The Weight of Guilt and Sin

The room was made of stone, brown and solid, constructed by those who knew their trade better than they should. Fabrics dangled from the wall, multi-coloured, almost perfect in their beauty, despite the years of smoke and dust that they had absorbed. Light streamed through large unglazed windows, revealing the clear blue sky outside, while allowing a cooling breeze to filter into the room.

The central feature of the room was a large table, surrounded by chairs, all of a dark wood, and carved close to perfection. All appeared to be identical to the next, apart from the one that was placed at the end of the table. This was larger, raised from the flagstone floor on a purple platform, and although made from wood it seemed to be more powerful than the others, carved in a much more elaborate pattern.

Around the table, in all the chairs, except the large one, men sat. Their ages were ranged from the late forties, through to their eighties but then, appearances had always been deceiving. They were all dressed in a fine array of robes, cut from silk and satin, reds, greens, blues and gold; all wore the finest jewellery, and although they were separated by age, they all carried a self important air that was hard to miss.

The man that sat at the opposite end of the table slowly rose, as though his bones had become arthritic due to age and took a deep breath. His face was lined, grooved with the passing years, even though his eyes glimmered with a knowledge and vitality that opposed his appearance. His hair was cut short in the fashion of the time, he wore no beard and despite the slowness of his movements, they were sure and true. His voice, when he spoke, might have had a faintness from the passage of time, but it was still sure and strong, a voice used to public speaking.

"Give rise and greeting, for this, the fifteenth meeting of the Council of the King, in the thirty-seventh year of the reign of our noble monarch, Ozymandias, blessed be his name."

From all around the table the rest of the council gave greeting and honoured the name of their king, then dropped back into silence to allow the elder at the table to speak once more. When he did, it was as though the words that he spoke were by rote, following the dictates of tradition rather than free speech.

"Once again it would appear that the King will not be joining us for council; that by the powers so invested in us, we will speak with his voice, and deal with all matters presented to us in his name." He paused, allowing his eyes to move along the faces gathered there, the true power of the city and he allowed himself a smile. It did not last long, for even as it flickered across his lips, one of the hanging tapestries seemed to flutter and was pushed aside to allow another figure entrance into the chamber.

The figure that stood there was unlike any of the others. He was dressed in similar finery, but it was as though it did not sit perfectly, as though it had slipped and slid until it gave the impression that it did not quite fit. His face was worn by years of abstract distraction, his clear blue eyes unfocussed. His skin was pale from the lack of sun, the eyes sunk back into their sockets. His hair, had lost the glimmer of health, was unseemingly long and most of it had escaped from the ponytail into which it had been tied.

He blinked, as though trying to recognize the room into which he had come, but was unable to do so. Before him the council remained seated, almost as though they had been surprised into stillness and then as one they rose, bowing their heads to the figure that cut such an unusual spectacle before them.

"Your majesty," the man at the end of the table began, "Have you come to join us today?"