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Story A: My mother is dead, and the newscasters want my statement. They offer sympathies and stuttered condolences, their gazes swept to the floor as neatly as their bows. If their embarrassed respect is any different than before, I don’t notice. They hold no interest to me now. I only want to get through this hellish speech, and then I’ll go back to my room and order the strongest drink Carter can find. I can’t stand to be sober there. The walls are too indefinite, white bleeding into unmarked white, a cell with a desk and a bed, fit for your majesty. My actual room is too dangerous, they say. We can’t take any chances. The unsaid words bleed into my lungs and stagger my breath. It’s the lights that are causing my eyes to water as I step up to the podium. Kings don’t cry, at least not in public. Smile for the camera, relax your shoulders, and breathe; enunciate your words and watch your tone. I’ve done this more times than I can count. This is no different. It’s with a strange detachment that I wield the role of king. All the subjects I viewed so fondly only yesterday have turned to categories in my brain: those likely to revolt and those not. Their faces no longer hold shape but bend and morph into my mother’s features. I hear myself talking and duly congratulate myself. Though my mind may be elsewhere, I play the role well. My eyes, usually trained on the house insignia, waver to the surrounding people. Most gaze up at me, but there are a few who whisper amongst each other. A madness roils in my chest, a screaming, primal hatred. Revolters or apathetic, I hate them both. I swallow the burn like whiskey and memorize their features. One has a green sweater on and the other two are wearing scarves the color of a robin’s underbelly. Later, when the halls are empty but for guards, I sprawl on my bed and summon Carter. He enters with the grate of keys and the click of locks. “You doing okay?” “No.” My voice is muffled by pillows. I roll over and stare at the tear blots that sit smug, as if they told a joke and now expect me to laugh. I don’t know when I started crying. “Do you have any more intel on, um-” My mouth dissolves into gibbering syllables. It’s not me that's the problem; the words are slippery. “We haven’t caught them yet.” Carter’s hand rests on my shoulder, and I set my lips in a firm line and nod. “We have found evidence, though, that the idea of revolt is far more widespread than we originally thought.” His words are gentle, and though I expect to feel anger, it’s as if my brain ran out of emotions for the day. “Why?” I force inflection into my tone, something I’m usually suppressing. “Well, your mother did raise the taxes, and many were already struggling with food poverty.” “We need the money. How else are we to aid the poor? We’re doing our best to keep everyone alive, but running a country in a drought is expensive.” “Yes, but I think taxing them is doing more harm than good.” “What do you suggest then?” “Bring the taxes back down until we’re more stable. Rains are predicted to be coming soon. Let the lower class get back on their feet, and then you can worry about money.” “It’s not that simple. The government of Ranfoël is pushing for us to pay back the loans.” “They can wait.” “No, they can’t. They’re a powerful force and when they want their money they get their money.” “Or what?” “It’s complicated.” “More complicated than lowering the taxes or starting a civil war?” “Yes, it is. You’re not the king. You don’t know how managing a country works.” “I’m an informant. I may not know everything you do about politics, but this is my job.” “Your job is to relay information. Nothing more. You don’t get to fill it with your opinion. How am I to trust you if I know you have an agenda to push?” We stare at each other in silence for a moment, and then Carter backs towards the door. “Very well, sir. You have a meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow.” “Very well.” I wish he would’ve slammed the door on the way out. After a night full of anything but sleep, I desperately need the morning air to slap me awake. An entourage of guards flank my sides as I step out of the complex that has been deemed my temporary home. Winter air stings my lungs as I steal gulps of it. This is one of my favorite things: walking among the people and blessing their days. It heartens me to know that some still care. It gets sterile trying to decipher politics with old narcissistic lords who only ever want more coppers in their pockets. This deceit is much more honest. I smile widely and nod at the people I pass on the street. Remembering my argument with Carter last night, I toss a gold coin to a homeless woman who sits, shivering in a heap of blankets. She grabs the coin with shrunken, dirty hands and flings it back at me, her apoplectic glare pushing me backward in time to the speech. She, too, has a muted red scarf slithering around her neck. The same rage simmers under my skin, and, suddenly, I need to be alone. Eyes trace my outline like a dot-to-dot. Wind whirls the faint odor of rebellion through the air as I realize these stares are no longer ones of love but malice. Some avert their faces, but many red-scarved people clot together in blistering gazes, their slouched figures prowling side streets and storefronts. My head never lowers, the all too visible crown never falling, until I’m locked in my room again. Meetings drone on like mosquitos. Her funeral disposes of money we don’t have. Half of the crowds don red scarves, the color making me nauseous. It spreads from person to person until all that's left is a carnivorous red membrane. I mentioned it once to Carter, and then to the entire intelligence network, but all I got back were half-bows and mutters of “of course my lord”. We move back into the palace after it has been fortified. My bed, although inviting, gets less use than it should. It’s just been one month, but the only remainder of my mother is her portrait. If her ghost were to haunt the palace, the maids would blame it on other superstitions. I keep expecting to turn the corner in the great hall and see a child scrubbing clean the wall where her picture lays. The only place she exists now is in my head. The resentment from the lower class must be contagious. I find myself wishing to be anywhere but the palace. Each time a deal is brokered or money is spent, the flames in my throat grow. It won’t be long now before my tongue catches fire and burns the kingdom down with me. I’ve just gotten back from a treacherous dispute about trade agreements when Carter slips through my door. His hair is longer than I remember. It reaches towards his shoulders like a desperate man for water. His eyes don’t quite meet mine but instead fixate on a point behind me. “Your majesty.” His voice hammers into my brain. I stifle the urge to fidget. “Carter.” “They’re outside the gates.” “Who?” “Protesters, sir. They’re going to storm the cast-” “I don’t need your opinions. Are they currently storming it?” “No, sir, but they will be soon.” “Why are you telling me this?” Exasperation leaks into my voice. Carter blanches whilst my words echo in my head. “You-” he stops, hesitates, and remains silent. “What?” “Don’t make me do this, Leon.” “Do what?” “I miss our friendship.” “Do what?” My voice is dangerously low. Heat swells behind my eyes, and my temples throb. “You’re not who you were. I know you miss your mom and you’re stressed but-” “Yes, I’m not who I was. I’m king now.” Carter ignores the threat, his words spilling out, each one laying thick across the air. “You need to stop this. You’re letting your heart rule your head. The country is going downhill and everybody knows it. It’s not your fault. Let me help you. Listen to me-” “No.” It comes out as a whisper, but it reverberates louder than any yell. “Get out.” “Leon-” “Get out.” He stands defiant, a temple built of stone to honor our friendship. “Get out. Do you not hear me?” My voice rises to a grated yell. “Get out!” “Please Leon, they're forming a coup. It’s not just the working class.” “Get out!” The words leave my throat in a mangled heap. “I’ll call my guards.” Carter stands for a moment longer, then crumbles and walks away. The door clicks behind him, a lock sliding into place. I drag my feet over to the window. Red scarves writhe under the sun. Guards border the convulsing mob, their weapons snugly tucked into their holsters. One leans over towards the other as if sharing middle school secrets. A staggering realization hits me: Carter was right. Nobody in this country cares to listen to my rule. He may have been my last true friend, and I just shoved him away like the others. I tear my fingers through my hair and think furiously, my headache preventing any logic from funneling its way into my reflections. After agonizing minutes of blank thoughts and a muffled chanting surging from outside, a new idea buries its roots into my head. It’s horrid. It entails giving the people what they want, the very people who plan to betray me at this moment. And yet, I can’t think of another way for me to escape with my sanity. I will no longer be king. I shed the finely made clothes that flaunt my stature and summon a servant to bring me his. I pull those over my head, noting in distaste how holes and dirt permeate his supposedly clean set of linens. I ravage my closet and find a scarlet scarf; it’s not the same shade, but it’ll do. I wind it around my neck like a noose, preparing for the death of my purpose as I know it. I expected this to feel liberating, but all I am is nauseous and anxious. I throw a hood over my head and disguise my appearance as well as I can. Sliding the bookcase aside and slipping into the secret passage, I’m suddenly glad I spent so much of my youth memorizing the complex labyrinth of tunnels that run through the walls. Nobody uses these except for the servants, but I’ve seldom run into them here. I’m only able to carry six bottles, but I soak the floor of the wine cellar before I leave. I ensure the trail of alcohol is large enough for the fire to find its way. I wouldn’t want it to get lost. I run out of liquid just before the corridor merges with the parlor, which has a window that leads outside. The scent of gin fills my lungs as I breathe slowly, like my mother taught me. I’ll have to move fast. The match I pocketed from my drawer scratches across the rough stone wall and breathes warmth onto my fingers. The flame sprouts upward, racing to my hand, which dangles it above the fate I control. This will be my last act as king. The sparks wheel in circles, and I turn to run before they hit the ground. Pushing myself out of the window and onto the streets below, I’m swallowed into a throng of people. Shouts follow my descent, but I’m already shoving myself forward, leaving my past in smoke.