Microfiction: Golden City

Leara asked for sequels to her story. You can read her first episode here. This is the end of the story as I imagine it.

Theodor_Kittelsen_-_Far,_far_away_Soria_Moria_Palace_shimmered_like_Gold_-_Google_Art_Project

The golden walls pulsate, their light so bright I almost fail to see the hovels huddled in the golden shadows. Movement, sluggish and weary, among the hovels catches my eye. Human servants of my people, probably. All people have servants. Some have slaves. But I had somehow thought that my people would be different, more enlightened.

I approach the gates, and haggard figures emerge from the hovels to watch me. I see the glint of curiosity in their eyes and I smile to myself. If they only knew. The gates spring open before I am close enough to touch them. They know. They sense my presence. I step through, into the great marble-flagged square flanked by guardian statues, that opens the path to the palace. There, at the heart of the city, built from material carried from the stars, lies my destiny. I learned about my heritage, the prophecy and the way it would come about from my foster parents. They told me all they knew before they died. They probably died happy, having fulfilled their part in my story.

No crowds gather to greet me. No soldiers flank the grand avenue in my honour. I shrug inwardly. The city knows. That is what matters. The palace glitters in the sunlight. I can almost hear it singing with happiness. Power surges in my blood, flows with me through the gates that spring open to let me through. The city leaders know I have arrived. I sense their fear trembling in the air. They know their hour has come.
Door after door flies open before me; armed guards melt away in terror. I pause before the last bronze doors, knowing that my destiny lies beyond them. I point, and they burst asunder. The city leaders who held the world in sway, the satraps and sultans, emirs and dukes, barons and tyrants, the corrupt and the tainted who modelled themselves on human despots grovel before me. A single sweep of my hand sends them screaming into an abyss of flame.

I climb the tallest tower, look down on the lands that stretch to the purple mists and beyond. I watch as the humans creep out of their huts and their shacks, the hope in their faces pitiful to see. The prophecy is fulfilled. My foster parents described its final details before I slit their throats. The world is destined to have but one ruler.

The suffering of humanity has only begun.

 

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Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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