A Story Written By the Angels

This is the story of how I died.

Even upon my impending death, the air is warm, and a sweet fragrance drifts softly across the platform shafts. It is as if the bitter winter’s hold had taken a moment to pity my plight. The lieutenant, a man of many shared drinks, thrusts me to the stage and grasps my tied hands firmly. I cannot blame him, for the hesitancy of his grip reveals it all. His sorrow, sunken eyes tell an endearing goodbye, and I almost reply but the cries of the observers pull me away. As I step onto the dry scaffold, the audience clamors and rallies with excitement, as if my hanging is but a sports event. Scanning across the sea of bobbling heads, I search for one familiar face. When I am certain of their absence, a sense of relief washes over my chest.

Of all people, Amari must never know.

The sight of seeing her in pain is far worse than any death a man could succumb to. Her enrichening chestnut eyes must never be filled with tears, her dainty painted lips must never let out cries, and her beautiful charm, as bright as twilight, must never be paired with anguish.

It is selfish of me to long for her presence. If she were to be present now, she ought to strangle me by the neck herself.

There is an ear-piercing cry from the audience that distracts me from my pain. They yell cruel words that strike like daggers. But these knives do not cut; nothing can pierce a carcass with a heart already bleeding. All clamors and blurred into white noise, filling the emptiness in my hollow shell. No one can say or do anything to make me feel remorse. Even as they spill their lies and lies about my murdering of Prince Damian, future heir to be wed to Amari, I don’t fight back.

Where is the courage of the head knight? Sworn protector of the kingdom of Wales and their shining beauty, the princess? No. All there is left is a walking dead man.

The sky is open and welcoming, the same colors of wedding-band flowers. Maybe if this was another day with the same sky, the blueness could make happiness. Not a cloud that catches the eye.

it’s impractical in the sense that there is nothing to gaze upon. During the early summer, Amari and I would talk of childish shapes made up of whisky peaks. We joked of the parties the angels must have there, bashfully spilling their wine like teardrops from the sky. We told each other that one day, we will rejoice in their celebration, and laugh and play in the clouds.

Neither of us knew how little time left we had.

Neither of us knew the clouds would leave with their angels and festivity.

Neither of us knew Damian would enter our lives.

I didn’t know she would take his.

And now only one of us knows what will happen next.

I don’t blame Amari for my death, or for killing the Prince. For one, he was a menace, a tyrant, and a creep. Running his hand up and down her body, choking her till she gave in, shoving his hand down her throat to stop her pleas. It was self-defense. No princess, no maiden, no woman should have to go through such atrocity, to be wed to such a monster.

I wouldn’t allow it. I wouldn’t accept it. It had to be stopped.

Amari has always been a tough one. She had personally joined my sword-handling classes the same age I had. She had trained under the same advisors alongside me. She had even beaten me in sparring on multiple occasions. So it didn’t surprise me that she had gotten to Damian before I could.

But what would they say? What would the people do to “miss little beauty” after seeing her impale the so beloved prince with her blade?

That is why they won’t say, they won’t do, they won’t harm anyone.

Anyone except me.

And so I will die, not the fallen, but the treacherous traitor who murdered the future heir of Wales. The princess, unbeknownst to this, will be sent to the kingdom north to discuss trade, eased at mind. I know she will write. I know there will be a pile of letters cluttered in the damp corners of my cell.

I want to apologize, apologize for never being able to write back.

Because it’s time.

They drag me by the collar and I stand over a crowd of thousands. The guards pull a noose around my neck.

Please, I don’t want to go yet.

I hear the final charges of the crime, and then the plundering roars of vengeance. My chest hurts,

I’m only 19. I have so much to build, with Amari.

But the church bells won’t stop ringing, for an undead wedding day.

Amari…Amari, Amari.

My old friends, old peers, begin to crouch down to remove the stool. I choke on hot gasps of tears. I’ve only cried two times before.

Once, when my parents died at age five.

The other, when I die hundreds of miles away from the arms of my beloved, from the world I’ve set since I was born.

I love you Amari, I love you.

The tears make my face sticky, and I let out a wrangled cry, the first noise I’ve made all day, like a strangled baby being born. Only this doesn’t end in a new life, but the end of a lost beginning.

I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you for a hundred lifetimes, so we can party with the angels in the cloud, just as we wanted.

A gun is shot. My thoughts go silent. I am only lying to myself, there is no future for us in the clouds, no partying and spilling our wine. It was always meant to end this way. The Knight was never meant to fall in love with the Princess, and the Princess was never meant to love the Knight. It was always supposed to be the Prince and the Princess, and live happily ever after. Just like every perfect story.

Just, take your time. And forget me. Please.

That is my final wish.

Maybe, maybe in another lifetime.

But not in this one. This one ends the way the angels wrote it.

This is the story of how I died.