The land of mystery

Long live the Queen

There they sat, on their knees, weapons removed and powerless to those above them. Swords held to their throats while their hands were tied behind their own backs. Each man had at least two guards holding them in place. Blood covered the floor underneath them, most of which came from their own allies, their friends, maybe even members of their own family. Only some of the foul-smelling liquid was from the throats of the men they tried to fight against. Their faces remained stoic against the cruel circumstances that made them unwilling witnesses to their impending deaths, yet their minds remained hopeful that their legacies would remain. That their sacrifice would not be in vain, optimistic that one day their wives and daughters would be safe once again.

But still, he sat, perched on his golden throne reinforced by the blood of anyone who stood in his way. He demanded all of the gold, the women, the lives of his subjects. Even now, he asked for too much, for he told his men to kill the fools who broke in, the fools that surrendered once they saw how outnumbered they truly were. Only once did they again fight against him, but the price of victory was too much for the men, and again they fell to his power.

The once white floor had long since been stained pink from the years of bloodshed and sacrificed freely given by the revolutionaries. The king sat, laughing, not having moved even when the wild-haired hodgepodge of farms and slaves rushed his throne room. The bloodthirsty king loved to see the violence, he lived for the death, ached for the cries of mercy that he would never give.

He sat, fat, greedy, and freshly washed while his people died in the streets from sickness and hunger. His long dark hair sparkled from underneath his overly bejeweled crown, while his long dark beard nearly touched his pants line and his uncalloused hands laid daintily against the throne's sides. His large belly jiggled while he continually bounced in his rapid excitement, his grin wide with thinly-veiled insanity that he harbored within himself. His mind was at a whirl, thinking of what to do with the so-called traitors.

He called out a halt and demanded the surviving men, ten in total, be brought down to the dungeon. While he continued to ponder the best way to torture the men in front of him, he called for nails to be driven into one's fingertips, while another's teeth were to be pulled out. One man's feet were to be broken, and another's arms.

He listed off his tortures with barely a wave of his hand, and a manic grin pulled tight over his unlined and pale face. His short legs kicked out in glee, while the men were stood up by the guards holding them. The revolters flinched at the casual mention of the torture which they would be subjected to.

The woman he took as his wife, pushed past the women he enslaved to keep him happy. She had worked tirelessly to gain the favor of everyone in the castle in order to stop this blood bath. A goal that could now be accomplished because she could now see the necessary emotion within the eyes of the guards: Regret. They now all saw the evil which their Queen had spoken of. And now was the time to revolt, for them to indeed be free from the tyrant that lorded over them.

The Queen left the side on the room she was regaled to, the woman and guards parting for her without thought. The last guard stood beside the king himself, the final defense. The Queen laid a gentle hand on the guard's shoulder before a sword was put in her waiting hand. Before the King had enough time to question what she was doing or even to finish his last laugh, she, the Queen, drove the sword through the heart of the crazy, greedy tyrant king.