Steele

I.
Why won’t they just let me die? he wondered.
His underground cell was cramped and made of plain rock. But worst of all, it was wet.
Mere days after being confined here, his lungs had simply started to give up. He had a deep, hacking cough that rattled his innards on an hourly basis.
Sometimes, coughing fits would leave him splayed on the chilly stone floor.
Was the dampness the worst part? Or was it the knowledge that the guards silently cheered every time he coughed?
Or their stupid insistence on keeping him alive?
But deep down, Steele knew what the worst part was.
The top of the window to his cell looked out onto a different world.
If he pressed his nose to that crack and inhaled deeply, he could smell the pleasant murk of the standing waters, the wind in the maple trees — even the sunlight bathing the leaves. Sometimes he fell asleep with his nose pressed there, and he felt himself drifting off now…
Only to awake later, full of hatred and self-pity.
He didn’t deserve this.
After all, trying to assume power over Heavenwing Eyrie had never been his own idea, but his father’s.

II.
For he was actually Baron Steele the Second.
His mother died early on in his life, and with her, any memories of kindness or tenderness.
All he recalls of her is being locked in with her, away from his father, sometimes for days. During these times the two of them would lie on soft blankets. She would read to him, or else feed him sweet rolls and bits of cream from the kitchen.
But then she died. Most likely of a cough.
Her funeral was held on a rain-soaked day, and all the mine-workers were given the day off. The workers looked impassive and bored, but the members of Steele’s cabinet were truly stricken.
All except Steele himself. He watched his son with garnet eyes, like a hawk, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.

III.
And where was his mother buried?
Steele sniffled and leaned against the air crack.
The palace graveyard.
He wondered idly if they had disinterred her yet, or if they were going to. He didn’t know that Lilac and Drema left flowers on her grave every month and prayed for her spirit to find peace.
Regardless, Steele felt a deep desire to return to her side. Leaning nearest to the crack, he hacked his lungs out.

IV.
Tales of his father cruelty were not exaggerated.
He was cruel to everyone, workers, cabinet and son alike, and he raised his boy to believe every last bit of Heavenwing Eyrie was his gods-given right.
How could Steele II know that wasn’t true when it was all he heard? He owned everything, every last leaf and first-born daughter.
Slowly, he adopted his father’s ways.
After all, that was the only time he got praise — for starving the workers and cutting their pay, or partaking of an especially lovely young Coatl.
It hurt some strange part of him every time, but the look of pride on his father’s face was always worth it.
Even after Steele I died, the younger Steele could feel him looking down, waiting for his son to reclaim the territory again. And Steele II certainly couldn’t leave. . .

V.
He didn’t hear the jailer clear his throat the second time, or the third time.
Only when he banged on the bars did Steele turn and spit. “What? Is it time for my execution?”
“Queen Drema has pardoned you.” The look on the Coatl-guard’s face spoke volumes. No way he agreed with this decision.
For Steele’s part, he blinked. “Pardoned?”
“Yes. You’re free to go, so long as we never see you in the borders of this kingdom again. Ever.”
Baron Steele looked towards the window crack and thought of his mother.
Then he crept toward the guard with a sickly smile and pulled his own cell door back shut.
“Actually, I think I’ll remain here a bit longer. If that’s alright with you.”