February 9 - Baraggan Louisenbairn
High up in the mountains, at the center of a mighty fortress, the old man sat on his throne and scowled at the world.
The rigid edges of his metal seat dug into his back. The smooth stone surface of the floor sent a chill into his feet. His gnarled hands clutched the arms of his throne desperately, as sharp as the edges were, and always, he felt the crown, a constant weight atop his head. He griped and groaned endlessly.
The men all around him paid no heed. Rushing through with cloaks or weapons or papers in hand, they ran on to wherever they were headed, ignoring the old man on the throne. He, in turn, watched them scramble about, his beady eyes following them around the room.
Presently, he realized that a certain pair of men seemed to be having a conversation about him. They whispered to each other hurriedly and shot him furtive glances every now and then. Perhaps they wished to usurp his throne.
"You, there!" he called, forcing down the cough that threatened to leave his throat. "You will speak plainly to your king or not at all!"
They both turned towards him, taken aback, before their whispers continued with an increased urgency.
"You have the impudence to ignore me? Come here or face my wrath!"
To his astonishment, they carried on in spite of his summons. What, could they not see their king beckoning them to him? Did they think him a ghost, incorporeal and inconsequential in this world of hurried men? He would teach them to disregard their superior!
This time a cough did escape his cracked lips, and he bent over in his throne, feeling an attack of coughing overcome him for a moment.
One of the men broke off the conversation and approached the massive throne. He came to an uncertain stop several paces from its base. He paused there, ignoring the others bustling around him, and waited for the old man to cough.
"Sir, are you feeling quite alright?" inquired the brazen young man.
"I am well. What have you been whispering about, you ungrateful brat?" spat the old man, leaning forward in his throne with a thin sneer.
"Well, sir, we believe that… perhaps you should retire to your chambers. The night is cold, and—"
"Do not insult my strength! I will see over my fortress as I see fit!"
"And you really had better… take a moment for yourself, sir, as the fortress is running itself just fine at the moment—"
"Hogwash! I could never entrust my fortress to you young fools. Who are these men? Why do they approach my throne?"
"And in that interest, sir, we wish to help you, so it would be best if you could come with these gentlemen quietly—"
"I will go nowhere! Unhand me, you barbarians! I will—I will have you flayed alive—"
"It will be alright, sir. Please calm down."
"I'll have all your heads spiked up on the outer wall! The things I will do to you heathenish curs—"
"That is enough, sir. We will take care of you."
The old man's curses fell on empty air.
"Your time has come."
-mm-
Notes: This continues the series-within-a-series for the Espada, which started with Coyote's scene of loneliness. This scene, of course, is old age/time, for Baraggan.
I think I channeled some King Lear into this... the "old age" idea certainly takes precedence in the play as well. And futility, and senility...
Thank you for reading! Next up is Soi-Feng.