V. H. King's Ink

As I hung desperately onto the barrier, watching your train depart, I realized I had made a huge mistake.  The knife was still in my pocket.  I should have given it to you, and I wanted to, but—

“Hanji and his excuses again?”  Tosh shook his head.  “Useless.”

“Just like you.”  Wilt got up, shouldering Tosh out of the way.  “Don’t you ever mind your own business?”

“Your business is my business—at least for the foreseeable future.”

Wilt pressed his lips together and said nothing.  He folded the letter, tucking it into the inner pocket of his sleeve.  Tosh would hear him later in the night, re-opening and unfolding the fragile paper to read lines he’d already memorized.  At least Tosh had the respect to speak of Hanji as one of the living—although, that could also be Tosh’s silk-smooth mocking. 

“Thankfully, that will be blessedly short.”

“Oh come now.  At least give yourself the pleasure of hating me for more than a year.”

Case in point.  He’s been in this tower too many years, already.  A king imprisoned in his own kingdom.  Wilt sometimes wondered if he would have been able to rule any other way.  He had no distractions to catch his eye.  Only a high view of the fields beyond the castle gates and a deep longing for peace.  He shook his head, but kept his eyes out the window. 

“Only nine months, now.”

“Good!  Enough time for me to welcome your heir into the world.”

Tosh’s eyes followed him around the room.  Lingering on the scars on his neck, his shoulders, his back.  Wilt preferred not to hide them.  If someone asked, he would have answered.  The price for my lover’s soul.  Melodramatic, Tosh would say, except Tosh didn’t let anyone close enough to ask. 

Tosh, with his winter-pine hair.  The same color as Hanji’s eyes.  Hanji’s heart had further depths and purer desires than the gaze that follows him now.  Hanji had given him everything.  Everything except the only thing that would kill the monster who stood between them now.  Hanji had believed in Tosh’s goodness—or at the very least, in the possibility of Tosh’s goodness. 

The results so far felt inconclusive, and Wilt hated this.  The possibility that Tosh’s obsessive behavior was only an extreme form of innocent admiration and ardent fervor for noble values.  But Wilt didn’t feel noble, regardless of the crown he bore.  Nothing felt the same, after Hanji. 

“May they never know me,” Wilt murmured to himself. 

“You spoil me the opportunity to tell such stories!”  Tosh pouted.  “Your greatness—”

“Should never be a shadow over them.”  Wilt folded his arms against the itch along his shoulders, finally turning to Tosh.  “There is nothing great about hatred.”

“As if I would tell them that.”  Tosh’s lips curled.  “You were a fierce lover, I’ve heard.”

Tosh had been brazen enough to challenge the charges of treason.  He’d gone so far as to use the mistrial as a launching point for a complete overhaul of the ruling class.  Somehow he’d swayed the people and they had appointed Wilt as their king, refusing to obey any laws except those put in effect by his seal. 

That flaming devotion—it was like a fever that had spread from Tosh throughout the entire country.  Wilt fought back shivers every time he remembered the massive responsibility he bore.  Thousands of lives, their well-being in his hands.  His every move would hurt some and offend others.  He would never be able to satisfy everyone.  But could he design, in some fashion, a society that operated with more forgiveness than fighting? 

Hanji, you would have given me to the key to solve this puzzle…

That wasn’t the whole truth, but it felt close.  Sometimes Wilt thought Hanji was the key.  Other times, he knew Hanji would have nudged him along to whatever secret it was that would unlock the mystery of ruling so many cities and ports. 

Tosh was toying with him, now.  Wilt takes the bait, because Tosh’s responses are predictable.  It distracts him from the ache left by a knife he was never given.  A face he has not seen since. 

“Heard, or heard it told?”

“Both—but as you know, I’ve yet to confirm the veracity that theory.”

“Would you like to?”

“You wouldn’t indulge me even if I asked nicely.”  Tosh winked.  “Although you are nice enough to tease me.”

“You’ve always had a way with that tongue of yours.”

“So you’ve heard.  Would you like to test it?”

“I’d like you to tell Senvy that I want to dine alone tonight.”

“You know you can’t do that.”

Despite Wilt’s efforts, Tosh had insisted on security detail.  Tosh’s paranoia hadn’t latched onto him all at once, but bit by bit he had started to wonder.  After being crowned, he wondered if someone would rise up against him the same way he, Hanji, and Tosh had led rebel charges against the old guard.  Wilt had only wanted fairness in work and resources and mercy for pardonable mistakes. 

He wanted opportunity to prove oneself despite past history.  He wanted no person to be condemned for any circumstance of their birth.  He wanted dignity and respect for all persons.  A Tosh often told him, he wanted too much to inspire when instead he should enforce.  But did making the world a better place have to be such a violent affair?

“I’m being nice.  Relieving you of your duties, for an hour.”

“I would never.”

“Your devotion wins you as much as your deviousness.”

“Admit it—you’d rather me closer to you than anyone else.  It’s the only way you can sleep.”

And Wilt hated this.  It would have been better if Tosh had stabbed him in the back—literally or figuratively.  Instead Wilt had become prepared for betrayal, and yet it never came.  The kingdom felt like a gameboard between him and Tosh, with the people as the audience and the courts as the referee.  Wilt sighed as he sank into an armchair, pulling a blanket around himself and wondering how long he would have to keep playing. 

“Send for my supper, Tosh, and leave me in peace.”

“I can only do one of those things.”

I didn’t know it was his own making.  Had I realized it sooner, what could we have prevented?  More or less than either of us may ever know.  As I write this, I know I shall be dead by the time it reaches you—and it must reach you.  We have not loved nor lost so much for nothing.