The Crown

The last beam of sunlight descended into the sea; the shimmers decayed in oscillating waves, and the lowest tides uncovered the crabs and clams. Another night had fallen.

Together, it was nothing but a breeze carrying the salty air flapping onto the sandy shores, where pebbles were stacked upon each other, and a natural dam supported the five-story castle. Sharp steeples were at each of the four corners of the castle like guards, overseeing the dome lying calmly in the middle. They were made of nothing more than rocks and stones that were centuries old, some already have been weathered on the exterior, leaving marks of mosses and lichens, which were maybe the only living things that one saw at first sight. Underneath the dome were rumbling remedies of the breathtaking silence. Marching soldiers covered with ancient armor, just like those of medieval knights, stomped deliberately to announce their arrival upon the night of no stars, as if they could scare away the careful-minded burglars that have already stolen the everbright sun. Nearby, despite possessing breastplates stained and blurred from a day of roaming storms and showering raindrops, another troop wore similar clothing. They exited by running in the opposite direction of the first troop to claim that they had had enough of the chaos, to return to a much-deserved rest.

The entering soldiers were bucket-headed, with no facial expressions whatsoever. Through the bare, thin openings on the front sides of their tin helmets, no liveliness could be seen. For each soldier, only two bulbs of red lights, like lasers, stared determinedly at one degree, straight through his helmet’s pale front. Neither could any reflections be seen from within the men’s shields, nor could any other openings make it more convenient for their breathing. It was just like the surrounding atmosphere. Suffocating.

The leading one of the troop rhythmically approached the highest seat, which was decorated with gilding and encarved with diamonds and pearls. A miniature of the palace sat in the front, where a sand table of the territory was laid out. Perhaps it was just sand, not a table. It was the start of another long night, and the admired leader celebrated with nothing more than a stretch. It was stereotypical. To disjoint both of its mechanical arms and exchange them was a common practice for it to refresh its accessories. The same applied to spinning the bucket a full circle to ensure that its gears were working properly. Very true. No human being would still stand working overnight when their non-living counterparts could accomplish the same tasks with no cost on energy.

In a lifeless, plain tone, it made a sound that miraculously but unsurprisingly constructed a coherent sentence. Or rather not, it made a phrase that was heard. “This land. Looks pretty. Control it. Now.”

The one who barely began his rest, the one who just reached his cellar, the one tired from a whole day of sandstorms under the light, and the same one who indeed had control over this land, the one to whom the refulgent lounge truly belonged, emerged back into the hallway, seeking his symbol of power back from the troublesome replacement. He was the true ruler, the one who should be in charge of everything, as daylight should bring justice. He marched in a grumpy and even furious manner, arms curved into a right angle, bowing downwards and set sideways of his body, and kept that gesture for his entire trail while ascending to the center of the dome. It took him as long and as short it might take, until he stood right across his rebellious counterpart and finally set his arms naturally down his sides, looked down at the table of sand, locked his eyes on the large cross the revolutionist put, and went into stasis.

“Mission received. Captain.”

He took off his gloves and showed the tentacles inside of it. The true crown was nothing more than a fighter himself as well and was nowhere different than his counterpart. But, he was perhaps a more advanced version, which justified his more important title. It would not matter for long. Each ruler took a part of the land when the cross was waived into nothingness. It would still become home for weed and sand centuries later.

As the recorder of this observance, I have to ask sincerely: Am I a human being? Or I have been long replaced by one of those armored knights as well. If I am, then why am I still one? I could have rested centuries ago, leaving the worst tasks to the fighters who never get tired. But if I am not, then why am I not? Now that I still have senses and feelings and am aware of my encounters, why would I continue to not fight my way out of the chaos?

To whom it may concern, indeed, I wish for the crown, not the sand of desolation.

This piece is featured in The PVLSE Issue 6.