Striking down his son was not the beginning of his madness, it was its destination. A childhood of palaces turned into charnel houses, of foreign invaders and native betrayers. He grew up to know no friends, to see only enemies, to taste poison in every bite, to expect a blade in every shadow.
He seized power with an iron fist and clung on. He conquered. When he failed he slaughtered those around him. He assassinated his cousins. He razed unruly cities and tossed half their population under the ice. He blew people up in their homes. He put hooks under their ribs.
In his home none dared miss morning prayers, while by night he orged and feasted on flesh. His terror was absolute, but his madness was not.
Not until he berated his daughter-in-law. Not until his son argued back. Not until he took his stave and drove it into his boy’s head. Only then did he see how his sin and his madness had come full circle, but by then it was too late.
Paddy Dobson
24th August 2023