FEATURED BY @Retold
A fight for a kingdom that belongs to neither.
Aneira Guinevere was the fairest in the land - with her flowing dark tresses reminiscent of the midnight sky, and her delicate skin as pure as snow. Though the weight of her past l...
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Lahark was dead.
The altar was once again drenched in the blood of yet another victim.. In the past fifty years, over five hundred men and women had been executed upon it.
The gentle Chantara couldn't comprehend why the crowd celebrated after such gruesome events. They would pass barrels of liquor around a large table, and later, many men would pass out on it.
Women were never invited to these celebrations, and though Chantara wanted to believe it was out of respect for the deceased, the country's existing patriarchy suggested otherwise.
The woman she had seen collapse after the execution, was nowhere to be seen after. She had hoped to get a final glimpse of her. There was a part of her that shared the pain of losing a husband.
King Tempestes was, afterall, her second.
She only wanted to do so because her final interaction with Lahark was intriguing. It had left her confused yet intrigued.
She took a giant sip of the wine placed before her.
After the murder of her sister, Lahark was caught within an hour.It didn't take much effort, as her Paris had described the man with quite the detail - everything down to the little mole on his chin.
He hadn't resisted arrest. She remembered it as clear as day - as the soldiers hauled him back, his face showed pride but his eyes shed sorrow.
"My apologies, your grace," he had whispered, as she stood there teary-eyed and humiliated.
She knew he was a good man when he spoke of his wife and children - the way his eyes would light up and sparkle. One's tongue may lie but their eyes are a mirror of their soul.
Perhaps he didn't show his goodness.
Perhaps he was forced to do something as cruel as marking the end of a human's lifeline.
But the fact that her son was alive and well, though Lahark had seen the boy as a witness, proved her point. Paris shouldn't have been there. She always tried convincing Tempestes to keep the boys away from gruesome bloodshed at least until their teen years or even their pubescence. But he always spoke of how it builds character.
She sat beside her husband and Lady Pomona on temporary thrones woven from the mangrove root, within a giant tent as all the ministers, higher nobles, squires, and lower nobles assembled to celebrate another victory. Another celebration in a tent 100 yards from the altar.
War traditions called for a feast by the battlefield as they were to pour water from the holy grail, and set aflame the blood of their fallen enemies at midnight.
A celebration of good over evil - a victory.
In this case, it was a victory of 50 armed soldiers under a single commander to hunt down one unarmed man. It could barely be considered a victory, but here they were. Traditions spoke only of victories in wars - not a petty execution.
