I sit on my throne, awaiting the arrival of the so-called hero into my chamber. All is silent in the chamber, empty save for me, and the low flickering of the flames that provide illumination. Then, all of a sudden, the ‘hero’ breaks down the door, and steps in, glaring at me.
“Vasilia! For too long has your unholy conquest gone unchecked! I am here to stop you, to avenge the lives of the countless people you have slaughtered!”
At this, I let out a small laugh, before my face almost shows a sign of grief, which puzzles the hero. “I wouldn’t say countless, that does them such a grave disservice. No, I have killed exactly 769 souls to get to where I am today.”
“Y-you… 769.. You counted them?”
“Yes, I counted them. It grieves me every single waking hour the weight of my necessary evil, but I know I must never forget them, lest I become a monster. I have every single one of their names etched into the gold of my throne, an ever present reminder of the lives that have been lost because of me.” I step off of my throne, my cloak billowing behind me, and I turn towards the throne, and the words etched onto it.
“Isaac Welson. He was a wheat farmer by trade, but he longed to be an artist. He was recruited into this rebellion of yours, and sacrificed himself for a hope of a different future, never able to create the art he dreamed of. Elanor Fallow. She was a sailor, and loved the open sea. She died tragically, not trusting the instructions of how to flee the city to safer ground before my siege, the start of my war to unify these lands. she was one of the first to fall, far away from the sea that she loved.” My face grows sad, grief overtaking me. “I mourn each and every life that I had to take, and it hurts my heart every single day to know of them. Now I must ask you, you who calls yourself a hero, how many people have you murdered?”
“I- I don’t know…” the self-styled hero admits, in a low, shallow whisper.
I give a short sigh before I speak. This was what I had expected, but it still hurts. “2,036. That is how many lives you have killed in furtherance of your rebellion. Two-Thousand and Thirty Six lives cut short, and you didn’t even know their names.”
The one who calls themself a hero staggers, grief overtaking their face. “I- that- no, h-how would you know?”
“Because, ‘hero’. I counted them as well, as yet another reminder to bear on my soul. 1,047 people died when you destroyed the great convoy of ships in the Eastern Riverway. It was true that the convoy had information critical to my unification, but you were mistaken when you believed all of the ships belonged to me. Only one did, the rest were innocent traders, each with their own lives and longings. I mourned each and every one of their lives for weeks, and you never even thought about them.”
“I-” The professed hero could not bear to speak, only now realising the weight of the actions that brought them here.
I look at the hero, and continue. “Five-hundred and sixty-three. That is how many people you killed during the breach of the grand vault of the Southern Capitol. A necessary heist to fund your rebellion, but if you believed exploding the end of the vault rather than storming it saved lives, you are gravely mistaken. Five-hundred and sixty-three people were in the vault, withdrawing money for the day’s shopping, or depositing their payment from yesterday’s work. All of them died. Isabelle Wilson was one of these, a child, only just turned 11. Her mothers had brought her to the vault to teach her how money works, the first time she had ever been to the grand building. And still, you didn’t even know her name, or any of the others you killed that day.”
Tears begin to streak the hero’s face, but I continue.
“Four-hundred and twelve. That is how many people died in the battles that lead you to my gates. Only half of them were soldiers of mine. The remaining two-hundred and 6 were innocent civilians, innocent civilians like Jett Lowen. They were 17, and were set to turn 18 the next day. They went to sleep at the end of the night, along with their parents, Filicia & Owen, and their younger sister, Amelia. They all went to sleep, resting after a long day of work. They never heard the soldiers of your rebellion surround the city, nor did they hear the launching of the bombs, nor the explosion that killed them in their sleep, the day before Jett would have become an adult.”
A small tear streaks across my face, before I once again continue. “You killed fourteen more people today, storming this castle. They were my most loyal guards, my trusted friends, who were planning on having a party tomorrow, a day of revel and joy. They defended my castle to their dying breaths, as you took their lives from them.”
The hero is aghast at their actions, the thousands of deaths unknown to them before now suddenly all at once weighing on their soul, tears streaking their face. I take a breath, and walk towards them, my soul filled with grief. “Yes, I have killed hundreds, and their deaths weigh on me every single day. Yet you killed thousands in an attempt to bring me down, and never even knew a single one’s name. I do hope they will be forgiving, if you do see them soon.”
I take out the sword that had been concealed in my cloak, and stab it into the hero. Their eyes, and the words engraved on the sword, stare back at me. The eyes of the hero show nothing but grief, shock, and horror, and they go deep into my soul along with the words written on the sword. Remember & Mourn, for they had a life, with wonderful joys. I grab the tools next to the throne, and carve their name into the throne, with tears streaking down my face. 770 lives taken.
theartofmadeline
