As Gareth put down the pipe, he saw his father standing there, before him, a decaying corpse. Each time the corpse was more decayed, more skeleton than flesh; Gareth turned from the awful site.
Gareth used to try to attack the image—but he’d learned that it did no good. So now he just turned his head, constantly, always looking away. Always it was the same: his father wearing a rusted crown, his mouth open, his eyes gazing at him with contempt, reaching out a single finger, pointing accusingly at him. In that awful stare, Gareth felt his own days numbered, felt that it was only a matter of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there was one saving grace in murdering his father, it was that he would not need to see his face again. But now, ironically, he saw it more than ever.
Gareth turned and hurled the opium pipe at the apparition, hoping that if he threw it quickly enough it might actually hit.
But the pipe merely flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering. His father still stood there, and glared down at him.
"Those drugs won’t help you now," his father scolded.
Gareth could stand it no longer. He charged for the apparition, hands out, lunging to scratch his father’s face; but as always, he sailed through nothing but air, and this time he went stumbling across the room and landed hard on his father's wooden desk, sending it crashing down to the floor with him.
Gareth rolled on the ground, winded, and looked up and saw that he had gashed his arm. Blood was dripping down his shirt, and he looked down and noticed he still wore the undershirt he had slept in for days; in fact, he had not changed for weeks now. He glanced over at a reflection of himself, and saw that his hair was wild; he looked like a common ruffian. A part of him could hardly believe he had sank so low. But another part of him no longer cared. The only thing left inside of him was a burning desire to destroy—to destroy any remnant of his father that once was. He would like to have this castle razed, and King’s Court with it. It would be vengeance for the treatment he bore as a child. The memories were stuck inside him, like a thorn he could not pull out.
The door to his father’s study opened wide, and in rushed one of Gareth's attendants, looking down in fear.
"My liege," the attendant said. "I heard a crash. Are you okay? My liege, you are bleeding!”
Gareth looked up at the boy with hatred. Gareth tried to get to his feet, to lash out at him, but he slipped on something, and fell back down to the ground, disoriented from the last hit of opium.
"My liege, I will help you!”
The boy rushed forward and grabbed Gareth’s arm, which was too thin, barely flesh and bone.
But Gareth still had a reserve of strength and as the boy touched his arm, he shoved him off, sending him across the room.
"Touch me again and I will cut off your hands,” Gareth seethed.
The boy backed up in fear, and as he did, another attendant entered the room, accompanied by an older man whom Gareth vaguely recognized. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew him—but he could not place him.
"My liege,” came an old, gravelly voice, "we have been waiting for you in the council chamber for half the day. The council members cannot wait much longer. They have urgent news, and must share it with you before the day is up. Will you come?”
Gareth narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to make him out. He dimly remembered that he had served his father. The council chamber… The meeting… It all swirled in his mind.
“Who are you?” Gareth asked.
"My liege, I am Aberthol. Your father's trusted advisor," he said, stepping closer.
It was slowly coming back. Aberthol. The council. The meeting. Gareth's mind spun, his head crushing him. He just wanted to be left alone.
"Leave me," he snapped. "I will come.”
Aberthol nodded and hurried from the room with the attendant, closing the door behind them.
Gareth knelt there, head in his hands, trying to think, to remember. It was all so much. It started to come back to him in bits. The shield was down; the Empire was attacking; half his court had left; his sister had led them away; to Silesia…Gwendolyn…That was it. That was what he had been trying to remember.
Gwendolyn. He hated her with a passion he could not describe. Now, more than ever, he wanted to kill her. He needed to kill her. All of his troubles in this world—they were all a result of her. He would find a way to get back at her, even if he had to die trying. And he would kill his other siblings next.
Gareth started to feel better at the thought.
With a supreme effort, he struggled to his feet and stumbled through the room, knocking over an end table as he went. As he neared the door, he spotted an alabaster bust of his father, a sculpture his father had loved, and he reached down, grabbed it by its head and threw it at the wall.
It smashed into a thousand pieces, and for the first time that day, Gareth smiled. Maybe this day would not be so bad after all.
*
Gareth strutted into the council room flanked by several attendants, slamming open the huge oak doors with his palm, making everyone in the crowded room jump at his presence. They all quickly stood at attention.
While normally this would give Gareth some satisfaction, on this day, he was beyond caring. He was plagued by the ghost of his father, and infused with rage that his sister had left. His emotions swirled within him, and he had to take it out on the world.
Gareth stumbled through the vast chamber in his opium-infused haze, walking down the center of the aisle towards his throne, dozens of councilmen standing aside as he went. His court had grown, and today the energy was frantic, as more and more people seemed to filter in with the news of the departure of half of King's Court, and of the shield’s being down. It was as if whomever remained of King’s Court was pouring into Gareth’s court for answers.
And of course, Gareth had none.
As Gareth strutted up the ivory steps to his father's throne, he saw, standing patiently behind it, Lord Kultin, the mercenary leader of his private fighting force, the one man left in the court who he could trust. Alongside him stood dozens of his fighters, standing there silently, hands on their swords, ready to fight to the death for Gareth. It was the one thing left that gave Gareth comfort.
Gareth sat in his throne, and surveyed the room. There were so many faces, a few he recognized and many he didn't. He trusted none of them. Every day he purged more from his court; he had already sent so many to the dungeons, and even more to the executioner. Not a day passed when he didn't kill at least a handful of men. He thought it good policy: it kept the men on their toes, and prevented a coup from forming.