The Doors.
Perfect for this story. Listen as you read. The full name is below.
To Meet the King. The letter was on thick, creamy parchment, the words a careless masterpiece. At the bottom a signature that disturbed him, sharp angles somehow aimed at him. Nonsense, such a thing was impossible. He tried to focus on the words that came before and after, but he was fixed on those four words, why were they addressed to him? The Royal Blue seal was genuine, familiar to all his Majesty’s subjects, his own name was there, carefully turned into a work of art. Hand delivered by a royal lackey, who bowed slightly and kept his cold eyes locked on him. Thirty long seconds. Remarkably eloquent, removing all option, he bowed back and lowered his eyes. There he was, long after the footman had gone, bent over, clutching a beautiful scroll, frozen by something he had never felt before.
He sat now, in his favorite chair by the fire, drinking the finest wine, served by silent beauty, of both sexes. Looking down at the parchment and seeing the other words for the first time. There was no fear in him, that too was impossible, in the Kingdom. But as he understood what was required of him, dress in sumptuous attire- that will be provided, since they have all his measurements, proceed to the palace and ‘Meet The King,’ well, that was something to be taken seriously.
He racked his brain; did he know anyone who had ever met the King in person? Not that he knew of. He found that strange until he thought about telling Jane or his friends of his own ‘honour’. Never. He would arrange for a holiday around that time, off to the coast to face the fury of ocean storms, sky diving into their very heart. Alone with nature at her most brutal, safe from her claws. Taunt the beast and live. What could be more exciting?
But not this time. This time he would be a guest of the palace, steeped in luxury that made his own plush surroundings look paltry. Washed, dried, rubbed with oils, dried again, dressed with exquisite precision from head to toe. Fabrics that felt like silk, soft linens, layers of them, then a waistcoat and jacket that turned his eyes to smoky sapphires, he saw himself a stranger, in their mirrors.
Cosseted, what did it mean, really? He had been so for as long as he could remember, loved by parents who thought of nothing but him. A brother who understood him better than any living soul. Two years younger than him, they were inseparable as children, close as adults. What more could you ask of flesh and blood but that you be understood? Forgiven for every indiscretion, every jealousy, his brother was the most patient person he knew. Perhaps they had made a mistake, his brother should have been standing here, dressed like a prince and worthy to meet the King.
They fed him, seven courses and enough wine to disable a lesser man. He came from a family of drinkers, his fondest memories involved feasts and endless alcohol, from every country in the world. Jolly uncles with treats in their sleeves, high bosomed aunts who stifled him any chance they got. What would they think if they could see him now? Thank goodness they had passed; the shock would kill them. The honour alone would drag them down into the dark earth, they would welcome it while it killed them. He looked into the golden depths of the cognac in his glass, the lovely servants disappeared silently, and he was left alone with his thoughts and a fire that beckoned. He added wood and watched it leap to life.
To Meet the King. What could the king want of him? He was the best of Kings, able to keep his subjects safe. People came to the borders and begged to be allowed in, guards kept them out. Every child knew this, knew they lived in the greatest privilege. Far from such unruly places, safe from the winds that blew through them. Every child grew up in perfect security, he had never known such a thing as anxiety, had no idea when it slipped into his mind, no idea that it had. He watched the flames and remembered what he knew of the King. Surprisingly little, he rarely appeared in public, and coins showed only a stern profile, waves of hair and the Crown, huge and heavy. All knew him to be a kind and benevolent King, his subjects adored him, and most would die for him, if they could conceive of such an idea. They remained slightly restless and ready for something they could not even imagine.
He looked at his glass, still full despite his drinking from it all this time. What time was it? Was there a clock? No, just his own pocket watch, long since stopped from neglect. The fire still blazed, when had he added wood last? He couldn’t remember. Something in him made him suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings. The room was dark now, the only light coming from the hearth which cast flames onto walls suddenly unfamiliar.
He drank his glass off, to the depths, shuddered and shook his head. He threw the glass into the fire and stood up, the room swam, he shook his head again, then sat back in his chair. His heart pounded into his ears, was he dying? What was happening to him? He gripped the chair tightly and tried to breathe, a woman appeared, washed his face with a warm cloth and opened windows that let in new darkness. It washed cool over his face and his heart slowed and suddenly he could sit up straight, he was ready to see the King.
One last look in the mirror, was his hair really that dark? Was this dashing figure with a bold calf and strong shoulders really him? He looked at her, green, glittering eyes, and soft hands, was he going mad? Was nothing what it seemed in this Palace? He walked like a zombie out the open door and down the hall. Endless steps, he climbed them, footmen lined up behind him like he was someone who mattered. Silence shrouding them, where were the footsteps?
Doors that reached into the heavens, carved with beasts and dragons, twined with snakes, and surrounded by gore, animals writhed in death throes, light fell from the sky and shone on death. Gleaming, lustrous gold, precious gems, pearls with their souls on display. What was not fashioned into these doors? What held him transfixed, while the men pooled around him?
“The King awaits…” What madness seized him to stand still and refuse to move? What drove him to say, ‘let him wait’?
The doors, he let his fingers run over them, every line and tortured curve, every swirl of frozen horror. His blood took them in, through his fingertips, they danced and changed beneath his hands. His heart was kicking now, kicking and screaming and ready to fight, he looked around, darkness closed him in with the doors. He was alone. He pushed the door open.
A vast space lit with fire, in trenches down the room and in torches on the walls. A long marble floor that announced each footstep. His resounded alone, for a few steps, then he came to a halt and the silence rang. He froze, his bow and manners entirely forgotten. He was alone with the King. Very slowly, despite himself, he fell to his knees.
Torchlight wavered wildly, golden flashes and sudden shadows, they played on her white face, her impossibly red hair, her icy eyes, glacier blue and smouldering with latent power. Her pose, ah- her pose, slouched in her throne like an expectant goddess. He looked on her and felt his own weakness, his desperate willingness, his total submission, his fealty to this woman, his King. He ached to press his lips to her white hand, limp and carelessly draped across her golden skirt. He looked with despair on the length of cold marble between them. He stayed on his knees, unable to rise, trapped by an invisible enemy, wrapped around him, and seeking entrance. Fear, simple naked fear. Utterly new and chokingly powerful. Across the room, she smiled.
She rose like a cat, graceful and quick, her hair loose and taunting, her waist waiting to be tested. She stood in front of her throne. “Come. Rise and come to my hand.” He went. His bow, face to the floor, trembling at the hem of her skirt, told her all she needed to know about him. She offered him her hand, felt his lips, already feverish, pulled her hand away quickly and sat down.
“Stand,” she said, “if you are man enough to hear what I will say and remain standing, it may influence me in your favour. Do not offer me your love and loyalty, they are already mine. You are here to prove it.”
“Will that involve the kinds of things on your doors? Is that what your majesty requires of your subjects? That they love you unto death?”
She sucked in her breath, pulled him towards her by the hair. “Oh yes,” she hissed, “especially that”. He held her gaze silently. She released him, pressing her hand to the side of her face. Her eyes closed, for a brief second, he stepped back.
“Why should I?”
“What, I am not reason enough?” Her eyes laughed at him, her sexuality weaving like a snake between them. “I may not be wearing the crown, but I am your sovereign.” He held steady, swept by strong desires, kept still by the clearest vision, the smallest understanding.
“What have you done to deserve it, your majesty?”
“I have kept you alive. What payment do you offer? To whom do you give your fealty? Your parents swore allegiance for you as a child, I had no cause to doubt their loyalty. They paid willingly the simple price that I am now asking of you.”
Flushed and kindled she was the most beautiful thing, he closed his eyes and thought of the doors. When he was ready, he said simply, “I don’t believe you”. Turned around and walked slowly away, across the words he could now read, what would you give up to be safe? His boots carried him back to the tall doors, then stopped him. He turned to her, King of his world, that wasn’t real.
“What do you want from me? Love you have, for all the good it will do you, loyalty you never will.”
“I have kept you safe for all the years of your life. Free from fear. That in itself is priceless, why should you hesitate to show your devotion? Surely I have earned it? What makes you think you have a choice? Everyone pays the price gladly; will you be different?”
She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You do not even know what I might ask of you, yet you refuse to do your duty. You think I cannot force you, but you are mistaken. How do you think I keep my kingdom at peace? Do I have an army? Do the gods help me?”
Her skirts rustled as she crossed the floor, urgent hushing, and unerring footsteps. Her scent hinted secrets at him, her eyes ruled him. “You will help me, if I have not caught you yet, it is but a matter of time. Prove your fealty to your King.”
Her lips at his ear, her arms sliding over him, it took all his strength to vanquish the man in him. He searched instead for the animal, it was afraid, calling on ancient instincts, urging him to run. She was a cat, powerful, alluring, merciless.
He put his hand behind him, felt the doors, felt his own death waiting on the other side. The cold metal warmed under his hands, was he ready to become a part of them? He looked back once, at her beautiful face and boundless fury, then pushed the door open.
“Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu” by Clare Uchima, Hinako Omori