Purple-colored liquid spilled all over the gold and silver-laced tablecloth.
"Young Prince!" One of his many faceless servants shouted and slithered to him on his knees over the parquet floor. He signed over the unnecessary exaggeration. This guy behaved as if an actual bad thing had happened. He let the glas goblet drop from his hand. It hit the ground right before his servant's bowed head and scattered into pieces. The fool squeaked like a pig but did not move an inch to capture that dam glassware.
"The juice tastes stale."
The prince glared from his seat at the servant in front of him. The man flinched.
Another sigh escaped the young man at the uselessness of his staff. Could they not read between the lines? Must he spell everything out for them?
"Move, you idiot. I have music lessons after breakfast. Do you want me to sound like a choking crow?"
Should not the people know by now when he wanted what from them? Then again, he never bothered to remember any of their faces.
"Yes, young prince... at once, young prince."
The prince watched as his servant scrambled away. Another one threw himself to the ground to pick up the broken pieces. Why did his father forbid him from having maids again? Oh yes, he lamented in his seat, eyes directed at his reflection in the shining rim of the half-empty golden plate. His dam fiance's family had made a fuss about him staying virtuous. What a farce. He was handsome and could use some maids swooning over him. It would be a welcomed distraction.
"Cough...Cough."
His daydreaming stopped. The prince's face became devoid of emotions as he pretended not to have heard the noise. He knew the person next to him. It was his newest nursemaid. A guy so dry the young prince often thought about if the man would light up like hay, would he direct sunlight through a magnifying glass at him. He snorted at his imagination.
"Cough... I am sorry to disturb you, young prince. The music teacher awaits you in the music room."
Where else would the music teacher be, you idiot? The prince wanted to lash out at the display of stupidity but bit his tongue. He did not need another yelling from his father, the king. His back still hurt when his last nurse ridiculed him in front of his father for his supposed wrong behavior. He only shoved a bowl at the guy's face for suggesting he eat oats for breakfast after explicitly repeating time after time that he hated stuffing dry things down his throat.
The day was like any other day in his life.
He was woken up in a four-poster bed, bathed in imported rose petals that floated on the water's surface in his tub, where unknown hands washed his hair and brushed his teeth. A designer dressed him in fabrics and frippery that would become the latest fashion in town before hands sent him to have breakfast by himself and then went to his scheduled classes for the day.
Today he had the daily music lesson, a mathematics lesson, a jurisprudence lesson, a poetry lesson, lunch, and then dancing lessons.
In the evening, he ate a lonesome dinner, hands prepared him for bed and covered him with a heavy blanket.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
The prince opened his eyes to total darkness. He shoved the blanket from his face and blinked. He instantly sat up, licking the roughness of his capped lips.
Boom!
Canonfire? Was it time for military exercises again?
Light from the outside colored the tapestry, rugs, and the covers of his bed in orange. It was not the hue that looked like it had melted in rays of early daylight. It looked like the reflection of a conflagration. The kind that would dance on the pages of a book while he lay in front of a chimney.
Boom!
Boom!
He could not feel the warmness of the memory on him as goosebumps erupted on his bare skin. The prince swallowed as he crawled out of the bed.
Boom! Boom!Boom!
The sound of canons outside relentlessly and inconsistently rang in his ears as he made his way to the from curtains obscured windows.
He drew the fabric away and choked on his saliva.
The scene mirrored in his slowly dampening eyes was not one of his father's military displays. There were walls of fire and people running and fighting with swords, lances, and pitchforks.
"Help!"
He backed away from the window. Tears started dripping from his eyes.
"Guards! Help!"
Boom!
Boom!
His voice was hoarse as he ran to the door. He tore the handle down.
His eyes bulged as the door stayed shut.
"Help! Help! Help!"
The young prince screamed and pounded the door with his fists.
The door opened. A dim light from the hallway flooded the room, invoking a broad smile on the prince's terror-filled face.
Boom!
Then the light of life left his eyes. Blind spots concealed parts of his vision. His eyesight worsened in mere seconds to the point where it was only possible for him to focus on one detail at a time.
A man stood in the doorway. A man clad in a foreign uniform. A man holding a knife in one hand.
Boom!
The shock left his body as the unknown man gripped him. He struggled until he flew facefirst against the nearest wall.
"Ahhh."
A cold metal blade pressed against his neck.
"Wait. Please wait."
The prince breathed into the tapestry. He could smell the paint on the wall and the stench of smoke coming from the man holding him.
Boom! Boom! Boom.
His heartbeat droned out the canon fire outside.
"Wait, this is just a boy."
Another silhouette blocked the last rays of light shining through the door.
"It is the span of that tyrant. Killing him will make me a hero." The man hollered before the prince felt a hot breath grazing his ear. " This is just."
"Wait, no. Please."
But the man ignored the already decrowned prince's muffled ramblings.
"Revolution!"
Blood spilled from the boy's sliced open throat. They left his dying body sac on the floor.
What has he done, the prince thought, to deserve such a fate?