He never much cared for brute-forcing things. When his brothers would spar in the yard, he neglected to join in. He’d watch them slyly instead, his head buried in a history book or a scroll from town. Or his eyes half closed in a feigned slumber. But his eyes weren’t reading, sleeping, or seeking news. They were studying deeply every move of his brothers.
Their swings, their attacks, their ripostes. Their footwork was what he started with first. Then their arm movements, and then the dashes and halts of their bodies in the circle of sand at the center of the yard. And the way their heads naturally lowered when the wooden sword would come screaming towards it. Eventually, he felt a connection to them stronger than any water of brotherhood or blood from the battlefield could ever bring. He figured that the way they fought, struggled, and bled—that’s all a man really is. And he knew them better than anyone.
After his brothers were done sparring, after they’d had their fill of slashes of swords and slammings of shields, after they’d gone inside the large wooden door to the training yard, back into the castle, And the servants would take their armor off and give them a wet rag to wash their faces and a cool drink to sate their throats. After they’d lay down in their luxurious beds and open a window to let the cool breeze of the hinterlands flow through the room like their adrenaline flowed through their veins when they sparred. After the insects began singing a cappella and the owls joined in. After the pulls of consciousness faded like the lull of the waves, their eyes closed, not to open until the lazy breeze from the window turned warm from the morning light.
That’s when he’d return the opposite way through that wooden door to the training yard after donning the armor and chain mail and weapons they had hours earlier. He’d strapped and tightened the armor and sharpened the blades himself. He found the swords were dulled to the point of ruin most days after his brothers’ use. So sometimes he’d bring the sword with the hilt of sapphire that he kept in a hidden compartment under the base of his wardrobe. When the moon was high and the daywalkers were asleep, he’d spar with a scarecrow strapped to a pole until the calming rays of the sun started to peek over the mountains surrounding his home.
By the time his brothers, father, and mother awoke, he’d be in his bedchamber with eyes closed but ears open. The thin walls and squeaky doors allowed him to play with his family and servants like a seasoned master plays with pieces on a chaturanga. He knew the servants woke just before sunlight to prepare breakfast in the kitchen and set his family’s clothes in the dress rooms. He knew his father would be up at dawn and his brothers shortly after. He knew his mother slept in—sometimes until the second bell tolled—because she was burdened with a child. Perhaps another bantam brother.
He knew he could slit the servants’ throats an hour before dawn. Right as they began to stir from their pleasant dreams or darkened nightmares. His brothers next. He knew them best, after all. Then his father. He was capable. He needed an advantage against him, and he knew he couldn’t kill him quietly. His mother and the unborn would go last, which brought him no pleasure. He was tired of waiting, though, and he could put this plan into action now.
But he knew his father was losing the war. He knew that one of his brothers always feigned left and then swung right, no matter how many times he ended up in the dirt for doing it. He knew his other brother had a weak riposte, and if he just pushed that advantage and backed his brother into a wall, he could not stop his onslaught of flurries and slashes. He knew the people would not bestow him the crown if he slaughtered his family in the night like they were lamb. But if his brothers were slain in an honorable duel and his father was deposed because barbarians had burned half the countryside, then his right to rule would be just and holy. He just had to be patient. And so he was.
And eventually his father was assassinated in the night, as were his brothers, because the aristocrats, who had been fed up with losing fields and slaves to barbarians, had finally had enough. And when they banded together in their dark cloaks in the light of the full moon, they looked like werewolves on the prowl. But instead of hunting flesh to eat, they yearned for a way of killing the man who had let all this happen. His father. The King. And he gave it to them in a bound scibble with a faint little glimmer that one of the aristocrats found in their usual meeting place. The glimmer was a sapphire, the gemstone of the boy’s House. That, along with the official seal, had given them the mental fortitude to actually put the plan into action. The plan to murder his father.
From there, it had been easy. They’d approached the castle in the night, mostly peasants and hired mercenaries. But some aristocrats had themselves come to break the walls that had bound them for so long. They were ever-eager to murder the few guards placed here by The Emperor. The archers on the left and right battlements pulled down from their pedestals and staked like the thieving bloodsuckers that they were. The footman, shieldsman, and swordsman too. Whatever was there, they figured it didn’t matter. They’d kill them all or die trying.
But when the low, middle, and high came to do what they’d never thought they would, it was already too late. The glimmer of torches on the horizon and the clattering of armor on the ears was enough of a distraction to murder the castle guards, some of whom he’d been lifelong friends with. The servants and his family were already disposed of, an hour before dawn. The gates were open for the procession of angry men, and even some women, to come through and finally get their retribution.
But it was just him. He’d stood there with a scroll in his hand that had a faint sparkle even in the moonlight, torchlight, and castlelight. He hadn’t signed the scroll he gave to the aristocrats, only proclaiming himself as one of the sons of the recently deposed King. And all at once, an air of understanding passed over the aristocrats in the mob. It was as if the master werewolf that turned them all into these monstrosities had been slain. And now they could actually think.
And think they did. At first, why not just murder this son, who is most certainly somewhat to blame for the misery they’ve had? But then they thought more. They’d committed treason, all of them. And the punishment for treason was one of those things that made you shiver in the heat of a summer in the marshes. But this boy, standing in front of them and wearing a plain outfit that was overshined by even some of the peasants in the group, was their one and only way out.
And so they propped him up in their arms and proclaimed him King. King of this castle, and the surrounding aristocrats’ smaller but nonetheless impressive castles. And the hired mercenaries’s homesteads, wives, and horses. And the peasant’s shacks, bungalows, and hovels. And still, he did not smile. He took no pleasure in patricide, matricide, or siblicide.
But he had to, didn’t he? His father was losing the war at home and on the front. His brothers would be bested on the battlefield by anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of swordsmanship. It was better now, he thought decisively. He pondered this, but a more interesting thought came to mind. The first time since that short night of killing his past. And that long day of sowing the seeds of his future. Reading literature. So he gorged himself on Genghis, Alexander, and Caesar until his mind was so full that he could do nothing but fall asleep to that soft, lazy lull of the breeze coming through his window.