The King did not die from a grotesque execution by revolution. He was not torn from his throne by the scores of haggard citizens whose husbands and wives were imprisoned beneath the castle, the ode to grandeur and blood. He was not stripped in the street of his fine cloak and tailored suits that he ordered billowy to emphasize his vastness. His ornate crown, a resized gold and furred brim adorned with gems and jewels stripped from other lands by his predecessors, was not plucked from his brow and passed from peasant to peasant as they tore open his cellars and gorged themselves on thick slabs of meat and barrels of wine. The common folk hadn’t remarked about eating like kings as they dangled chewed up foods in front of their former lord. He was not made to entertain the plebeian banquet in a fashion unfitting for a King—his head and hands were not locked in stocks while his former servants lobbed rotten meat he’d hoarded months ago but, despite all his gluttony, neglected to eat. He did not lose his resolve and pray for the first time in his life, brought down to his knees by the farmers who knew all too well how to uproot a rotten plant to protect their other crops. He did not cry to his God and plead for forgiveness as the peasants did not drag his naked body from the banquet hall down the poor roads that stunk of violent decay. Pale fragile skin marred by easy bruises did not present a stark contrast to the weather-torn and deeply tanned skin of the working man, with villagers resolving to further deepen the color of his skin by kicking more bruises as the King was paraded past. Commoners did not bear their weapons and scream curses they’d invented themselves for such an occasion, thrusting the maggot infested corpses of their starved children at the King’s feet. He did not feel remorse despite never having an heir of his own, much less anyone he felt a shred of sorrow for besides himself. He hadn’t almost wondered about his Queen, whether or not she had escaped the scores of enraged revolutionaries, but instead cursed her for not being in his place: he did not deserve this. It was not the last bout of self pity he would feel as he was dragged to the edge of the roaring current that bordered his claimed kingdom; even the powerful rapids were drowned by the jeers of his former subjects. The King was not tied to a branch on the oldest oak in the kingdom that overlooked the river. He’d had many citizens hung from the branches as a means of intimidation. He was not left hanging until his hands went purple and fatigue nearly took him, not splashed by icy buckets to keep him awake to witness the joy of the people as he hung in the frigid night he’d never had to experience before. The King was not finally and all but too mercifully swept away by the rapids as the tree branch splintered, weighted unevenly by his supposed divinity and known gluttony. The King did not hear the cheers of his people with some dismayed calls—not for his sake, but because they’d wanted to torture him longer. The King did not dash his head on the jagged stones or feel his arm be ripped from his left side after catching between boulders, another eventual bone to settle at the bottom that looked no different from the hundreds of skeletons from late, executed commoners who dared to defy his Majesty. His skeleton was not found—it was not even looked for. He did not have a violent, torturous death.
The King did not die from an elaborate plot of a hundred or more assassins, cloaked by the darkness of the bleeding eve into night, using the long shadows of the grand halls to slip between the pillars. There were no sewers exploited, no hole in the grandiose moat dug to sneak inside the servant’s quarters that sat next to the dungeons which brimmed with the penniless whose taxes went unpaid. They did not follow the guards' patterns, knowing each shift taken and what chinks the armor had for well crafted blades to puncture. The assassins hadn’t looked over the bodies of their former friends, apologizing to the others for what had to be done. They did not feel their morals challenged by the knights who recognized them by eyes alone—We trained for this together, you were my brother in arms, they did not say. They did not run through the halls and murder the many dogs stationed about— it would be easy to do so, for the King had miraculously seen two strays fight over a scrap of pig’s meat and thought finely of such vicious creatures. He’d had them overfed, expecting them to be strong, but now the poor things were bearing a weight of steak fats and splintered bones that would surely kill them before any assassin would. They did not face a terrible fight with the most skilled and loyal guards, ones raised from birth to be stone cold killers and the strings in their heart tied to God’s Chosen— ones without a question in their minds, and adorned breastplates that were marred by the broadsword the assassins had taken with them for such an encounter. They were not cursed and spit at by their former comrades, assassins uttering their pitying condolences. The intruders did not throw their shoulders at the heavy bedroom door, splintering it after a considerable amount of tries. The broadsword had not doubled as a lever. The assassins had not poured into the room like oil from a vat, robed figures carrying daggers to take a stab at the tyrant, centuries after the tales of Cesar. The King did not fight valiantly, or at all. Despite all the noise he was not drunk off fine wines he’d hoarded away from the very prisoners in his dungeons who'd made the vintage. The assassins hadn’t wondered if it was red wine or blood flowing from his grotesquely marred body; they hadn't stabbed nearly five times each, a total of one hundred stabs in nothing more than a man’s body. The Queen did not scream, and the assassins hadn’t wondered why—She hadn’t been sleeping in the King’s wing for quite some time. She slept in the wing on the opposing side of the castle, for his character, so generously provided so he may not commit blatant, observable adultery. The assassins hadn’t peeled themselves from the shadows on the walls, exiting faster than they came, now unhindered by slaughtered guards. The King did not have a swift, just death.
The King did not die from a devilishly concocted poison made from the most vile of weeds. He did not demand a feast to gorge himself upon, dozens of barrels of rich wine broken open and spilt on the floor by servants making haste to not suffer his gluttonous wrath. He did not please himself by walking round the table three times the length of his height, eyes glazing over the three beautifully browned and sauced chickens. He hadn’t laughed gleefully at the platters of bread cut into thick slices to accompany an aromatic soup made with his favorite bone stock. The King did not demand the starving servants who’d had no time to break for their own measly meals to stand over the spread and swat away greedy flies. Someone hadn’t taken out a small vial, no larger than one’s pinky finger, and emptied the contents into the King’s chalice while his head was planted firmly in his saucer the same way a pig would eat from a trough. The King had not gasped between bites and grabbed the air to demand his drink, flexing pudgy fingers like an infant. The jeweled cup was not carefully filled halfway to ensure none of the poison was spilt by the King’s flailing. The King did not haphazardly wipe the half chewed food from his graying beard and gulp down the entirety of the chalice that he’d had to lift with two hands. The King did not finish half of the plates and demand the rest be fed to the dogs, heaven forbid he feed the commoners who’d watched over his grand meal to keep meager flies from stealing a single bite. The servants had not grudgingly dumped the platters on the floor as the King nestled into his cushy dining chair, promptly falling into a nap he would not wake up from. The King did not have a silent, merciful death.
The King did not die from the many conditions he clearly suffered as a result of his royal inbreeding. His marbled heart did not sputter and give out as he lay in goose feather beds, surrounded by servants with bated breath, none daring to move to deliver the final blow as to not be seen a sinner in the Lord’s eyes. He did not die from the blood that poured and pooled at his feet after he’d rather stupidly cut his hand on the knight’s sword whilst inspecting it. His genetic hemophilia did not prevent the blood from clotting and closing up the wound that would not scar. His servants did not pretend to rush as the King squealed like a pig, echoing the cries of the citizens he’d branded to make permanent their status as his pawns. He did not bleed through the few white linens the surrounding bodies had, demanding they give the clothes off their backs to spare his robes from a deeper crimson shade. The King wore a great deal of red to hide his many cuts that would not close, results of his clumsiness which posed a great threat to his life. The royal tailor had specifically designed the outfit to be bled on, yet the King insisted he stain anything else. The King did not have a foolish, bloody death.
The King’s body did cross the threshold of the Church where he was greeted firmly by the priest, who looked over the casket with a thinly veiled disgust. All citizens, in and out of the church, knew all too well they too had made the expression when the King was still alive. The ornate architecture was the only structure that could hold a candle to the vastness of the palace— even then, just barely. The priest had begged for funding, for God’s Chosen to serve God and raise a great cathedral from the ground. For reputation and favor’s sake, the King generously had overtaxed the citizens so as to not cut into his dragonlike hoards. The stained glass windows reflected glorious cobalt and emerald onto the polished checkered floor. The space demanded candelabras still be lit to bathe the gothic pillars in a warm light, still unable to fully phase out the deep shadows of intricate craftsmanship. The single broken pane at the crest of the doorway did not shed any light on the velvet procession. The surrounding clergy took it as a sign. The stone cold guards were the only ones with heads bowed and shedding tears, otherwise they would have noticed the many relieved faces that occupied the rows of pews. No children were present; at home they were far too excited about the news to attend such proceedings without the risk of being confronted or removed by the grudgingly loyal soldiers who served the kingdom and the hallowed space of God. The silent praise did echo through the crowd, pointed stares at the figurehead who would have occupied the very front of the funeral proceedings if not for her husband’s insistence that even in death he was above her. She did not believe that God would truly spare the King’s immortal soul in a manner that would punish those who desecrated his body, but still requested the casket be closed- in case someone were to try to steal his finery or mar the corpse, she said. She was robed in a lovely black lace, no less lovely than the face it hid. A grim smile did play on thin lips she’d refused to open for any man, much less such a revolting insult to God’s Choice. She did feel the stares of her people, of her guards, now hers as she’d not birthed an heir and would reign briefly as Queen. Half the citizens in the church were not noblemen, rather the prisoners she’d freed and requested attend out of the need to win the favor of her newly acquired people. The mass watched their Queen with reservation, her late husband’s reputation and the rumors they’d overheard the only source on her character. Neither the citizens nor the Queen chose to dwell on the circumstances of their former Lord’s death, rather to thank Heaven that he no longer reigned. Only the Queen had an indication of what it may have been that killed the King. Out of uncontainable curiosity did one chambermaid ask her Queen what could have possibly happened. The Queen simply smiled, responding she did not know, before turning back to the mirror and watching her robes fit her as they were tailored to her figure. The maid was lacing a corset as she listened to the Queen as she spoke one last time before leaving for her coronation.
“The King died a deserved death.”
Samuel Holovacs is a third year BFA 3D Animation and VFX student, interested in all forms of animation. He constantly strives to find the most interesting and compelling ways to tell stories, whether it’s done through visual art or his writing.