Contains Mature Themes
The King did not care for the tales of the Greeks. He respected that they came before him, but did not heed their legends and superstitions to be true.
It was during one of his many victory parades that he first heard those words. He marched down the streets, his army behind him, pulling carts of the spoils he had won. All of the citizens of the city were there, standing by the sides of the road, guards positioned at each corner. An old beggar woman had pushed through the crowd. She limped beyond the line that separated the people from the The King and lifted a skeletal, trembling finger. Her mouth curled into a toothless smile, her black eyes widened, she let out a wheeze and then shouted in a raspy, shrill voice:
"Your mirror will be your downfall!"
The guards descended on her and dragged her away. The King paid no attention to her. She was most likely mad.
Years had passed. The King had grand plans. He had labored extensively to ensure they would work. He was confident, haughty, sure that nothing would go wrong. He would relish in this victory, a far greater one than his previous conquests. He sat in his lair, waiting for his prey, evilly grinning, clutching at the jar in his hand. The door opened. The King eagerly lifted his head, his heart pounding with bloodlust and anticipation.
He almost froze.
The King had seen the victim many times before. But it was as if it was the first time he gazed upon him.
He was a youth of twenty. Tall, slender, the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on. With feathery hair as black as night, and green eyes that sparkled like diamonds. Haughty and self sure like The King. For he was The King from long ago.
His heart still beat fast, but it was from a strange longing that overcame him. The King felt lightheaded, his hands numb. He did not take his eyes off the boy.
He took back control to continue with his plan, but the feeling still lingered. As he threw his insults to the frightened youth, the heat surged inside him. It was then, the words echoed in his head.
Your mirror will be your downfall
After the encounter, The King had fallen into a paranoid trance. Everything revolved around The Youth. He was all he thought about, and the only thing that mattered. His plans must succeed. His plans had to succeed for his life to remain as it was. And The Youth was everywhere, creeping from the back to the front of his mind. The King's hunger for food faded and was replaced by his lust. He did not sleep. And when he slept, The Youth controlled his dreams. Sweating, feverish, full of pleasure, The King tossed and turned, clinging to the sheets, imagining he was holding The Boy. The rest of his waking hours were spent curled up on His Throne, gazing into his magic orb. He watched The Youth go about his life, lost in the beauty, wanting him and wanting to be him again.
Time passed. The King's strength was gone. He resembled a corpse more than a man. His daily routine had come to a stop. He did not eat, sleep, or carry out necessities. Watching The Boy was his only pastime. Not once did he let his hand sink to let it rest from holding up the orb. He sat as still as a statue on His Throne, forgetting to stand and stretch. It seemed as his body began to blend in with the throne.
There came a time when he did not see The Youth in his orb. In a panic, he let the orb disappear. His arm dropped to his side. It felt heavy and numb. He tried to move it to find that it did not lift up. He glanced about nervously, his heart pounding. He heard footsteps.. He heard the door open. There at the end of the hall, stood The Youth, in all his splendor. The King's lip trembled. He jolted up to his feet to fall. A shooting pain rushed through his legs. He felt blood run down his kneecaps. He crawled over to The Youth with his good arm. He slowly stood up, his legs shaking, ignoring the pain, only caring that this god, The Adonis of his dreams was in front of him.
"Ki-kiss Me," he demanded. But it came out as a feeble plea.
The Youth was surprised. The King reached out to him, tripped, and began to fall. The Youth caught him by his waist. He glanced up, wrapping his arms around The Boy's neck. His breaths came out as wheezes as he tried to touch Him. The Youth leaned his head in and gently placed his lips on The King's.
The King felt more alive than he did in months. He clung to The Youth, feeling a burst of energy come back to him. He moved his lips, his tongue. His hands ran down The Youth's back who held him just as strongly. He lost himself once again, but now it was real. He had done it. His dreams had come true and all he needed now was to lower his hand so that it would touch---
He felt sharp pain again. He froze. He felt a cold rod of metal in his back, and a sticky substance running down his shirt. The King gasped as the dagger was pulled out. He sunk to the ground. He could not move. His eyes stared up at The Boy who looked at him in disgust and sadness. His cheeks wet from tears, his mouth shaking, throat dry, he tried to make a sound. But no words would come out. He still stared, hurt and betrayed, wishing that The Boy could show some mercy and at least hold him as he rot to his death. And the words came back to him the last time, just before everything went to black:
Your mirror will be your downfall