Vengeful pity

It’s always a pity when a king dies.

And when I say it’s a pity, I really mean it’s a pity. Not a disaster. Not even doomsday. It’s as horrifying as if your professor called in sick for tomorrow. Bad for them probably. But for you? Imagine this when thinking about a king’s death. Imagine all the young men gathering around his bed. When the king dies, a new one is looked for, meaning someone is about to climb the throne and to call a whole kingdom as possession. And hell yes, it’s as terrifying as it sounds. Not only because a lone person should never possess a whole territory, but especially because in Nomando state is not ruled by reason and diplomacy, but by blood. I know this is hard to imagine. How can a territory be ruled by blood? Maybe you picture rivers running red, forming puddles of gore on the pitch-black streets. Now subtract all the red. And the black, at least most of it. Instead, for Nomando you can picture brown streets, littered with everything people don’t need anymore: old pieces of metal, sticks of wood, burned on both edges, maybe even children’s’ toys, though they look different from what you may have in mind. Raggy, dirty, and…well, it does not even matter for now. It’s not what I want to tell you. We can keep talking about Nomando for hours, yes. But actually, I think the story speaks for itself.

So, let me introduce the characters to you before it gets boring.

And where to do that in a better manoeuvre than the way Shakespeare would have done it: on a balcony. And as the grant stage director I am I will now tell you about the scenery. Imagine the first few minutes after sunset, the sky darkened to a marine blue, a bit like the typical van Gogh painting, only calmer. But of course, Rocho cannot describe it like this, since he simply does not know about van Gogh. He lives in a completely different world.

Anyways, Rocho is sitting in a chair, made of metal and polished to a shiny silver. His cloak is not only brown from fabric, but also from the dirt clinging to it. But Rocho has not cleaned it yet and – we both know that – never will. He has more urgent things to do, which are: sitting outside and thinking about tomorrow.

As I have told you, we are at a point where our – maybe not our – precious – maybe not precious – king has died. And someone will take his spot. So of course, there is Rocho – and he has a plan. AT least, he had one. Joining the battle for the throne he fought four opponents already and now it was time for the final round. You have to know that Rocho is a quite good fighter, but actually he never bothered learning to combat. Picture him strong, his arms thicker than a rat. But strength is no indicator for success in battle. Because if you look closer (or if you imagine him with more details) you can spot a small red line under his left ear. Well, this clever guy cut himself with the razor blade just this morning. And tomorrow he wants to propel his blade in what is to select the next king. Still, Rocho is making up his mind on how to win. But in battle it always comes down to two people – at least. And now that you got to know one of them, I will present to you the other contender. Take a minute to think about what you expect. For all of you who said a woman, I can only answer you one thing: I wish. But no, the person leaving for fresh air is no woman, but a man with brown curly hair and a stiff expression. At least this is what Rocho thinks of him. But hey, of course Rocho can’t think more than this, since he doesn’t know anything about Deju, not even his name. So, he just thinks “Oh, my brown-haired, stiff contender for tomorrow is arriving.”

No, he does not think that. Rocho’s thoughts aren’t that blunt. They are more like “What is he doing here?”

“You are here?”, Deju asks and honestly, Rocho must think something like “Who is this guy to ask for such an obvious detail?”, but instead his head goes like “Should I even answer him?”

Yes, this may give you an overview on how much rivalry lies between those two guys. Not even answering the other seems appropriate. Actually, I don’t want to be king if that’s the catch.

But, I know, this sounds funny, Deju does not want to be king either.

Yes, you’ve read correctly. Deju fought four battles. He went from round to round, eliminating other contenders, but for what?

Think about it, my dear reader. Why should one be king, although he doesn’t want to?

To make it even more challenging to find an answer: There is no one else in Nomando, who wants Deju to be king. Maybe there are a few souls that prefer Deju over Rocho, but these people do not really want him to be king, they rather take the option that suits a little better.

Most people do root for Rocho though. He has proved how well he can handle a sword (not a razor blade though) and he has – as one has to mention – the looks. He has a face that suits the wall of fame perfectly. Lined next to hundreds of generations from Nomando, Rocho would be admired from the people. And a king always needs a queen, so of course women from Nomando are already thinking who they’d like to marry of the two. And not just women, guys are dreaming too, although I could tell them that there is not a single chance. But I will stay quiet.

Anyways, Deju knows his chances are slight. He never expected to come this far. With a scar on his right calf and burn marks on his torso, he appears to be too broken to even be considered second place. At least that’s what he thinks. But he doesn’t take a close look at Rocho, who backed away when Deju entered. Rocho, who is – obviously – afraid of this man.

Still, let’s try to empathize with Deju: no chance of winning, not wanting to even go through this battle tomorrow and no possibility of giving up (wait for it, you’ll understand that this opportunity does not exist for him). What would you do? Bite down and just go through with it? Maybe. I guess that’s what I would do.

But I’m no twenty-something fighter, who has flown from his hometown, disguised as a Nomandi and made it surprisingly far. So maybe for us it is not understandable, what Deju plans on doing. But for him, it is the only possibility.

“Why do you want to be king?”, Deju asks, still standing in the doorway, his cloak floating from the light breeze. With his arms crossed, he gives Rocho the impression of being bored, so his answer may not be the best one he would be able to provide.

“I think I’m suited for it well enough.”

“You are. I just want to know your reasons?”

“To use them against me? No way, I will not talk about it until tomorrow.”

“Well, okay.” And so, they go back to silence, Deju gazing at the sky, Rocho examining his fingernails.

“I saw you in the garden this morning. Are you into plants?”

Rocho heard the question seconds before he decides to actually look up, ignoring Deju was a little too hard.

“My mother likes plants, especially healing flowers.”

“Cool. So, you were raised a healer?”

The image is a little funny to Deju. Rocho, build like a stone, as a healer, grinding seeds and mixing ointments. Well, he seemed to mix very forceful, getting these thick arms. Maybe he crushed seeds with his hands alone.

“What about your mother?”

“Oh, now you are quite the talker, huh?” Even I notice how fake Deju’s laugh sounds, but well, what a pity.

“Yes, let’s talk then. I told you something about my mother, now you tell me something about your mother.”

“There is not much I can tell. She’s dead. Didn’t really get to know her.”

“That is sad.”

“Indeed.”

And with Rocho staring out into the nighty sky, thinking about what to say next, it is the perfect moment for Deju to unpack the little stick from his belt. Not just that, also a lighter he pulls from his cloak. Well, this man is equipped.

“Do you mind if I smoke a little?”

Rocho’s laugh actually sounds honest, well done, man. “Sure. You want to smoke one day before getting crowned king?”

“I don’t think I get to be crowned.”

Well, honestly, I have to agree, but I know how the story ends, so I will not tell you too much, only that you should never be too sure who gets to win.

But should I tell you something more: I will not even tell you the story until the end. I won’t cover the battle. You won’t even get to know who gets crowned king.

Yes, indeed. You will get no hint what will happen to Nomando.

Let that sink in.

Well, are you still going to proceed? Because now I have some information about Nomandi politics for you. Only brief, of course. I don’t want to bore you.

For decades, Nomando is in a war with the Federation of Constio. Peace treaties were signed, one after the other. But all of them were broken. By one king, then the next. So, no pressure on the next king, may it be Rocho or Deju, they both cannot do it worse.

Still, the federation got a new leader as well. Their king died as well. Funny, right. So, what happened?

I won’t tell you just now. But let me give you one more hint on what Deju plans: He is from Constio. Yes, indeed. Imagine this, a Consio fleeing to Nomando, joining the battle for king.

And now he is casually smoking on a balcony in the freaking palace. Yes, I haven’t told you, have I? They are at the king’s palace, sleeping in the finest beds, eating only what has been tasted by rows of food tasters beforehand and finally fighting in stunning arenas, where the pillars are made of sand stone or even marble.

But I’m being subjective here. Because, Deju is not casually smoking. This is only how it looks for Rocho. But actually, Deju is unwrapping the powder he packed from what he used to call home. Constio, you might have guessed. I’d love to get into details on how Constio looks, but this is a story for the next time. We need to get to the point. Man, I love being a storyteller, but sometimes I think I’m just not made for the job.

Anyways (my favourite word – which says a lot), it is now Rocho’s turn to ask a question.

At least this is what Deju thinks. “Don’t you want to know why I want to be king?”, he asks, blowing smoke in Rocho’s direction. The smoke looks kind of brown, but Rocho doesn’t even notice. He just stares out in the blue, like he did the whole time.

“Tell me then.”

Yes, reader. This is indeed the moment. Think about your ideas one more time. What could be going on here. And don’t let all the vapor cloud you, which is just what happens to Rocho. He doesn’t notice. But that is just what Deju wants. The special powder he scattered is not to be noticed, but to be felt – hours after. Soon, Rocho will be unable to do anything but cramp. Would be a pity if that happened right in the fight, wouldn’t it?

But no, I’m picking sides here. I don’t want to do that. Deju is a cruel one. Look what he does. The fight hasn’t even started and he’s trying his best to knock out his rival.

“If I win.”, he whispers, inhaling smoke. “then I can face the man who made me run - my father.”

There they are, the words Deju withheld for days. Through his shirt, he strokes the burn marks on his chest. Yes, I mentioned them already. Did you think he got them from fighting? Well, people don’t fight with torches to be crowned king. It’s rather the other way around.

With one powerful blow, Deju moves all the remaining smoke to Rocho and with one big step, Deju makes it inside again. Task completed. And – he doesn’t know it yet – Rocho did actually get in contact with enough of the smoke to be unable to fight properly tomorrow. And Deju – well, Deju did inhale enough of the smoke to cramp right now, here on the soft carpet, spotless and probably made of some small fluffy animal’s fur – cruel people everywhere in Nomando. But Deju doesn’t cramp. He’s a smart one. They have antidotes in Constio, but only there. Too perfect that Deju took enough stuff with him.

Still, there is Rocho outside. And he’s a thinker. When staring at the blue sky – well, now a rather black sky – he’s putting together puzzle pieces in his head.

Deju’s way too sharp name, his stiff posture, the way he fights like a warrior trained, but underwhelmingly strong – all this resonates in his rumbling thoughts. And, of course, his last sentence. The man who made me run.

Rocho doesn’t care about war. He would be one of hundreds of kings who cannot stop the ongoing battle for territory between the forces. He would just be another figure, replaceable by the next king and forgotten in years.

So, you may have guessed it. Rocho doesn’t want to be king. No one wants to be king. People may dream of it, but would they really attend a week of fights to get to that position?

Yeah, I’m delusional. Of course, they would. But not Rocho. He wanted to let Deju win this thing. Because he was honest. He was loyal. And just…good. Come here, reader. We both know Rocho is making up these adjectives, because actually he knows nothing about Deju.

Still, Rocho has a polished image of him. He doesn’t know he was poisoned by him, sure.

But one thing he does know: Deju won’t even try. Won’t do anything against the war. And men driven with revenge were the reason this whole fight over land started in the first place.

So, there is no way Rocho will let Deju win this final battle.

It does not take him long to climb over the fence surrounding the king’s garden. Picking nightshade takes him even less. His mother was no healer. You may have guessed it, but maybe you relied on my information a little too much. But telling you that Rocho’s mother was an assassin would have given the story too much cruelty already.

At fancy banquets, she would move around the table, filling in wine, sometimes letting drops of her special ring seep into the liquid. Invisible, yet deadly. Depending on the dose, of course.

And with just the right dose, Deju would not be able to do anything but cramp tomorrow. What a pity.

In the empty halls, Rocho’s breath echoes louder than ever. Father always said that when you kill people you should look them in the eyes. Best show them the weapon they are killed with. Maybe he meant it, maybe it was just to annoy his mother.

But Rocho was not killing anyone. Just stopping his opponent. Because if he doesn’t, then who will?

Just tomorrow, one of them will wear a crown neither of them wants. A pity, really. But kings always die, and someone always replaces them. That’s the rule in Nomando.

Not reason. Not diplomacy. Just blood.

And the kingdom sleeps, unaware that tomorrow’s king may not even stand.