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I come into a room full of eyes and orange candlelight and the quiet murmurs of those conspiring about what this criminal had to have done to be here.
And I want to scream.
And I want to holler and shout.
And I want to tell them that this is wrong.
But I don’t. I am too cowardly.
“Sir Perseus Morsimos has been convicted of treason, blasphemy, crimes against the throne, and indecent acts,” the loud, booming voice of whichever prosecutor was lucky enough to try me begins.
I get a good look of the room from my spot on the ground. The ceilings are tall and delicately carved with floral shapes and there’s panels painted with pure and perfect images of the gods and heroes of the past. Lights jut out from the stone and glow gently. The people in the risers are all angered or empty of the face.
He watches from a special box made just for the monarchs, his beautiful bride beside him.
“Sir Morsimos is to be branded and exiled, never to set foot on the kingdom’s land again. Failure to comply results in execution.”
I have no fight left.
I have no energy left to give.
So, I let them do as they must.
Marked with the sign of a traitor to the crown. The red-hot metal singes my skin and it’s like fire soaking into my muscles and bones and to my core. Only then do I cry out. Only then do I let the ugly noise claw up from deep in my stomach and all the way out to the beautiful walls and the beautiful ceilings and the beautiful prince.
And I think I hear him cry out too.
Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I carry the burden of our love. The blood of our hearts and souls stains my hands a vicious shade of red and his are left perfect and clean.
Just as he likes them.