Strength

The streets were calm. The passing flat faces blended into the blocks of sandstone, hinted mouths and eyes carved into them. Straight lines, sunken brows, spotted pores, closed lips, dark hair. The emperor’s road was calm.

On most days, this would have given him ease. He would solemnly gaze at the citizens, faces turned towards his shaded windows with wonder, and he would contemplate what they might be thinking. Witnessing such a majestic and powerful procession, they would whisper things to each other that he did not care to hear. He knew their words were those of admiration and awe.

Today, silence unnerved him. There was supposed to be commotion, the kind of outrage that ought to follow the orders he had sent down in his fit of rage. He wanted to see swinging arms, a mob taking to the streets to defend themselves against the invaders and the vagrants. Instead, he was met by an unfamiliar silence, a city that had been stifled, choking quietly for air. Buildings scraped the clouds, quiet mountains of stone and glass.

Tassels danced atop the cobbled stone, the way men kick from the gallows when the fall is not far enough. The king’s robe flowed as he stepped out from his carriage, eyes executing his will. His driver had stopped beside the stone city walls, where along the heavy brick the markets stretched out in the shade. There would be people here, clamoring, cowardly, creatures of dust and dirt. They would be spitting and raving.

The king’s feet scuffed atop the tile, boots kicking dust into a small and disdainful cloud, carrying him between the market stalls. Eyes darted down as his gaze battered the shops and stalls. Old men disappeared into their beards, and young boys retreated behind their unscarred cheeks. Their faces were flush with emotion. His abuse grew more intense. Merchants dressed in fine clothes approached him, choking on their words and tripping over their silken and redolent gifts, thrust wanton into the arms of his guards. The emperor’s stone smile was beginning to flatten under this torrent of deference. His people were ashamed.

Ashamed of what? His mind began to work, like a giant water mill spinning under the rainfall which breaks a drought. They were his subjects and he was God. Praise was his alone. It should be pouring over him, like oil, and yet it was held back. Why were they ashamed of his power?

An old man looked out at him from behind a dark stall. His gaze was unbroken, unashamed. Wrinkled eyes looked from atop a nappy beard, and a cool sneer just peaked at the cracked and parched lips. The emperor faced the old body, beating down on a weathered, scared, and blistered face with the strength of one hundred thousand exploding suns. The man evaporated instantly, his skeleton dissolving like chalk in the rain. In the blank space, he left not even the stench of flesh, just a smile.

The king whipped around back to his carriage, his guards taking two steps back. If the pavement melted underneath his feet, and the air around him steamed, the emperor took no notice. The sun was beating down on his head again, and a crown of sweat formed underneath his brown halo. The market behind him began its chatter anew, paying no heed to the father, grandfather, son, and brother who had been reduced to invisible molecules of carbon.

The veil covered the windows of the carriage, and it set off back towards the tower. A tear rolled down the young man’s cheek, only to evaporate, forgotten. The streets remained calm.