A Tale of Time: The Malice of Men

Chapter 2: Death

Death is cold. Death is dark.

Death is defining. Death is reprioritizing.

Death is fearful. Death is a happy end.

Death is a doorstep, feared by all.

Who can tell what lies beyond death? Only the dead can, and they cannot convey it to us. If they did, however, either it was a poor attempt, or we are all bad listeners.

Death is certainly feared by all, and for good measure: we like certainty. Man dreams of a world full of constants, where everything is a perfect combination of pleasant and predictable. Death is a dark, ugly cloud that looms above. The very lack of light creates darkness, just as the lack of knowledge begets fear. From this fear arises a dark desire if the hearts of many men: to cheat death.

The person standing before the gold-plated, diamond-studded mirror had certainly cheated death many times, and the fact seemed to please him. Looking at himself now, he seemed a figure of impassiveness; a shimmering beacon of grandiose and splendour that could be seen from anywhere. Nobody could tell that he was fifty years old and aging. Nobody could tell that he had evaded twenty-seven attempts on his life. Everyone could tell that he was Aghbard, king and protector of the realm and leader of the old men and the new.

Quickly, deftly, he adjusted his studded red coat. There was work to be done, King's work, and it would not wait. Walking out of his chamber, he heard the sound of two silent hands opening the door in front of him. He liked his privacy.

As soon as he made his way out, twenty men flanked him on all sides, armed with cutlasses of the best sort. He liked his protection too. Briskly, they made their way through the palace.

The golden light of the morning made its way through the ventilated windows. Currently, they entered a large room. Through the doorway, a path flanked by magnificent pillars of white marbles in the likeness of old kings led the way up a short flight of stairs to a lofty throne. On both sides of it were people, courtiers and commoners alike, waiting to be heard by the king.

From a corner, a banners man announced:

"All hail! King Aghbard, Lord of Geldavar, King of Erä, of the men old and new and liege of all in his dominions."

"All hail!" the people shouted. It was, understandably, a half- hearted appeal.

The king made his way to the throne and sat in the most dignified way possible. After all, he was the lord of all habitable land known to men.

The crown sat lightly on his head, which was now accustomed to the burden of responsibility. The rich, red cloak furnished his sides, adding to his aura of strength and magnanimousity.

The court session began.

From the entrance, a man dressed in metal strode in. He seemed to be a man of high command, an important military leader, perhaps even a general. He was in truth Alvaris, minister of state in times of plenty and diplomat in turbulent times. He was playing the part of a diplomat now. Bowing to the king, he began.

"My lord, I bring ill tidings. It is regarding the scarcity of food in the land. For the first time, hail has been reported in the south; the lands of Summersdale are bare and what crops survive refuse to bear seed in this harsh frigidity. The prices of bread have never been so high. The poor have to sell their lifetime's earnings to buy a loaf of bread. Riots are being reported in starved north. We must help them."

He tried to soften the blow, but honeyed words poured over nettles are of little relief.

Aghbard shuffled on his seat. Placing his head on his closed fist, he began, "My lord, please give us some money. My lord, please house us. My lord please feed us...