Seven Sinful Crowns

King Zuhaleen

King Zuhaleen sat on his throne, staring into the empty room before him. It hadn't changed much through the last few centuries. The entry loomed before him, magestic though forboding. There had been a throne beside the one he now perched in, once. It had been his mothers before she had died. He remembered her screams and the midwives rushing in and out with fresh water, clean towels, hushed whispers and frantic eyes. He had sat in the hall for hours as they passed in and out, but had not been permitted entrance. It had been a particular torture he still had not put to rest.

He had held in his left hand a wooden sword he had ordered the toy maker to create for him, in the likeness of his own, but for a tiny hand to hold, in case he should have a brother, and in his right a doll with silver hair that shone like starlight, like moon beams and fireflies, like his mothers, if he should have a sister. When the screaming slowed, and then stopped, he sighed with relief, knowing it must be over, and clutched the toys tightly in his lap, feet bouncing above the floor too far below for his small legs to reach, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And he would wait forever, now, to see his mother and brother again, because it was indeed over in the most complete and bleak and empty sense of the word.

When he had become king, he ordered her throne removed. Seeing it staring back at him, empty, had always been the most painful reminder that she was no longer of this world, nor the tiny blue baby she held lifeless in her still arms as they brought her out, removing her from the castle as they did with broken furniture, and he supposed now, empty thrones.

He knew they must all be here, his daughters, somewhere about the castle, and they would be making it to the dining room shortly. It wasnt often that he had all of them in the same place at the same time. They were each so different, and so alike in many ways. They were all powerful, the most powerful mages in the realm, as their mothers had been. They were driven and strong, each in their own way, and they all wanted the throne.

It was no secret, it never had been. As children they had bickered over it all too often; who would get to take their fathers place when he should go through his own passing. Who would make the best king - or queen - Lilith had pointed out. They all had their strengths, and of course they were not void of weaknesses, and in truth he did not quite know who would take his place. At one time he had thought it would be up to him to decide, but as they grew older, their hunger deeper, he knew no matter what he said now, when all was said and done, they were just words, and the blades, blood, and battle lines would be drawn. He doubted he could change it, but he knew he had to try, for the sake of the entire realm. He had seen battle before, long ago, and it is a hollowness that never leaves. His daughters were strong, yes, but even the strongest of soldiers fall, and are swallowed alive by the hollow.

***********************************************************************************************

"Daughters," he says, making his way around the long table, leaving a kiss atop seven heads. "You all look lovely this evening."

He heard the small burst of sarcasm leaving Lilith's lips. He did not have to look up to see who the sound had come from, Lilith's voice was identical to her mothers, a ghost that haunted him, though he hid it quite well.

"Shut up, Lilith," Helina shot across the table. "Not all of us wish to dress like a harlot daily. Some of us are useful as more than a mere distraction."

"Envious child, one day you will realize that a distraction may be exactly what you need."

Pink creeped into Helina's cheeks, not from her sisters suggestion, but from the rage she held within...just barely.