house of gold: prologue
It seemed as good a way to die as any other, this business of turning to stone. The trick was to go about it in a dignified manner. No thrashing about or feverish cries of “Monks! Monks!” (Alas, poor Harry. Womaned and widowed, friend only to the headsman.) The sorcerer's resignation spell was cast to prevent all such embarrassment. Render the king a hero in stone before he has the chance to bugger things up too much. Initially, the royal carver had put up some protest over the loss of work, but he relented upon realizing that one less dead noble to commemorate meant that his chisel was now freed up for other more intriguing projects - namely, the immortalization of the busts of fair maidens.
Dignified. One must remain perfectly still until the end of the end. The king had been assured that there would be no pain, no pain at all, and indeed there was none, or only perhaps a slight tickle in the soles of his feet, a sense of pervading heaviness. A satisfied sigh escaped from his lips before he at last forced himself to set his jaw. Regal he would be in death, command over physical form mirroring the command he had held over his realm. He felt proud and certain of this final choice. He had already committed himself to past tense! But! To remain perfectly still! He must be Caesar on his throne. He must be constant. The enchantment reached his thighs, crept up his waist. The blood thickened, the breathing slowed. It would be over soon, and he a perfect statue. The people would come from far and wide to lay flowers at his feet, to kiss his cold, still hands. Placid. He was placid. He could do this last thing and do it with grace.
If not for the fly.
Dignified. One must remain perfectly still until the end of the end. The king had been assured that there would be no pain, no pain at all, and indeed there was none, or only perhaps a slight tickle in the soles of his feet, a sense of pervading heaviness. A satisfied sigh escaped from his lips before he at last forced himself to set his jaw. Regal he would be in death, command over physical form mirroring the command he had held over his realm. He felt proud and certain of this final choice. He had already committed himself to past tense! But! To remain perfectly still! He must be Caesar on his throne. He must be constant. The enchantment reached his thighs, crept up his waist. The blood thickened, the breathing slowed. It would be over soon, and he a perfect statue. The people would come from far and wide to lay flowers at his feet, to kiss his cold, still hands. Placid. He was placid. He could do this last thing and do it with grace.
If not for the fly.