Daggers in Men's Smiles
Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this story whatsoever
Author's Notes: Denamunda prays in a small chapel on a snowy evening.
Those he commands move only in command, nothing in love: now does he feel his title hang loose about him, like a giant's robe upon a dwarfish thief. Macbeth, Act V, scene ii
On the outskirts of the Lesalia Imperial Capital, in a poor man's chapel, upon his knees, a man garbed in a rude brown cloak, cups his hands and begins to pray. It is far past sundown but not yet at the midnight hour. This small chapel, detached from the busy musings of Ivalice's capital city some ten miles away, lays quiet, its only visitors being the stillness of the night and the kneeling man. In the distance, he hears the impatient pawing and cawing of his steed, tethered just outside of the chapel door, and pays it no heed for he must pray. His dry lips part to give way to the intonations of his fathers and theirs:
Ajora, most merciful son of the True God,
Thou hast my faith and love.
Make me a vehicle of thy will, wise deity.
Thou hast my utmost obedience.
Farlem.
The resonation of his baritone off the chapel walls sounds hollow even to his own ears. What meaning does prayer have to a deity when its implorer is steeped so deeply in sin like himself? Both he and Ajora both know that he will not repent- cannot repent. He is King and will not be humbled. Oft had he declined attendance to the chapel in his youth, but he is desperate. He is here, isn't he…rather than in the lavishly decorated chambers of his castle reviewing his last battle plans for the final great campaign against Ordalia, right? That should count for something, but what made him to wander away from the main road to the capital to this simple country chapel…he, Denamunda II, the faithless son of Denamunda the Great?
Hated Oppressor. Ruthless Sovereign. Barbarous Warmonger.
The peasantry's whisperings are like prayers within themselves, each loathing epithet, more hateful than the last, he ignores them. He is king, after all, and who should know Ajora's will better than he? Yea, wasn't it God, himself, who placed his family here to rule so many years ago? His subjects' adoration means little to him. All he requires is their service; and serve him, they do well. They hoist their pikes high above their heads as they march in formation to war, pouring out the blood of their hearts for his cause without question like the great golems of the olden times, but these are golems with blood and thoughts, and sometimes even in the ranks of the most pitiable of his foot soldiers, he catches one flashing him an odious eye.
Denamunda is not a loved king. His own wife bristles at his approach, and of all his subjects, she should love him best. Yea, many loathe him, just as many willing to strike him down in the darkness of the night, and Denamunda knows far better than many would think. Perhaps…this whispered aim moved his feet to stray to an old country chapel on a snowy evening. It wafts from the heaven, crystal light, snow, an innocence he has not known since the times of his boyhood, a time before savagery, lust for women, and wanton want, and as quickly as it arose, this old passion dies.
A/N: Some of you may recognize Denamunda II (Denamda IV) as last king before Omdoria to hold Ivalice's throne during the Fifty Year's War from the tavern rumors. His character was believed to have been assassinated, and I wrote this drabble to take a stab at what he may have been like. This follows the storyline of my other fanfic, She Flies With Her Own Wings.