As the state of one’s desk reflects the state of one’s mind, so too does a realm reflect the state of its ruler. All around him, his people wandered, and few were truly at home in the heart of the tower. The place which once filled with dozens of people on every occasion, now there had been no occasions to warrant its visit in some time. Servants and groundskeepers still passed through, but for the most part it was empty and lonely, as lonely as one can be when in the presence of God anyway.
For that is what it was, God. Not truly God, but a God of material things all the same. Iconography it would be called, had anyone beside for its designer had the interest in labeling it as such. The throne, both when empty and when full, was an icon. It was as much a weapon as any sword. Commands issued from it had an air of authority they would otherwise lack. Some feared it for its sheer size and majesty, reticent to stand in its light and hear the words of the one who sat on it. From this throne, both clemency and petty verdicts were issued.
Some had been well thought out, articulate and clear, as striking and inarguable as the answer to a riddle no one knew had been asked. Some were rather poor indeed, searching for truth in the wrong places, and finding an answer that suited not the time or place. Unworthy judgements, issued by those unworthy of the majesty of the station that had been claimed.
Not for the first time, Aleksei thought about desecrating both tower and throne, and burying them far, far below never to be seen again. Such monuments of hubris they were. Such foolish endeavors that, were he in the right mind, he would never have endorsed. And what terrible guilt he felt that others, no matter who they were, felt this place either a place to respect or fear.
He hated it here. He hated to sit on this throne. Every time he climbed the tall, steep dais to the seat perched at the top it made his back crawl. Aleksei imagined sitting on the throne, and it burning him on contact as though he were some devil, and the throne made of something far holier. And that thought alone, if he lingeerd on it too long, would itself put him in an even darker mood if he were not in one already by that time. Holy! As if anything made by the will of man could be. As if he of all people could make something in the likeness of God.
Sitting there now, he felt neither comfort or warmth. He knew that he had to stop this thought, for he had been down this trail before, and he knew it would only circle back to the trailhead traveling a great distance but leading nowhere. Not for the first time he would confront the thought that if men were so sour and cruel, and their thoughts were so rotten, there is no way they could themselves be divine. If they could not be divine, and the gods were made from the thoughts of men as he knew they were…. From broken porcelain one did not derive jewelry, but only broken edges that would cut the fingers of those who tried to grasp them.
No, not productive at all. He opened his eyes, and he realized that once more hours had passed without his awareness. The morning sun had become the afternoon sun, and he felt no more an urge to rise now than he did before. He did have one visitor of note, however. The angel that had come into his life, and from which he felt no comfort. Perched on the railing of one of the stairwells that flanked his throne was Aleksei’s - no, God’s - little phoenix. Its coat of feathers red and orange, its eyes open and watching.
Not watching around itself, but specifically watching Aleksei. It had eyes like any other bird’s. He was no stranger to birds of prey. He was never one for it himself, but falconry was a passtime he was at least familiar with. Their eyes met and even from across his throneroom Aleksei could feel the great intelligence behind the phoenix’s own. It was not a real bird, he knew. At least, he suspected. It was an angel. A very minor angel he knew, and in some sense it was his guardian angel, but even still he felt dubious doubts toward the creature.
No man was he whoever had a friend he could truly trust. His first friendship was as subordinate to his knight, a capable and wise man who had he lived longer may have been able to mentor Aleksei out of his troubled habits. Yet he died, and Aleksei mourned him deeply. His second was not quite a friendship, though he certainly betrayed the trust of those who perhaps would have been his friends had he not indulged in it. The adulterous affair that became his decades-long obsession, and which ultimately broke his heart. He was glad she was dead. It was love for her that made him glad. She died before she could fulfill the darkest of her ambitions, and she would not have to see him now: as strong as he had ever been, and yet paradoxically at his weakest too.
Though the phoenix perhaps could not read his mind as Aleksei sometimes feared, when he raised a single finger to indicate for the phoenix to leave, it immediately understood. Spreading its beautiful wings, though beautiful in a way Aleksei could not appreciate, it flew from the stairwell and past the archway that led out of the White Tower.
As it left and Aleksei was once more left alone with his thoughts, he moved more than he had in the last several hours by sitting forward in his overindulgent chair overlooking the room. He pressed his elbows to knees, and held his head in his hands. His eyes did not close. He stared long and hard at a point in the marble dais of his throne, stared at it as if through sheer force of thought alone he could make it grow a mouth and speak to him.
Not for the first time, Aleksei reflected on the dangers of thoughts. He had always preached it, and it was one of the things that he knew after he said it whoever he spoke to would - at the moment Aleksei’s back turned - they would cast it out of their mind as another one of his bizarre, indulgent, and ultimately worthless pieces of advice. Yet here he was, proving his own sermons true. Thoughts were dangerous. The wrong thought in the right man, and here you were. The Scourge of God - and how he cringed at that title he gave himself now - sitting here at the seat of his power, in the zenith of his rule, and so paralyzed by inaction that he could barely speak. Nevermind act, scourging or otherwise.
Not for the first time, he thought about how much easier it would be if he just left. If he prayed to God and told her he had enough. That he could not bear the flames he held in his heart and soul any longer, and that he was through. Oh, how the road called to him. How he longed for another decade of feeling the leather of a saddle between his thighs, the weight of a sword on his hip, and his only concern being how far he was to the next inn. Not a very imaginative man, nevertheless from his own memories Aleksei could conjure the salty tang of hard cheese, and the smell of rabbit roasted over the fire. Anhald dead, the world he knew dead, all of his past accomplishments worthless, and his adulterous lover taken by a fool.
Not for the first time… he reflected on how he was only alive for he was the least of his kind. Yes, he made such a tremendous deal about how he was the lone survivor of that age. The one to navigate the tumultuous years, the only one to have seen - from the intimately close position of a personal guard - the rise of Charlemagne, his poisoning, the rise of Peter the Great, the slow decline of Peter the Fat, the prominence and the deaths of princes, and how the empire eventually came to be ruled by a woman underestimated by them all in her ruthlessness and cunning.
The least of his kind. The one overlooked. No match for his peers, but capable of great cruelty toward those beneath his peerage and who he could best with the sword. How he wished he could be overlooked now. Yet honor and duty trapped him. What he wanted no longer mattered.
When he sat on the throne, it did not matter that he hated it. He was not Aleksei once his rump graced the cushions of his seat. He was the best parts of Peter that he could remember. Peter at his most authoritative, regal, and strong. Peter when his majesty was most unquestionable, and when he spoke in his strongest voice. Relaxed and comfortable on the throne, for after all, if God did not wish him to have it then why hadn’t God stopped him from taking it? Always, Aleksei tried to be that. He called it wearing the face of the Kaiser. And he never let his mind stray to the doubts he sometimes felt or heard from the true Kaiser, or the fear that the man sometimes exposed.
He was as much an icon now as the throne he sat on. He could not betray that image, for he now was the one that others looked to. He could not be anything but strong when it was right to be strong; vulnerable only when appropriate; kind when kind was right, and cruel when cruel was fair.
Yet not for the first time, that paralyzing thought came back to him. The one that hadn’t occurred to him in years. His depression did not take the same form it had when he was twenty, no more than it had at thirty, forty, fifty… sixty… seventy. Was it truly seventy now? The monster which bore the black cowl had returned, he knew that much. He knew it from how hard it was to rise out of bed. How little he enjoyed the things he once had, and how he had felt absolutely no calling to romance or the touch of a woman since that damnable thought kept coming back to him. He wished it had never occurred to him. He wished that very much.
Was all of this… everything he was doing… was it right?
For that is what it was, God. Not truly God, but a God of material things all the same. Iconography it would be called, had anyone beside for its designer had the interest in labeling it as such. The throne, both when empty and when full, was an icon. It was as much a weapon as any sword. Commands issued from it had an air of authority they would otherwise lack. Some feared it for its sheer size and majesty, reticent to stand in its light and hear the words of the one who sat on it. From this throne, both clemency and petty verdicts were issued.
Some had been well thought out, articulate and clear, as striking and inarguable as the answer to a riddle no one knew had been asked. Some were rather poor indeed, searching for truth in the wrong places, and finding an answer that suited not the time or place. Unworthy judgements, issued by those unworthy of the majesty of the station that had been claimed.
Not for the first time, Aleksei thought about desecrating both tower and throne, and burying them far, far below never to be seen again. Such monuments of hubris they were. Such foolish endeavors that, were he in the right mind, he would never have endorsed. And what terrible guilt he felt that others, no matter who they were, felt this place either a place to respect or fear.
He hated it here. He hated to sit on this throne. Every time he climbed the tall, steep dais to the seat perched at the top it made his back crawl. Aleksei imagined sitting on the throne, and it burning him on contact as though he were some devil, and the throne made of something far holier. And that thought alone, if he lingeerd on it too long, would itself put him in an even darker mood if he were not in one already by that time. Holy! As if anything made by the will of man could be. As if he of all people could make something in the likeness of God.
Sitting there now, he felt neither comfort or warmth. He knew that he had to stop this thought, for he had been down this trail before, and he knew it would only circle back to the trailhead traveling a great distance but leading nowhere. Not for the first time he would confront the thought that if men were so sour and cruel, and their thoughts were so rotten, there is no way they could themselves be divine. If they could not be divine, and the gods were made from the thoughts of men as he knew they were…. From broken porcelain one did not derive jewelry, but only broken edges that would cut the fingers of those who tried to grasp them.
No, not productive at all. He opened his eyes, and he realized that once more hours had passed without his awareness. The morning sun had become the afternoon sun, and he felt no more an urge to rise now than he did before. He did have one visitor of note, however. The angel that had come into his life, and from which he felt no comfort. Perched on the railing of one of the stairwells that flanked his throne was Aleksei’s - no, God’s - little phoenix. Its coat of feathers red and orange, its eyes open and watching.
Not watching around itself, but specifically watching Aleksei. It had eyes like any other bird’s. He was no stranger to birds of prey. He was never one for it himself, but falconry was a passtime he was at least familiar with. Their eyes met and even from across his throneroom Aleksei could feel the great intelligence behind the phoenix’s own. It was not a real bird, he knew. At least, he suspected. It was an angel. A very minor angel he knew, and in some sense it was his guardian angel, but even still he felt dubious doubts toward the creature.
No man was he whoever had a friend he could truly trust. His first friendship was as subordinate to his knight, a capable and wise man who had he lived longer may have been able to mentor Aleksei out of his troubled habits. Yet he died, and Aleksei mourned him deeply. His second was not quite a friendship, though he certainly betrayed the trust of those who perhaps would have been his friends had he not indulged in it. The adulterous affair that became his decades-long obsession, and which ultimately broke his heart. He was glad she was dead. It was love for her that made him glad. She died before she could fulfill the darkest of her ambitions, and she would not have to see him now: as strong as he had ever been, and yet paradoxically at his weakest too.
Though the phoenix perhaps could not read his mind as Aleksei sometimes feared, when he raised a single finger to indicate for the phoenix to leave, it immediately understood. Spreading its beautiful wings, though beautiful in a way Aleksei could not appreciate, it flew from the stairwell and past the archway that led out of the White Tower.
As it left and Aleksei was once more left alone with his thoughts, he moved more than he had in the last several hours by sitting forward in his overindulgent chair overlooking the room. He pressed his elbows to knees, and held his head in his hands. His eyes did not close. He stared long and hard at a point in the marble dais of his throne, stared at it as if through sheer force of thought alone he could make it grow a mouth and speak to him.
Not for the first time, Aleksei reflected on the dangers of thoughts. He had always preached it, and it was one of the things that he knew after he said it whoever he spoke to would - at the moment Aleksei’s back turned - they would cast it out of their mind as another one of his bizarre, indulgent, and ultimately worthless pieces of advice. Yet here he was, proving his own sermons true. Thoughts were dangerous. The wrong thought in the right man, and here you were. The Scourge of God - and how he cringed at that title he gave himself now - sitting here at the seat of his power, in the zenith of his rule, and so paralyzed by inaction that he could barely speak. Nevermind act, scourging or otherwise.
Not for the first time, he thought about how much easier it would be if he just left. If he prayed to God and told her he had enough. That he could not bear the flames he held in his heart and soul any longer, and that he was through. Oh, how the road called to him. How he longed for another decade of feeling the leather of a saddle between his thighs, the weight of a sword on his hip, and his only concern being how far he was to the next inn. Not a very imaginative man, nevertheless from his own memories Aleksei could conjure the salty tang of hard cheese, and the smell of rabbit roasted over the fire. Anhald dead, the world he knew dead, all of his past accomplishments worthless, and his adulterous lover taken by a fool.
Not for the first time… he reflected on how he was only alive for he was the least of his kind. Yes, he made such a tremendous deal about how he was the lone survivor of that age. The one to navigate the tumultuous years, the only one to have seen - from the intimately close position of a personal guard - the rise of Charlemagne, his poisoning, the rise of Peter the Great, the slow decline of Peter the Fat, the prominence and the deaths of princes, and how the empire eventually came to be ruled by a woman underestimated by them all in her ruthlessness and cunning.
The least of his kind. The one overlooked. No match for his peers, but capable of great cruelty toward those beneath his peerage and who he could best with the sword. How he wished he could be overlooked now. Yet honor and duty trapped him. What he wanted no longer mattered.
When he sat on the throne, it did not matter that he hated it. He was not Aleksei once his rump graced the cushions of his seat. He was the best parts of Peter that he could remember. Peter at his most authoritative, regal, and strong. Peter when his majesty was most unquestionable, and when he spoke in his strongest voice. Relaxed and comfortable on the throne, for after all, if God did not wish him to have it then why hadn’t God stopped him from taking it? Always, Aleksei tried to be that. He called it wearing the face of the Kaiser. And he never let his mind stray to the doubts he sometimes felt or heard from the true Kaiser, or the fear that the man sometimes exposed.
He was as much an icon now as the throne he sat on. He could not betray that image, for he now was the one that others looked to. He could not be anything but strong when it was right to be strong; vulnerable only when appropriate; kind when kind was right, and cruel when cruel was fair.
Yet not for the first time, that paralyzing thought came back to him. The one that hadn’t occurred to him in years. His depression did not take the same form it had when he was twenty, no more than it had at thirty, forty, fifty… sixty… seventy. Was it truly seventy now? The monster which bore the black cowl had returned, he knew that much. He knew it from how hard it was to rise out of bed. How little he enjoyed the things he once had, and how he had felt absolutely no calling to romance or the touch of a woman since that damnable thought kept coming back to him. He wished it had never occurred to him. He wished that very much.
Was all of this… everything he was doing… was it right?
