They sang and danced and feasted. Melody hazed in messed tables. They had the guts doing it here, in this very hall where they murdered my King.
Gavan was flailing his arms as he bragged about how he desecrated the gate. Mead dripping down his scruffy beard, he dared laughing at his betrayal. I cannot stand that proud look on him- as if his vow to our king meant smut.
And then there was Henri, poised and proper. His uniform was decorated now. Savior of the people he was called, leader of the New Republic. Empty title. Husk. Murder your King and you'd find yourself praised? Damn them.
I struggled to the throne steps. My limp leg dragged as I caned the marble floor. Prying glances they gave, care I withheld. Let them stare at the cripple. Let them snicker. I'll hear none. What more could they take from me?
I stabbed my cane on the first step to the throne. Four steps to where my liege once sat. I knelt on these very steps once, my liege's personal sword on my shoulder and oath in my lips.
"My sword shall always be yours." I said back then.
A pitiful lie. Where was my sword when the bastards stabbed him two dozen times? Where was I when he needed my strength?
The memories of that day a fortnight ago was fresh as my wounds. Blood pooled on my liege's white hair. He was here when I found him, sprawled on these steps like some common beggar murdered in a dark alley. Spots of red were on his tunic where the bastards stabbed him. He was still alive- barely, dimming but still alive.
"Slay the traitors" He said in a hushed voice, stutters of his last breaths. Through bubbling blood, his lips crafted the same words once more. "Slay the traitors."
I ascended the four cruel steps- dragging, limping, hopping, struggling. Cane on my hand, tending to my flimsy steps. If the songs were jubilant, if the people were rowdy- I heard none of it for my ears served only hearing my liege's words.
"Slay the traitors" He said to me, an echo without end. He was died at my front, eyes kept open.
The throne lay empty now. The jade armrest was polished yet unused. It was a mere chair without my liege- a hollow thing just like the thing the bastards call victory.
Let them sing. Let them mead their bellies. Let them wallow in mirth. My pardon would be their bleakest rue.
Slay the traitors, was my Liege's last command.
And so I will slay them all. Gods be dammed, I will slay them all.