Figurehead

one

He wasn't meant to rule.

Third-born of the former king, at birth he was granted no birthright, no inheritance to the crown. But then the eldest, his brother, the heir, discarded blood, crown and duty for a toxin flooding his veins. And then the second-born, his older sister, bound to a High Commander and yet still heir, died in childbirth.

Here he stands before me now.

King of the empire.

His attire is unassuming, plain, even, but a flat band of gold coils around his left forearm, and a tiny silver ring is clipped to his right ear. His eyes are vivid pools of ocean, and flat.

"Hail king."
My voice breaks the silence, but it doesn't make it any lighter.

His frown only deepens as a ghost of a smile curls my lips.

"Please," he sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns and begins walking down the echoing and dimly-lit hall. "Come," he says quietly.

I have walked this hall countless times before; walked this same smooth stone floor, passed the same stone columns, the same lanterns of dim flame. And now it is changed.

He turns and stops, lifting an arm to pry a lantern open and extract a flicker of flame before re-closing it, continuing down a narrower, darker hallway before coming to a stop before a closed door, turning to face me. A lantern fly nestled in his partly-closed palm radiates an amber glow that settles in the lines of his youthful good-looking face. I raise an eyebrow. "Well?"

He blinks, eyes refocusing on me before he turns to open the door, opening his palm to set the firefly free to light up the small and otherwise dark room. I follow him in, closing the door softly behind me.

The room is absolutely bare; no furniture, no lanterns, no columns, nothing. There are only blank walls and a dusty floor. The only source of light flits around the room a few moments, and we watch as it finally settles on one of the walls.

We face each other a moment, our shadows flooding the tiny space.

He breaks eye contact first, looking away with a sigh as he removes his crown and runs a hand over his short, tiny curls of hair. He doesn't protest or stop me when I reach out and take the band of gold from him, running my fingers over the ridged surface, etched with curling old-script.

When I look up, he is watching me. I offer it back wordlessly, but he shakes his head and lowers himself to the ground to sit cross-legged. I follow suit, setting the circlet between us.

He places his head in his hands, elbows leaning on his thighs.

I wait.

When he speaks, his voice is small, tired. If not for our closeness, I would not have heard him.

"Does my kingship even mean anything?"

I smile faintly, lifting the crown and setting it carefully on his head. He looks a king, even in the darkness, even sitting in the dust with his head bowed in his hands. I never knew his siblings, but I can't imagine any other wearing this crown so well.

"Not yet," I say finally. He looks up at me. I give him a small grin. "You haven't been king for even a day," I point out.

He grins, a little sheepishly, though his grin soon fades away. "But will it ever mean anything? Is there any point?" He locks his gaze on mine, dropping his hands. "This empire, does it need to be a kingdom? Does it need a figurehead?"

For a moment, all I can do is meet his gaze.

"I don't know," I say quietly. I take a breath. "All I know is that you will be a good king-"

"Even if I can do nothing but watch as more and more go to their deaths?" His voice is cold, his eyes sparked.

My voice stays steady. I know he needs it to. "Even then." I pause. "If you think it so unnecessary, you can change the decrees." I tilt my head. "You can make the Escatin name nothing but a name," I add more quietly.

He straightens slowly, turning his gaze to the firefly. "One day, maybe," he says distantly.

I watch him. "You're the king now," I remind him gently.

He stands wordlessly, offering me a hand, and I take it. He pulls me to my feet, his hand warm and steadying, before letting go to take hold of the fire beetle.

"Pray for me," he murmurs, casting me a look over his shoulder before he opens the door, stands in the doorway and sets the flicker of flame free. It flits away, leaving us in the darkness.

"Always."

The winds are mild, the clouds dark and blurry, though the moon is still clearly visible as a round ball of marred white stone. I lower myself to the dust and sand of the flat roof of my dwelling, sitting cross-legged as I look out over the street darkened by shadow, bathed silver by moonlight. A candle fly hovers before my eyes before fluttering away.

Few still walk the street at this time of night, although it is not cold tonight. Any who do are in pairs or small groups, heads bent low, voices hushed and unintelligible from where I sit.

It has not been a day since the new king's coronation, but I know what many are already saying, I know the questions they are asking. I have heard them echoed in the voice of the king himself. What is the point of having a figurehead?

I heave a silent sigh, glancing at the glowing pale moon before flicking my gaze over the street again. Sometimes I can't help but ask the same question.

After a moment, I rise to my feet and descend the steps into the shadows of my tiny dwelling, sliding the panel closed behind me.