Vreneli

Patharld, my kingdom, is alight with merriment and song. From the bustling city streets of the capital city to the rolling green hills and farmland that stretches into the distance, my people's festivities are on course to continue well into the evening. Thousands of tiny lanterns, flickering like a swarm of fireflies, shine boldly against the setting sun, a grand display of unity and peace. Yet, the light from this radiant celebration fails to reach my eyes, and the realm that I reign over drowns in lifeless monochrome.

"This isn't fair. I should be happy." I muse aloud, trying in vain to convince myself of some kind of karmic justice, as if I deserve to be rewarded with the happiness that I've risked so much to bring about. "I've ushered in a great age of peace and prosperity. I'm a hero to my people, and my battles have secured Patharld's place in the world for ages to come. My kingdom has reached its apex, and every night for weeks now my people have been celebrating life. Why can't I feel the same?"

Deep inside, I already know the answer, even if I don't want to admit it to myself. Ever since I brought about this kingdom's greatest age and gave my peace-loving subjects the joyous lives they've always wanted, my life has become a dull gray in comparison, no longer having the inglorious red of freshly spilled blood to color it. My hand wanders idly to the old wound over my left eye, tracing the scar tissue there with morbid reminiscence. It still itches sometimes. Still throbs. Still feels. I can still remember the euphoria I felt when a nameless soldier took my eye, the wrathful energy that consumed me as I wielded my glaive against him, driving its heavy blade into his-

I silence the thought before it blooms fully, frightened by the sick twisting of my lips into a cruel smile. I always thought I was hero, a noble warrior fighting for a better future for my people. But I'm not. I'm a monster. I've been lying to myself for years. I never fought for peace. I fought to kill. I fought for rush of battle and the perverse satisfaction that only carnage can ignite in me. And now that I have brought about peace, I have been almost single-mindedly consumed by the desire to continue warring so that I might kill more. The people's celebrations of my triumphs seem an almost cruel mockery of my true nature. Am I really worthy to walk among them?

Sleep seems an impossibility with these thoughts swirling in my head, and I decide to embrace my restless energy to go and meet the people who I have given up so much for. I leave my crown and my other royal markings in my chamber, instead donning a few pieces of light armor over a set of soldier's clothes. It's not enough to hide my identity, but it should give me a fraction of solitude. I don't want my subjects to swarm me with their praise and accolades, not when I feel so fragmented inside, not when I'm fighting back bloodlust. Despite knowing I shouldn't, I feel a strange compulsion to bring my glaive, strapping the instrument of death to my back like it's an old friend.

Slipping silently out of the castle, I begin to wander the streets of the capital city. The happy faces and jovial celebrations stab at me, stirring another, darker impulse that I can't seem to bury. The weight of my glaive is a siren's call, urging me to wield it. Unable to resist the pull, I draw it, relishing the hum of metal as it scraps against its leather sheath. My breathing grows heavy as I lock onto a couple walking through the streets. It would be so easy, so fun, to impale the man upon my glaive, to see his body writhing as he loses blood. His lover would scream of course, and I can imagine the terror in her eyes, but then I could rip the bloody weapon from her lover's back and-

No, stop thinking about these things! These people look up to me. I'm a hero to them. I can't kill them for sport, even if it would grant me reprieve from the choking dullness that has overtaken my life. Despite my attempts at self-restraint, I can't pull my gaze away from the rippling artery on the woman's neck, my violent fantasies completing themselves against my better judgement. In this moment, I feel truly alone in the world, separated from the happiness that comes to others with such ease. I turn away from the streets, sheathing my glaive and slipping onto roads less travelled. I need to get away from here. There are too many people, too many targets.

My aimless roaming leads me to a garden, and, entertaining the notion that it might clear my mind while knowing for a fact that it won't, I enter it. I find a solemn bench shrouded in the dying light of the sun to sit down on, one that, to my surprise, already has someone sitting in it. I hesitate. Being alone with someone would make it almost too easy to carry out my morbid urges. But I can't seem to halt my body's approach, and I can no longer read my own intentions. Am I approaching this person to speak with innocent intentions, or am I planning to slaughter them? I don't know, but my hands are already itching to reach for my glaive again.

"Hail, citizen. May I sit next to you? I am hoping to watch the sunset from within this garden." I greet with a lie, trying to keep my voice even despite the conflict pulling me apart from the inside. "I would be grateful if you spared me the formalities that come with my station. You can call me Vee, if you wouldn't mind. No 'Queen' this, or 'Your majesty' that, just Vee please. I could use a break from it all."

Even as I stand around while seeking permission to sit, my fingertips move to brush against my back, running alongside my glaive. Whether consciously or not, I'm already running through all the ways I could kill this newly met stranger in mind. Just idle fantasies, or at least that's what I tell myself. Just idle fantasies...