It was 11:00pm. Two days after I left the mourning room. I sat cross legged on the soban situated in front of the floor to ceiling window ten meters away from the ascension throne. It was exactly two hours forty three minutes since I ascended the throne. I rode through the gates of the Hall of Throne on my father's stallion, as is the tradition, the workers who lived in the palace and a few select citizens, trailing behind me. I did not alight from the stallion until I reached the ascension throne. Then I was brought down with the help of the chief guard, and led to stand in front of the throne.
The chief priest poured the oil of anointing on top of the center of my head. And the arch prophet blew the trumpet and said: God save king Aretha, then all the people who came after us echoed in chorus. I sat on the throne and there were cheers of jubilation. I sat on the throne, the most coveted throne in the council of kings, the throne of Eireen, and I felt nothing.
Apart from the burning pain in my head, and the ache that had taken permanent residence in my heart, I felt absolutely nothing. So I waited till everyone departed, drew up from the throne and relocated to the soban. I turned my head to look out the window. All I could see was my mother's garden. Her precious saffron crocus garden. There was a story there, in that garden, a story that explains the slight hiccup I endure in my steps even now. A slight hiccup that constantly reminded me of how inadequate I was.
However, at that moment, the full moon casted its luminous silver glow on the purple surface of the flowers, giving them a look that was almost—heavenly. It made me feel as though I would open the windows and call out into the air, with my voice creating a ripple effect, the echoes of it fading into the night. And at the disappearance of the last note, my mother would appear. Her raiment would be shining, exceedingly white as snow. Her face, an ethereal glow. And I would ask her how she could have been so selfish.
Death, in whatever form it appears in, is a choice. Even if my father had decided to abandon everything he claimed to hold dear, she didn't have to do the same. However, I couldn't call out. I couldn't risk attracting the attention of the royal guards I knew were stationed in front of the heavy double doors of the throne room. They already thought I was inadequate, I would not let them think I was insane too.
I breathed in deeply. With my nose up, I sniffed the incense that still lingered in the air from the silver censer of the chief priest, and for a full one minute I felt peace. I reveled in it. I thought, maybe God was finally on my side, and I reveled in it some more. For the first time since I got the news of my parents death, my mind was empty, and the pain in my heart was gone. A sliver of suspicious thought found its way and sneaked into the empty chambers of my mind: maybe I can be a good king after all. I heard a quiet knock on the double doors. My moment was not gone, and neither was the thought.
"Come in." I said. My heart in my throat I stared at the double doors as they slowly opened, anticipating the showing of whoever disturbed my peace. Only one person I knew would have the audacity to walk through those doors mere hours after my ascension. Dame Cynthia Basil, my father's private secretary who I had now inherited. Stoic and emotionless woman, I wondered what she wanted now. But the person who walked through the opening was not my father's private secretary. With his well combed hair, sky blue polo shirt that I was convinced was a matching color with his eyes, pencil jean trousers and Christian Louboutin sneakers, he looked like himself, a sight for sore eyes. Glory be to God, my eyes were not sore. Cole Deacon.
"Hey, Aretha." He gave me a slight wave worthy of Queen Elizabeth's chariot. "Congratulations."
I snorted, "It's King Aretha to you. And you should bow." Cole clucked his tongue as if dismissing an ignorant child, then he put his finger into his left polo pocket and brought out a silver envelope. My heart somersaulted multiple times, causing bile to rise up into my mouth. Just like that, my moment of peace was gone, the pain in my heart returned with a vengeance and the noise in my head overflowed like a flood in an empty train station. The last time he brought an envelope to me was the day my life ended.
"What are you? A messenger of death?" I was not joking. My voice shook terribly, and I hated that he heard the tremors. "Don't worry my dear, this is good news." He smiled and held it out to me. My hand trembled, as I, for the second time, snatched an envelope from Cole Deacon's hand and tore it open. I examined the words. It was an invitation to a private party in my honor, organized and hosted by the prime minister; Xander effing Deacon.
"Is this proper?" I voiced my thoughts, still staring at the words, hoping Cole Deacon couldn't hear the irritation in my voice. "For the prime minister to plan a private party for the new king without the permission of the crown?" I wondered if my father indulged such frivolities, and if the prime minister had indeed gotten permission from the crown. And if so, why Dame Cynthia had not mentioned it. Then I turned the back of the card and noted that it didn't have the royal silver and blue seal. Rather, stamped boldly was the yellow and black seal of the Deacon family. This is definitely not done with the permission of the crown. "This is not from the palace." I glanced up at Cole Deacon. The annoyance I knew was written all over my face did not faze him.
"You're getting smarter." Cole Deacon said flippantly, then, "My father only wants an opportunity to dine with his new king." He concluded, matter of fact.
I scoffed, "I'm not interested." Over my dead body would I dine on the same table with a man as manipulative as Xander Deacon. Cole smiled, "Really? Your first duty as king is to piss off your prime minister? The one who actually knows how to run this nation?" He turned and began to walk away. "Wear a nice dress, you owe me a dance. And leave the Dame out of this would you?" He knocked on the doors. In less than a second they opened for him and he disappeared behind them.
I couldn't believe my ears, or my sight. Aren't they meant to ask my permission before letting anyone in here? I thought bitterly, my nose tickling for the tears that were about to fall. I could not help but think that if it were my father, or my mother, Cole Deacon would not dare come into the ascension room, not even with the presence of the prime minister.
I returned my gaze to the card, my heart breaking at the audacity of the Deacon family. Somebody needed to teach them their place, and that person would have to be me. But first, I had to attend the stupid private party. Because the only thing Cole Deacon was right about, was the fact that I needed his father. He was the one the people loved and respected. The Deacon family would eventually pay for their wrongs against me, but for the moment, I needed them on my side.
My moment might have been gone, and every single thought that plagued my mind might have returned. But the sliver of thought remained. Maybe I can be a good king after all.
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