Emily+Choi+2k14


 * January 2, 2014**

Oh, how the tables have turned.

They shove him to his knees. The dark shadow cast by the looming blade consumes him wholly, and he looks up, searching for the sunlight between the cracks in the wooden frame. Around him, the spectators scream, arms raised, demanding bloody justice.

It seems that, in the end, everything must always end in death.

The nearby guard crouches down in front of him, and inserts a rusted key into his shackles. He smiles charmingly at the guard, but the man looks away, as though shamed by his gaze. Frowning, he glances back down at his hands, amusing himself with the dark circles pressed into his wrists.

“Any last words, //Your Highness//?”

The words come mockingly, with a triumphant bite hissed between every syllable. He lifts his head to regard the new queen: a frail, tight-lipped woman with an ever tighter corset. Today, she wears all black, though the notion is insincere; she will be mourning no one.

“I like the all black. Quite sporting of you, really.”

Her chin raises itself, and her eyes glare down upon him. The fan in her hand be gins to wave ever so slightly, and her curls of hair bob about her head, caressing her powdered cheeks and her aging flesh. She does not like his sarcasm.

“I mourn for you. One day, you too will be kneeling before the people. They will never be satisfied.”

She does not like that. Her heel is forward in a flash, and she stabs into his back with her foot, urging him closer to the device. He complies. The crowd explodes with eager noise. Their waving arms become a sea of turbulent limbs pointed skyward, as if praying for some sort of divine wrath. This time, he addresses the people.

“//Disgusting//.”

The blade descends. It sings through the air, slamming through the thickened flesh of the former king. His head rolls across the stage. The crowd falls silent.

The queen rubs the blood from her skirt.