Now What?

Now what? I ask myself, staring over the barren land. Enemies defeated, their corpses presenting a feast for vultures already circling above them. The sky is pink, soft, perfect for me to bask in my glory.

It has been all I wanted, to win the war. Not to bring chaos, but to bring anarchy. To defeat the king that counted our value in pennies we owned. Now, he is no more, and I am one of the first to view the land like he did just this morning. I stand where he stood, and the hallways of his lost castle are filling up with echoes of steps and cheers from people wanting to do the same. Through our victory, however, the question persists.

Now what?

I thought I had it all figured out and, up until this very moment, I did. Every second has been counted, every plan double-checked, every knife and arrow and pitchfork sharpened exactly how I wanted them to be. Every man and woman in their assigned position, every crow's cry announcing our attack predicted. Still, I was naive and thought not of life after our victory. I only craved the victory itself, to bring brave knights to their knees, to make the queen weep as she witnessed me take her husband's life. I did not think further than that.

Now what?

The land is ashy, set ablaze with the fire of war. Even victory has brought us losses, of good men fighting for justice, of crops destroyed, burnt and stomped on. Food rationing is going to be necessary until the next season, someone will have to take care of that. But who? And how? Maybe the next step is figuring that out. Or maybe the next step is the distribution of wealth – such a tedious task. Why should we need to separate the jewels? They are so beautiful to look at when placed together in one chamber. To break them up would be to demolish a form of art.

Now what?

It bugs me, the question, gnaws at my soul, and slowly shatters my initial pleasure. Now what? How should I proceed? What is expected of me?

I force my gaze away from the scene beneath the window and to the side, where a large golden mirror stood in the corner of the room. The king watched himself in that mirror every day after waking up, admired himself after looking down on the people working their hands to the bone at his will. What a sadistic man he was. Clad in silk, while others had to make do with coarse wool. What kind of life it had to be, to overlook the misery for his own benefit. Still, I envy him in the secrecy of my mind. I envy him his silk, his quarters, his mirror! I envy him his power, I envy him his life! I even envy him his death, tragic and grand. He was just benevolent enough to his people, that many considered him kind and that now he is counted among martyrs. He is making me sick with envy.

Now what?

I leave the king's quarters, casting one last look at his lavish bed and his closets, full of riches no man could imagine. I slowly make my way down the hallway, down the staircase, to the audience hall where I know I will find my right hand in the resistance, Gael. He is there, along with most of our brave soldiers who are taking the bodies of those fallen in battle out of there. No one has touched the king, though. Gael stands next to him staring down the empty bloodied shell of what he used to be. It gives me a sick kind of pleasure, seeing those robes drenched in his own blood, him lying face down in by his throne.

Gael looks up and grins as victoriously as I feel. He straightens up properly as he waits for me to join him.

Now what?

"The king is dead! Long live the king!" he cries at everyone gathered in the audience hall, grabbing their attention. They all turn, they all look at me with glee in their eyes. Gael raises the sword in his hand so high up into the sky that it could reach Heaven, and the crowd bellows with him, "Long live the king! Long live the king!"

A king? Was this what I wanted? No! I wanted anarchy, I wanted a life without leadership! I wanted no king ruling over the land, not one person to differ from the other!

But what makes a man, after all, if not selfishness? What defines one if not greed? I have always dreamed of jewels and gold, as anyone must have, and that crown does look quite lovely, drowning in its previous owner's pool of blood. Who does it fit more if not me? A farmer who has been willing to waste his life away on a field before I came along? A nobleman who has joined us in pursuit of more wealth? No. It fits a righteous man who demanded anarchy and who achieved it, even for a second, before realizing that monarchy is better for his corrupted motivations. It fits me.

I walk toward it, counting the diamonds that enveloped the ring of gold – it is quite inviting, and I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it.

I pick it up and ruby red blood drips from it. Even stained, it doesn't lose its brilliance. I don't bother wiping it off before placing it neatly on my head, my enemy's blood plain for the audience to see it. I saw, I came, I conquered. I emerge, I flourish, I prevail.

"Long live the king!" they cry. I smile.

Now what?

Now I am king.