When the stars emerged to play and the evening air bore its nocturnal fragrance, when the crickets serenaded the night in joyful hymns, her bed beckoned with its promise of solace. The plushness, the tranquility, the very essence of repose she longed for, lay before her; yet she resisted the temptation to close her eyes.
Whilst others might indulge in fleeting moments of joy before surrendering to sleep, her stomach churned at the very thought. She yearned for the simple grace of slumber as any ordinary soul might, yet she pondered—was she truly of the common cloth?
Despite her valiant efforts to stave off sleep, Hypnagogia proved relentless. Whether lured into dreams or thrust into them by a clamorous alarm, it ensnared her. Like a siren of old, it tenderly caressed her senses, crooning an enchanting lullaby until her eyelids fluttered shut.
In this twilight realm where control of her mind slipped away, she wandered through the ether of utopia. Yet, contrary to the peaceful dreams of ordinary mortals, her realm was besieged by nightmares.
These visions were wrought by events long past, from a time before her very existence—the grand kingdom of Kenia. A realm where a puissant king held dominion, not merely the mightiest but also the most ruthless of sovereigns.
His subjects feared him with a reverence bordering on worship, though it was a reverence born of dread. They despised him deeply, yet were powerless to defy his will. When he passed by, they bowed their heads in submission; taxes soared while wages dwindled. Anyone daring to question his commands faced the blade before their own kin.
The king's reign persisted until his demise, bequeathing his crown to his eldest son, who proved no better, and in fact, deteriorated further with each passing year than his late father.
The Founding Fathers of our land were, I dare say, astute in their wisdom: power corrupts, and when it is concentrated, it is prone to abuse. Thus, checks and balances are ever necessary.
There was no mercy in his rule, and the laws were draconian; the people were but shadows of their former selves, existing merely to serve. They were bound in a servitude akin to slavery.
A legend of a forthcoming powerful ruler, foretold to be just and unassailable, troubled the king greatly. This prophecy drove him to the brink of madness, for he could not abide the notion of anyone challenging his supremacy.
Who dared question his authority?
The seer had spoken of a savior destined to emerge from within the palace itself—no need to scour the kingdom for rivals. Infuriated, King Mansa Khan slaughtered nearly every nobleman of royal blood, seeking to eliminate any potential threat.
The land, once ruled by the late king, had turned into a desolate graveyard, a sea of sorrow where women wept for their fallen husbands and children cried in despair. Such was the tragedy that even to behold it was to be overwhelmed.
"You may slay us, Mansa, but mark my words, your crown will be claimed by one of your own household. No need for further slaughter across the kingdom; the usurper will be within these very walls," declared one of the seers.
The king's wrath knew no bounds. He not only eradicated threats to his crown but also executed the seers who refused to disclose the identity of this foretold usurper. Who would dare to challenge his reign within his own palace? His son was destined to succeed him and would not dare betray him.
Yet, who then was it?
King Mansa Khan was enraged by the prophecy and had the seer executed. If none could assist him or reveal the threat, then they were as good as dead.
"You cannot persist in this madness, my King!" cried out Elizabeth, his beloved queen. She was a vision of beauty, sculpted to perfection, with curves bestowed by God and a radiant complexion. Her eyes were the deep brown of twilight trees in winter.
Her beauty was unmatched, yet it did not deter the king from indulging in concubines. Though he treated his queen with the highest regard, he found her, at times, irksome.
"You are losing your sanity to power!" she continued, never approving of her husband's actions.
"Power is what defines a man," the king roared.
"Nay! It is manners that define a man," she retorted.
"Something you evidently lack. You have spent nearly every day slaying innocents in the name of what? Power!"
"They are not innocents; they are threats to my throne!" the king shot back with scorn.
"Cannot you see, my King? Fear has tainted your mind, diverting you from your true purpose, which is to lead your kingdom and be my husband!" She spoke through clenched teeth.
Were she anyone else, her head would have been severed, but she was his wife—the trophy he prized.
Yet, in truth, Queen Elizabeth was right. It was not merely power that corrupts, but fear—the fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it, and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who endure it.
"Oh, come now, I am the greatest ruler ever known. And as for being your husband, I am still perfect," he declared, raising his arms in exasperation as he moved towards his throne.
"Perfect, you say?" The queen followed him, waiting until he was seated before continuing.
"Then tell me, dear husband, when was the last time you touched me?" She crossed her arms defiantly.
"Do not be obstinate, woman; I have been preoccupied." The king replied dismissively.
Preoccupied with killing, she thought.
Physical relationship is the most important thing in marriage. Be it arranged or in love. Being deprived of it for so long made the dear queen, frustrated. Instead of being a husband or a man for once he was carrying barbaric acts in the name of war.
"Do you love me my king?" She asked hesitantly. Even she felt strange asking him that. The man had no heart, how could he love her?
The king only scoffed and took a sip of his drink.
"Love is for weak and am not weak" he spat with venom. Of course he would think like that since he was so narrow minded than any human on earth.
"So you don't love me" it was a statement from the queen.
The queen stomped on his feet like a child and walked away from his presence. What was she expecting?
She was annoyed, frustrated and vexed that of all the kings in the world, she had to be with a self-centered arrogant narcissist. Falling in love and getting married wasn't common amongst the royals since they marry to create alliance.
Queen Elizabeth had her fantasies, of falling in love. Experiencing a magical kiss and having her heart flutter at the sight of her husband but none of the above happened. She even started to think that maybe she read too many fairy tales and were messing with her head.
She missed her parents, unlike any other royalties, her parents were so much in love. You could see the adoration whenever they looked into each other's eyes. They never wanted their daughter to be married to a power hungry King but that was the only choice that her father had. He had to be a king before a husband.
Her dream of being in love was crushed that day and at the moment she wanted nothing but to die. After all what is life?
So she decided to end hers. Dismissing her maids, she went to the river and slowly made her way deeper and deeper until her all body was consumed by the water. Opening her yes to admire the beauty of the river one last time before it consumed her soul, she froze.
Little did she knew that her last will of life would make her heart skip a beat. In the river was a silhouette of a man inches. Curiosity keeps leading us down new paths and her new path awaited for her let herself float until her head was now at the surface of the water.
The stranger, too, mirrored the gesture, and when their eyes did meet, it was as though the color of deep sienna had converged.
His eyes were every conceivable shade of brown, a rich blend of raw umber and caramel flecked with dark chocolate. They shimmered with a mirth and playfulness that sent a shiver down her spine, enveloping her in a paradoxical warmth.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and within those earthy tones lay his very essence—not in the manner of those florid romance novels preoccupied with lust, but with a beauty that could stretch a moment into an eternity, a celestial realm one yearned to partake in.
Was she perhaps already deceased? Such was the only explanation she could fathom, considering the exquisitely handsome man, dripping with the freshness of the river, who stood before her. She was well acquainted with beauty, but this man surpassed anything she had previously encountered.
His skin was the hue of dark chocolate, his hair long, though shorn at the sides. She did not overlook the tangles in his locks nor his compellingly attractive chest. It was as though she were ensnared in a trance, her eyes the sole part of her that moved, and even then, they seemed fixed upon him.
Yet, she was not the only one bewitched; he, too, was ensnared by the spell.