Outside the Palace Walls

by Chris Jarrett

him so disheveled.

  He stopped in front of the portrait of the previous king, his father. The king never knew his father very well. The previous king spent the majority of his reign off in the east fighting wars. He was a real war hero that the people adored, despite the fact that he bankrupted the kingdom before passing it off to his son. The king hated this man for not preparing him for this. His mind drifted off to the day of his father's death. He stood, just a boy, in front of his father's body as it was carried to the royal tomb. The guard captain slammed his spear handle on the ground and bellowed, “The king is dead! Long live the king!” The crowd droned back in reply: “Long live the king.” The king felt something trying to shake him from his haze.

  “Your Grace.”

  He turned to face the voice, blinking away his mental fog. It was Captain Bertrand “Yes, Captain?”

  “Your Grace, my apologies, but come with me back to your office immediately!”

  The king noticed that Bertrand and six armored members of the household guard quickly took positions around the king. He rapidly became alarmed.

  “What is this? What’s happened? Hold on, stop! I command you!”

  He yanked his arm free from the grip of the guardsman and glared at the captain, eyes blazing and defiant. Bertrand’s eyes, however, possessed a mixture of a soldier’s determination and panic.

  “Your Grace, the city watch has either fled or joined the mob. They’ve breached the palace gates. We need to get you to safety immediately! Your family is being brought to your office, and we will make a stand there.”

  The king was a bit shaken as the captain’s news sank in, but he nodded shakily and followed his escort back up the corridor. As more guards moved swiftly about the hall in the other direction, the king noticed the missing veneer of calm and order. Shouts rang out, and orders were barked. He saw a guardsman leading two sobbing chambermaids and a delirious looking page, who had blood trickling down his face, towards the servants’ quarters.

  Suddenly the king was in a strange place. The familiar palace he had lived in his entire life ceased to exist. Instead he stood in a world of chaos and fear. What once had housed grand feasts, elegant parties, and the trappings of ceremony was now defiled by an invasion of the world outside.

  He felt as if he was moving slowly through the halls, while everything around him moved at a lightning-quick pace. His legs mechanically placed themselves one in front of the other as Bertrand half-dragged him towards the royal office. Bertrand was spewing out instructions to the nearby guardsmen for barricading the office, but the king could hardly understand what he was saying. Everything was muffled and distant, as if is head was underwater.

  Forgotten for a moment, the king wandered over to his familiar oak desk and sat down awkwardly in his chair. He was barely aware of the commotion as more guardsmen entered the room escorting his wife and children. The queen tugged at his coat wailing, and their two sons huddled close to her skirts, strangely quiet. He turned to see his nine year old son bleeding from a gash just above his eye. The boy was pale and shaking, but he was trying to maintain an air of strength for his younger brother.

  The king's eyes were pulled away from his family by a crash at the door. Moments later the guardsmen braced against the barricaded door as something heavy slammed into it once again. This hammering continued for over half an hour; the door splintered into pieces as the exhausted guardsmen held it fast with waning strength.

  Then finally, the doors split open, and any hope of containing the situation escaped from the room into the screeching chaos on the other side. For a brief moment the king stared across his office at the masses entangled with his guards, and he saw his people for the first time. He saw faces lit with fires burning in the city: scarred, lean, and dirty. Their eyes possessed a determined sort of madness as they overwhelmed his guardsmen. The last vestige of what separated the king from the reality of the world died amongst the bodies of peasants and guards strewn on the floor.

  The chaos shifted into focus for the king for the first time in hours. He could make out no individual sounds, only the general roar of iron death. Old, ever-faithful DuPont lay motionless on the floor. A pang of regret hit the king. The guard captain, Bertrand, was hacked to the ground by a butcher's cleaver, and four swarthy men tore his family away from him. He saw, rather than heard their screams as they tried to fight the men off. The king tried to reach out for them, but froze in place as he saw a red stain appear on his queen's waist. Her face, always an image of careful beauty, was twisted in pain as she collapsed to the ground. His sons broke free at this moment, attempting to escape the mob. The roaring chaos trampled them, crushing the prince-lings beneath its common hooves.

  The king howled and began tugging his beard. In moments he was forced to the ground by someone he could not see. His vision began fading as grief, denial, and fear battled for the forefront of his consciousness. The king was dragged across the floor, moaning and delirious, surrounded by his people. His people. Were these his people?

  The king is dead! Long live the king! The shouts of the crowd in his memory seemed almost mocking in tone now.

  He saw his wife, bloody, but smiling at him with that careful demeanor. He turned and saw his sons, bruised and battered, but upright. Behind them was DuPont, fussing over the royal family.

  Safe. We survived the nightmare.

  He could no longer hear the sounds of the mob, screaming and howling. The king winced and forced his mind to focus on the strange sound of seagulls circling outside. He heard the tide washing up against rocks. As he concentrated, his family and chancellor faded from sight, leaving him alone at a desk. His old, scarred, ancient desk.

  The old man blinked a few times and took in the shack around him, suddenly very disoriented. He turned to a dingy mirror and glimpsed a strange, but familiar face. It was older. The hair was white as snow, and the face was lined with time's cruelty. He brought his hand to his cheek as if to confirm who was looking back at him.

  “W-what?” His voice rasped over cracked lips, dried by the sea air. Then his eyes clouded with tears as his memory caught up with him. The night of the revolution, the death of his wife and sons, the days of trial in the commoners' makeshift court, and his solitary exile to this desolate rock off the southern coast.

  A cry of frustration escaped his clenched jaw. His eyes were pressed shut, squeezing the tears down his cheeks. The pain of loss was no less fresh over the passage of time. The old man laid his head down on the aged desk in front of him, praying for sleep to come, but fearing his damaged and weakening mind would allow him to forget and relive the past once more, as it had done again and again since his exile ten- or was it fifteen? No it was twelve, wasn't it? My queen would be thirty-four years old now- years ago. The king couldn’t be sure. He frowned and rubbed his face.

  The king looked up to see an ancient man standing before him, wringing his hands nervously.

  “Yes, DuPont? What is it?”