If only... (Five minutes freewrite)

marie-jay (61)in #freewrite • 5 years ago (edited)

The great marble hall sits empty, except for the old man slumped in his gilded chair, dead eyes wondering from place to place - the long table where his ministers used to gather, the arches by the door where the guards would keep watch, the smaller chair on his right where the young prince would watch and learn the art of ruling the kingdom.
‘If only…’ No point in saying more. He knows what he means and there is no one to hear his remorse.
The guards are probably on the other side of the door, making sure no one bothers the king. As if anyone would be crazy enough to intrude on the old man in his darkest hour. The ministers, God knows what they might be doing, the best they can hopefully, although the king knows his enemy will show no mercy and peace will come at a cost higher than what his subjects can possibly bear. And when they will, inevitably, say ‘Enough’, blood will be spilled. The king shudders at the thought, for he is not a cruel man, but this is how things go. Everyone must pay the price and he’s already paid his.
The small chair with its red velvet pillows, that will remain forever empty. The prince will never sit there again. He is now laid to rest in the crypt of the castle’s chapel, taking his place among the illustrious dead ahead of his time.
‘If only…’

Everything that could go wrong did so. Even the things that couldn’t have somehow managed to conspire against his army.
The gamble they took with the weather, his soldiers were strong enough to brave gales and mud, but how was anyone to imagine the bridge would be swept away? He’d like to believe he would have ordered his men to turn back instead of making the long detour, had he been there, but he knows he wouldn’t have. He’d have pushed on just like his son did. It is his fiery temperament his heir had inherited. Now he has no heir left. He might still have had one, but for the stupid horse that buckled at the worst possible moment, leaving the young prince at the mercy of his enemies’ swords. But they had no mercy, why would they? He’d seen the wounds on his son’s naked chest, three purple holes still crusted with royal blood. Now his bloodline will die with him, his queen is too old to give him another heir and there’s not much of the kingdom left anyway. The dues to be paid will lead him to ruin, his enemy will see to it. One day he’ll send his army to take over and it will be one of his son’s that will sit on this throne. ‘My throne’.
He’d give anything to undo his terrible mistake. Choose another day or another plan, maybe not order the attack at all. Everything would be different, the prince would be alive, the country would be safe, he’d still a future. Now he’ll go down in history as the weakling who ended his noble bloodline and lost the once mighty kingdom. The old man breaks down in soft sobs, a pitiful sight, so far removed from the proud ruler who no more than a month ago was urging his son to bring back his enemy’s head.
‘If only…’

The two figures hidden in a nook behind the throne shake their heads in unison. For once, both the one in white robes and the one in a dark garment agree on the fate of the mortal they have come to judge. They see beyond the tears and the bent head, they know what pains this soul and it is not the loss of life - of his heir and the many others that have perished with him that day. It is his own loss that broke the king. Had he won his stupid gamble he’d be standing tall, praising the glorious dead in a sombre voice, befitting the occasion.
The figure in white nods and leaves without a sound. The black-clad one sticks around. The old man’s heart is about to beat its last and the soul is his to take. He won’t even notice the subtle change of scenery. The dead body on the marble slab will be just as real, the smell of rotting flesh just as nauseating, the pitiful looks of the phantom ministers will sting the same. That’s all that the failed king deserves, his groundhog day in Hell.