Caoimhín

“I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word. Now in the morning, I sleep alone, sweep the streets I used to own.”

Prologue

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Kingdom's Dawn

Caoimhín was never to forget his 50th birthday, for that was the day he’d watch his kingdom burn and the swords bury into his chest. Devoured by Satan's flames until nothing but ashes and the screams of those he betrayed were left. That was how history would remember it, not as him facing the hooded figures in his throne room before they drove a sword into his betrothed stomach. They would only remember him watching them burn with a twisted tail and horns to the sky.

He’d come to this earth through two loving parents. He didn’t know what luck he was granted, to have them for himself. He arrived not as some cursed figure, but one he used to think was blessed. His mother had emerald eyes as soft as the evening sun, her golden hair cascading to her waist like flowing silk. When she looked at him... even in her simplest gazes, unconditional love radiated through him like warmth from a hearth fire.

His father was strong but with kind eyes meant only for him. There was nothing but fondness behind those tired eyes when Caoimhín entered the room. Late nights were spent in his father's study, his father's calloused hands gripping his shoulders as he trained him for battles yet to come and lessons on knighthood that would follow him through life like invisible armor. Each rough kiss pressed to his forehead reminded Caoimhín that he wasn't alone in this world, that someday he would carry the weight of a kingdom just like every man before him had. He could still sense the weight of his father’s presence—those quiet nights of coaching, those hardened hands that showed him how to hold a sword properly.

When he was a young lad, all he wished to do was rule the world.

When he was a king, all he wanted was to look into his enemies eyes and not be able to recognize their faces as his own friends.

Yet, in the courts of men, where once companions stood and laughed, offering oaths of loyalty as eagerly as they did false praises, he learned the cruel lesson:

One does not crush one's enemies without first cutting down one's friends.

And as the flames licked the stone walls—those hallowed walls he'd stood upon in victory—the kingdom crumbling beneath his reign, his only coherent thought, one drowned amidst the tumult of smoke and screams, was:

What man, in his right mind, would ever wish to wear a crown?

“Your subjects will know you only as kind,” was his mothers favorite words. “For that is how I raised you, and that is how you have acted your entire life.” Was he always kind? When did it start, that he’d sooner scorn a friend than believe they made a mistake?

"Men carry their kingdoms like boulders on their backs," his father used to say.

But it puzzled Caoimhín; had he acted kind his entire life? Hadn’t he carried the weight that thousands couldn’t? He thought himself a leader forged in golden resolve, his heart steadfast upon his people, who once regarded him with reverence. Yet no longer did their voices sing praise upon him with loyalty and gratitude.

Instead—distrust... a hissed whisper escaping behind locked doors; when had the blessings curdled into scorn? ‘Twas not until suspicion lay thick as fog across the kingdom that truth revealed itself beneath layers of deceit. A parchment had found its way into his grasp not by fortune but folly.

Upon its surface—strokes of ink from hands so familiar he’s shaken them— the same vendor of humble roots who gave Caoimhín bread as a boy, offering him warmth in the cool stone streets as his family bartered for wares. How innocent those days seemed now, untouched by the creeping rot that had taken hold in his kingdom. They wished him dead.

And yet—for all his years—he had foreseen none of it. None of the twisted resentment. None of the blade they would now see slid between his ribs in the dead of night.

He knew every one of his subjects' names, their ages, their families, their dreams.

The merchant wished him dead, as did the butcher, the bread maker, the wielder... the young knights who told him to his face they dreamed of serving him.

In the end, it was a lie. Fairy Tales told to please him while they planned for his head. When they were found, Caoimhín should have had their heads mounted on spikes outside his gates—treason could not go unanswered—but grief and weariness held his hand. For all his power and immortal stance, in that moment, he was nothing more than a broken man. He let them walk free, sent away not because of mercy, but because he could no longer stomach the sight of them or what they reminded him of.

What was he king of now? The question gnawed at him. Walls were ordered to close in just a little more each day. The windows were sealed; no more light dared to creep in. His paranoia took root like an infection, festering in the absence of sun and breeze. He feared not for his life alone anymore, but for Fiadh... How could he ever believe she was safe? He was no longer the king of his men, but a wanted man afraid for his life.

When Caoimhín first learned of his immortality. He'd awakened on his throne with 6 swords buried between his ribs. Which he had soon learned he no longer even resembled himself. Just bones... he rejected it harshly. He would stand upon the balcony that he did so many years ago and still smell the smoke wafting in the air. See shadows as cloaked men wielding daggers. He climbed onto that ledge with purpose, feeling the cold stone beneath his hands scrape against his skeletal hands as he hoisted himself up. The ground so far below looked inviting—or at least it felt like an escape from this unending hell of walls and whispers. His heart pounded not from fear... but relief.

He plunged downward, only to wake again moments later, lying in the garden where roses once bloomed sweetly—the same place where he'd written poetry for Fiadh’s touch—and now the petals felt like ash beneath his grasp. He couldn’t even die right. Immortality had not given him strength but infinite suffering—a fate worse than any mortal’s end.

Cursed to wander, cursed to roam. Cursed with the knowledge of how he had failed at the very thing he’s wished for since he was a wee lad sitting on his fathers knee reading stories. So once he learned he couldn’t die, that he couldn’t leave, he sat back at his throne and just... fell into a rest. He didn’t know how, for he was just a skeleton now. But darkness consumed him once more, and he was fine with never waking up again.

He had tried his best in the short moments of wakefulness to redeem himself. His skeletal bones picked up debris, full of power he didn't know which God granted. He couldn't do much, as he felt too... afraid. To step foot into the ruins of his kingdom outside of his castle. To see the true damage those hooded figures wreaked on his precious subjects. Staring at his own reflection was difficult enough. If he saw the bones of those who once thought kindly of him...

He would shatter even moreso than he already did.

__

CREAKKK–

It’s been years since he’s heard movement in these walls.

Not even animals visited this graveyard.

Caoimhín raised his head with a small creak, bones worn and rusted over by time. His head hung low, crown slipping sideways upon his brittle brow, now little more than a twisted tangle of overgrown vines and tarnished metal—more ornament than symbol of power. Time had rusted his bones just as surely as it had warped his kingdom into dilapidation. His ancient throne creaked and groaned under the strain of his unmoving body, the seat barren and broken, much like the ruler perched upon it.

For what did it matter? Whether a lone figure approached to spit venomous words or pilfer the remnants of his fallen grandeur, Caoimhín felt no need to rise. Whoever they were, whatever petty accusations they might hurl, none of it could rouse even a flicker of concern. He had borne that crown far too long, allowed its weight and the curses etched into both metal and memory to bury any sense of right or wrong he once clung to. Words didn’t hold power to him any longer. Accusations such as he ruined it all? That their bones litter the fields because of me? As if they’ve got anything left to throw at me that I haven’t already bled over a thousand times.

Maybe it was a subject of his, ready to spit on his bones and pull his crown from atop his dented skull head. Go on about how he didn’t deserve either, that the heavy crown he carried on his shoulders had dented his head and therefore made him illogical.

The wreckage around him—once mighty walls crumbled, floors split open in jagged end—now served as a fitting grave for his deeds. So let them come. Let them weep or gnash their teeth. He had no fight left in him to care; no redemption waited in the silence or beyond the ruinous skies. His people had ascended in spite of him, or perhaps because he remained rooted to this decayed throne. Their departure into the heavens above, as their souls soared free of his misrule, left nothing for him but this abandoned wasteland—and here he would rot alone.

As he deserved.