white marble at his feet, spilling down the steps and into the sunlight.