The Golden Feathers

The king was left on his lonesome in a dark hall ornamented with memorabilia from conquests and relics from fallen foes, asides from what few gifts he has received as treaties of peace. The floor tiles were black and white, on it a rectangular red carpet lay on the floor beneath his step all the way to the entrance, its crimson color had reminded him of a violent past that never left his memory and kept him on guard for all his life, for as long as memory would serve him, and that was not for a time too long ago. Above the grand entrance an extravagant oil painting, a masterpiece of art portraying a poor child, his youth apparent and so was his agony. It was concealed beneath a thin blue transparent coat but the colors were still vivid and so was the figure, it depicted a snowy background to his unclad upper body as the rest of him was submerged in snow, his arms holding his blackened shoulders as if in fear of them falling off. Many of his subjects saw this painting for it demanded attention as they were leaving the castle grounds, in his earlier years they saw this as a way of him looking out for the destitute and keeping them in sight and in mind, later on, as his interests in his loyal subjects waned, they regarded the painting in utter disdain, they thought him a sadist who enjoyed looking at the less fortunate and found pleasure in seeing their pain. His chair in which he sat for countless hours listening to plebians, paupers and princes alike was a work of magnificence, the armrests had a head of a dragon carved on both sides. He would often grab them and squeeze as hard as he could for hours each day with his right hand missing its smallest finger, an activity he engaged in now as he was left alone to his thoughts, his eyes dilating in the semi prevalent darkness. The candelabrum struggled to stay alight, the candles that stood upright in a past not so distant were now formless, molten matter that were struggling for breath as they burned themselves to death. Wind blew inside the castle somehow from some hidden crevice and the fire danced to its rhythm, a silent symphony wheezing through an overlooked crack. The king pondered about his subjects turning, and it was not an impossibility anymore, it has already happened if not for the mercenaries he hired as stage actors, the kid who died for naught was a curse, a precursor of worse things to come. He sat on his throne for hours staring into the void, a contemptible sound in his head repeated some whispered chastisements passed around like gossips, but the words amplified in his skull, “it is cowardice to start wars from the safety of the castle gates”. He had many vexations now, many a concern raised between him and his loyal subjects whose loyalty waned by the second, he had lost sleep, the ability to slumber with a peace of mind was now a pastime that could only be remembered. And he set his eyes skywards and read the carvings on the roof.