Fortress, Sunset
Towers rose high above the surrounding waters
Towers rose high above the surrounding waters, and spiked walls between them were reflected in the waves, now a pink-blue colour in the sunset. The black and grey of the castle were almost pleasant in the orange of the evening. Almost. It still retained its imposing nature; no sunset could take away the high walls and cannons aimed outwards, or the general air of hostility which infested the place.
A loud crack pierced the air along the eastern wall, and a cannonball flew towards the boat. It plummeted into the water just shy of the hull and sent ripples through the water, shaking the small ship, eventually capsizing it, only after its crew of four men had jumped overboard and been left to fend for themselves amongst the perilous waters. Those leering down at them from the city were scared, they said, scared of spies or people infiltrating their towns. Worried about nefarious people from faraway lands, lands of which they knew nothing, and people of whom they knew even less. Soldiers likely chuckled on the battlements even now as they watched the men struggle to stay afloat, satisfied with their vanquishing of those they claimed were the enemy. In reality, these fishermen, like the countless other boats capsized, sunk, or scared away from these shores, possessed no tangible threat and were merely fishing as a means of survival. Had they not been turned away and sentenced to certain death amidst the sharks and whatever else lived in the depths, they would have begun selling their haul in local ports. But the King could not bear to see these people profiting on his shores. These people who could flee from his iron grip, should they so wish, these people whom he couldn’t control. Patriotism and pride for his realm he called, but beneath lay selfishness, callousness and hate.
Most of those in the city kept their mouths closed and turned a blind eye to the new rules and laws this King thrust upon them, the only guiding force his own ego. He wasn’t hurting those who paid him taxes and stayed out of his way, so they didn’t take notice of what he did to others. The torturing of pirates in the town square, or hangings of alleged wizards. These acts of violence were never questioned despite the often-dubious allegations and evidence, nor were the incredibly vain acts the King often engaged in. Where there had once stood a memorial to previous generals and soldiers, now stood a golden tribute to this new King, and by all accounts, the royal palace had been stripped of all reference to the past and had been replaced with artwork of the King’s supposed triumphs. A martyr he called himself, a victor against all odds, and some had even fallen for it, but to others, he was nought more than a court jester atop a throne, albeit a deadly one. Elsewhere, though, in some corners of the city, you could find him being called a dictator or tyrant, though none were brave enough to voice these views in more than a whisper. Any naysayer he punished with violence, while condemning violence and all those who associated with it. This death and destruction were only acceptable under his authority, by his rule. No one was there to sway him from the pedestal he’d put himself on.
Silence lay upon the city and the surrounding sea as the sun set. Inside the walls, streets emptied as people headed home before curfew, and the guards came out to play. Originally brought in to keep the peace, they had corrupted it, and anyone reasonable had their doors and windows locked long before they began their patrols, freshly sharpened swords on their hips and bright lanterns swinging before them.
As they began, there was a lone old man out the back of his house, finishing things up before he retired to bed. There were no guards near him yet, and his family were all tucked up asleep, but he always had trouble come this time of night. Having locked the shed and the toolbox, he bolted the gate, checked the goat was tied up nice and proper, and locked the door and all the windows. Inside, he sat on his stool by the bucket of water and splashed his face with a little. He rubbed at his arms and legs, where they’d been exposed for the day, and wiped the mud off. Dipping his hands in again, he scrubbed them. But nothing happened. He gave them a good splash with water and wiped them again, and again. Still no change. He turned them over and saw the red begin to drip off and disturb the surface of the water below.
His mouth opened to scream, but made no sound. He’d been quiet so long now, while he’d felt that those he held dear were safe, and now he couldn’t make a noise. A mouse squeaked in the corner of the room and he stared at it with wide eyes, mouth still open in perpetual terror. It darted away into the shadows as he looked back down to watch the scarlet run from his hands and into the bucket, as he was forced to observe, now locked in the silence he’d become so comfortable in.