Opulence

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This short piece was written as part of a module on my university course. Due to this, it meant I had around 2,000 words to play with. This was a difficult as I am used to planning novels that are around 10x the length as a minimum.
My plan was to create two characters on either side of a conflict and make the reader sympathise for both, playing more into the moral conflict of the villain. Whether it worked, I don't fully know. However, it was a useful writing exercise and I thought I would share it with you here.

Opulence

Sigil had thought many times what death might smell like, considered many different ideas – but this was not one of them. His senses were greeted by the scent of rich foods. It was as if they were cooking a great meal. One that seemed more humane than the being that resided here.

When first informed of the Dark Lord, he had imagined the place to be filled with piles of bones that had since been gnawed on, blood stains, and the heads of people he once might have known. Heads of good people like him, who had come to the keep in an attempt to put an end to the tyranny caused by the one who called himself ruler.

Instead, the palace was homely. Beautiful, even.

This didn’t feel like the great fortress of an oppressor. Sigil felt ill judging the keep in anything but a negative way. All his life had been in preparation for what he was about to do. He had to free his people.

The Great Keep was the central point of the Empire, its influence stretching out over many cities. Industrialisation had become the focus, crushing everyone under smoke and steel. People feared the idea of rebelling as much as they feared their ruler. In private they conspired against him, making plans for his demise. Many considered such ideas, though nobody was brave enough to put them into action. Victory was near impossible. The best way to survive in the Empire, in his Empire, was to keep your head down and not garner any attention.

The walls of the grand entrance hall were made of an ashen-black stone. Windows ran along each side, all of which were indented into the walls as if having sunken into them. The hall was empty, with no other decorations except from large, jagged chandeliers and a long crimson carpet that stretched the length of the room. It felt deserted – lonely. Sigil shuddered, feeling an odd chill come over him. His feet carried him forwards, but he had no control over them. Clamping his shaking hands shut, he continued onwards towards his goal.

At the far end of the hall was a door crafted from a dark wood with a barrier placed lengthwise across it. A solitary lantern hung on a hook on one side. The light cast a shadow that seemed to swirl about the floor like a creature moving closer in order to swallow him. With one last glance over his shoulder, he pushed the door open.

The chill he had experienced earlier instantly dissipated. Stepping into the room, he was engulfed by a blistering heat, almost as if he were stepping into pure fire. He had to wipe sweat from his brow, the sudden change in temperature unusually affecting him.

Along each wall were an assortment of fireplaces, all of which were blazing away, crackling in the silence. He was in the throne room; Sigil could tell that much. It was similar to the entrance hall, except the windows were greater in size, the patterns on them intricate. At the back of the room on the dais was a throne. Once again, Sigil’s expectations were wrong. It wasn’t grand, frightening or covered in expensive jewels. It was simple. The Throne was crudely made, fashioned out of slabs of darkened stone. The backrest reached upwards with an odd pattern: a bird with its wings outstretched. As part of the design, it looked as if the bird was trapped in the confines of the chair.

“Fine work, isn’t it?”

The voice broke Sigil from his wonder, his heart leaping into his throat. Near one of the fireplaces stood a figure cloaked in black. In their hand was a spear which they were using to stoke the flames. A hiss came from the fire as the coals were moved about, then the sounds died away, merging back into the slow crackling that had filled the room previously.

“I had the throne made by builders from outside the Empire. Their forges were magnificent and were used to make weapons. I thought it apt that they were the ones to create the seat I use in my rule.”

The black-clad figure looked extremely old. However, the look in his golden eyes felt almost youthful. His face was hollow and pale, as if he was barely avoiding death itself. The man had dark brown hair that was unkempt and stuck up in places. On his robes he had a deep red design that culminated in a ruby encrusted in the centre. The pattern looked like it was closing in on his chest.

The man began to make his way to the throne. His robe crowded at his feet, looking as if he were almost gliding along the floor. The spear in his hand seemed to disappear in an instant. Whatever magic Sigil had just seen, it was unknown to him. Reaching inside his robe, the man pulled out a small flask. The light of the fires seemed to catch its metallic surface. This was the only reason Sigil had managed to spot it. The dark lord downed the contents in one gulp and returned it to its hiding place. Watching, unable to do anything, Sigil stood in place. His plans had all deserted him.

The figure stumbled slightly before climbing onto the throne. Placing one hand on the armrest, he closed his eyes and lent back. Both of them let the silence fill the room, waiting for the slightest inclination that the conversation would continue. Sigil was sure now, this man was the ruler. He could feel the power emanating from the figure that now sat before him. This man was his enemy. Sigil was solely focused on the task he had been ordered to carry out.

“I know what you are here for” the man said, his voice somewhat strained and authoritative at the same time. “Or rather, to be more precise, what you are here to do. You are all the same.”

Sigil stopped, trying to fight against the urge to run. He needed to find the courage that had brought him here. He had already come all this way, there was no chance he was going to back out now. If he did, his effort would be for nothing.

“I wouldn’t advise you to do so,” the Dark Lord said, his eyes opening and meeting Sigil’s. “It wouldn’t be in your best interest.”

“I am here, for the people who are being crushed by your rule” Sigil started, his voice wavering slightly, but he kept his stance and words firm. “I am here to help them…”

“You won’t help anyone.” The words echoed around the hall. Sigil clasped his fists shut, trying to compose himself. He is avoiding a fight, trying to convince me not to kill him. There was no use listening to him, Sigil knew it was all lies. The Dark Lord closed his eyes again in deep thought. He leant forward and instead of meeting Sigil’s gaze again, he stared at the floor.

“I have to do it” Sigil continued, this time his voice was full of a false bravery he hoped the ruler would not see past. “I have to do this; my people are relying on me.”

“Leave now, before you do something you will regret.” The Dark Lord – Kheye - glanced upward, as if trying to assess Sigil’s competency. It felt only right to use the ruler’s own name, considering him as mortal. “No harm will come to your family back home.” His voice was still thin, almost like he was struggling to say each word.

Sigil moved his hand to his dagger. Gripping it, he tried to force himself to take a step towards the man. If he made a move now, it would all be over, and he could return to his people with the good news. However, something was stopping him, although he was unsure what. He hated this man. He had killed his people, ruined the planet, bringing it to the brink of desolation and now he would end it. The man was only a few feet away but felt so distant. Why now did he feel like he couldn’t kill him? Why did he feel… sympathy?

“Please. Leave me and return to your family.”

Sigil darted forwards. He had to do this now, or it would never happen. He had come all this way and he wouldn’t let it all be for nothing. Unsheathing the dagger, he thrust it forward and buried it deep in Kheye’s chest. He felt the blood leak down his hand, the sound of it dripping to the floor accompanied the continual crackling of the fires.

Why, if he had succeeded, did he feel bad? He felt weak. Attempting to move away, he realised what was wrong. He had failed. Protruding from his stomach was Kheye’s spear. With a wisp of smoke it vanished, but the weapon had already done its job. He struggled to breath, his chest pulsating with an immense pain. Kheye lent in close and caught Sigil before he dropped to the floor. He rested in his killer’s arms, almost like a mother held a new born child.

“I really was going to let you leave.” Kheye’s voice sounded almost sad, even regretful. “Why didn’t you just listen to me?”

The last thing Sigil saw was Kheye looking down at him, his sunken eyes sombre and unmoving.

***

Kheye sat at his desk, his forehead resting on his crossed arms. All he could hear was the sound of the candle next to him. The subtle movements of the flame, its twists and turns were relaxing. It gave him peace, helping him feel at ease.

On sitting up, he opened a draw built into the desk and pulled out a bottle and goblet. Its dark contents sloshed against the inside. Filling the goblet, he swirled it around, watching the liquid spin. He sipped carefully, bracing himself for the sudden sting at the back of the throat. Once it hit, Kheye clenched his eyes shut. Every time he had to remind himself that it helped. The taste may be grim, but the effects of the alcohol were desired. Especially after today.

Once again, his hand had been forced. Just thinking of the confrontation made his stomach writhe. One day he wished they would turn and leave. They never took his advice; each one having been perpetuated by their tales of prophecies and the hidden bravery of the oppressed. Why did they never listen? He took another sip, this time managing not to struggle. The sting wasn’t half as bad as the first time.

“For someone who controls everything, you sure do hate to be in control of yourself.”

Apparently, for someone as powerful as he was, he hadn’t noticed his servant enter either. Drig stood in the doorway, his beady eyes peering at him. The creature was created by him, crudely done if he was to judge his own handiwork. It was disfigured and ugly, not something Kheye had originally liked looking at. However, it had done the job and he had grown accustomed to its appearance.

“Do you think it wise to speak to me in that way?”

“No Sir,” Drig said, “but I know that you don’t consider anything I say anyways.” The creature shrugged and moved over to the window where it began to clear away dust. “I am sorry if I offended you.”

“No, it’s just – I – uh… Don’t worry.”

There was no use trying to reason with it. Kheye had made them himself. That meant they were primitive, and it hadn’t needed to possess any intelligence. Ignoring the creature, Kheye felt for the stab wound. He hoped that it had remained, however he knew the cut had healed as soon as it had been made.

“Drig?” he said. Kheye tried to keep his voice steady, but the alcohol compromised that.

“Yes sir?” Drig turned to look at him, it’s wide eyes almost peering into him, searching him. He had gotten used to their ugliness, but the eyes always surprised him. They looked as if they were expecting every word you said.

“Would you ever want to be immortal?”

Drig looked at him, first with an expression of confusion and then resuming its seriousness.

“I am not sure about that one. It would be fun at first, but it would soon grow terribly lonely.”

With that, Kheye pulled the bottle close and poured himself another drink. Raising it to his lips, he let the liquid sit against his skin before downing the contents. The sting returned, but he took it in. Resting his head, he tried not to think. He couldn’t keep letting himself dwell on things like that, it never did him any good.

Drig looked at its master, watching him breathe slowly. The creature crept up and took the candle from beside him. It wished there was something it could do to help, but it knew there was nothing. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Drig blew out the candle and left the room, leaving its master in darkness.