(A short story)
It is a barrage of echoing cries, the death of a hundred words on ready lips, the fall of a thousand risen arms, defiance coordinating in their muscles. I watch it all from the safety of the jutting rocks, as though detached, and suddenly it matters little if we win or lose this battle, because in the end it is always this war, and there will never really be an end to that.
I am angry. Not because of this, not because of my failure even. I am angry because this is my battle, just as it has always been, and hidden behind a carefully erected wall of perfectly trained soldiers, I have let somebody else fight it. They do it willingly I know, happily even, but I am tired of this, this utter pointlessness
So I turn to Micah, who stands beside me and surveys the devastation below us. He senses my eyes and meets my gaze, and in the perfection of his midnight irises he seems to transport some kind of hidden strength.
“I’m going” I say softly, my hands tightening on the reins.
He says nothing, though I watch a million emotions swirl in the black abyss of his eyes. He simply nods, and it is the snapping of a final string.
I turn my horse away, and begin a galloping descent down the mountain side, an ominous cloud of dust following behind me like the compilation of all of my worst fears.
There is no room to look back. Now is the time, the time to face my fears and to step into the unknown. I will end this.
The phantom’s camp is only a mile’s ride from here, on the other side of the pass. There is no guarantee I’ll be coming back. He’s dangerous, the epitome of everything evil, and yet into the Lion’s den I go, because somehow I’m clinging to the hope he’s as tired of this as I am.
I’ve only ridden half a mile when I turn a corner and a soldier lifts an arm in salute. I rear in my horse, fifteen to twenty feet away from the masked rider, and we sit silently scrutinizing each other.
His eyes bear into mine, yellow and catlike, and he lifts his head slightly. It’s then that I know. This is not a soldier, I have met the phantom.
He must sense my knowing, for his eyes flash and he dips his head, this time in an obligatory bow.
“Your majesty.” His voice is thick and rusty and eerily resembles the sound of steel scraping against metal.
I swallow, my body tensing as though ready to flee, and then I force myself to relax.
My fingers flex on my sword, and I clear my throat, fighting for room to speak. He steals the chance.
“I assume you’re here for one reason, and if I’m correct then perhaps we can reach an agreement”.
I steady my gaze and force clarity to my voice, “And what sort of agreement could the alleged phantom desire to make with me?”.
He laughs then, a deep rumble that erupts from deep within, but carries no mirth. Rather bitterness rides in his tone.
“You flatter me your majesty, but I think we are past that point, would you not agree?”
I lift my chin, “I assure you that was not my intention. I’m afraid your infamy has earned you your title”.
“What’s in a title anyway?” He asks, and carelessly picks at his clothing, “I for one have found that names carry little merit”.
“Perhaps, but deeds carry all the merit needed”.
He scoffs, “People see what they want to see”.
Annoyance pricks at me, “This is pointless. Were we not going to discuss this supposed agreement we might reach?”
“Ah,” his eyes suddenly burn with intensity, “But we have only begun to scratch the surface. Tell me truthfully, why are you really here?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. My hands flex and unflex, and apprehension begins to claw at my chest.
He lifts a brow, “I believe I can answer that question for you. You’re here because maybe, just maybe, you can somehow undo all the chaos you’ve caused”.
I open my mouth for a rebuttal but he interrupts, “Tell me, what do you think caused this war?”
“You”, my tone carries venom. “You caused this war, you and your selfish greed”.
His brows rise, “Me and my selfish greed? Tell me, your majesty, is it greed to desire what is rightfully yours?’
“This?!” My voice rises several octaves, and I swing my arms in a wild gesture, taking in the vast expanse of plains before us, “This is rightfully yours? No! This is mine. This is what I fought for! This is what my father died for! You, you will never deserve this. You-“
But he cuts through my words, his voice trembling, “How naive a young princess turned queen really is. You know nothing. You speak of that which is deserved, but let me tell you, I am more a victim of fate than you will ever know. Life holds no room for fairness. You spoke of merit, your majesty, as though merit alone shaped a person. But life is as it always was. You are made of the opinions of others.”
It is then that he reaches up and yanks of his mask, the material falling away like the shedding of lies. What’s beneath can only be described as the face of evil.
His cat-like eyes stare back at me, set deep in a surface of ghostly pale skin. Scars, like cracks in fine porcelain marr his face, stretching in odd angles.
But it is not this that sets the terror aching in my bones. It is when my eyes fall upon his mouth, two ruby red lips, peeled away from each other. One corner slants upward, torn past his cheek, and beneath, the eerie whiteness of his teeth gleam like pearls.
I stifle a cry and turn away, but his voice rings loud and clear, “Say it your majesty! Tell me I’m hideous! Tell me you’re afraid!”
When I say nothing silence seems to stretch endlessly, until at least his voice comes again, soft, and strangely vulnerable.
“It is easy to see why you are loved, when you are the embodiment of what everyone wants to love. I can not boast this. I have been an outcast since the day I was born. My father owned these lands, these were his provinces. But they were stripped away from him, torn, and I have put it upon myself to set out and redeem him. And I am hated for it. Hated for wanting that which is rightfully mine.”
His eyes sear into me with the intensity of an unmasked truth.
“There is your justice, your majesty”.