Golden Shadows

Greedy King Midas leans forward on his glittering throne, tongue twitching on his lips and hands caressing his golden pipe. The smoke permeates the air in shimmering colour, clouding the room with the vulgar smell of tobacco. It clings to every soul and every piece of amber he collects in hoards and displays in his grand throne room. His black eyes fix on the trembling figure adjacent to him, standing and pressed against the wall; it might as well be another decoration. The girl of two and twenty shakes with fear, hands folded up to her armpits like it holds the key to eternity. For the king, it does. He licks his lips and trembles with anticipation, leaning more on the edge of his seat than enjoying the comfort of his gilded throne. He lifts a wrinkly disjointed finger and ushers her forward; the girl of two and twenty with hazel eyes, honey hair, and sunny skin. The girl manages two steps towards him before she falls to her knees. The thud is loud enough, the gold reflects it back. She knows nothing to say or do and her thoughts gallop faster than thunder. “Show me what you hold.” the king’s voice is not mighty and made of steel, but frail and so soft, she cannot imagine him the brute who pilfered and slaughtered and destroyed. She unlocks her arms and bares her hands to him. The king gasps. The girl of two and twenty has hands like any other farmer’s daughter: calloused and bruised and unappealing. The king grows angry. He slips off his seat like silk and stands on two furious feet like lightning. The sudden movement is enough to startle her, enough to shake sense into her, and forth the tears come. The king shrieks, happily, delightedly, merrily. He collapses onto his knees, watches saltwater turn to gold, and catches the golden teardrop in the palm of his hand, a stark contrast to the ashes painting his skin. “A miracle!” he stumbles out, cradling the wonder in his hands. He laughs; a high-pitched squeak with his teeth bared and head thrown back. The girl sobs, a river of gold trailing down her cheeks and striking the floor with tiny ticks. She shivers against the king’s icy chortles and against the room’s cold air, her clothes tattered and ripped and her resolve faltering. The king’s hands reach out just then in sudden movement, seizing her hair and planting a kiss on her mouth. It lasts only a second and his face is prideful as he surveys her. “Yes,” he coaxes, “A mighty addition, you shall make! Oh, what plans I have for you, dear child.” the king brushes back her stray golden strands, palming his way through multiple times, facing her with such adoration and hunger, she must be a strawberry-filled pastry. “What is your name?” The question is a diversion from his fanatic tirade and it takes her long to catch it and longer to discern it. She licks her lips, tasting tobacco, “Evara.” Her voice is weak, but the king hears it. His smile, already wickedly large, widens even further. “A gift; you are.” he steps back, picks the golden teardrops from the ground like a hungry child searching for food, and grunts orders to his men. “Take her away. Mirza shall meet her soon enough.”