submission for my brother jack award
Slivers of warm afternoon sun emerged from the slits of the
curtains, casting flattering ribbons on the coffee oak furniture and a not so
flattering illumination of the Tsar’s features. The castle was mute, serene. What servants had approached the room had
already dispersed, driven away by the roars and splintering furniture
reverberating down the halls.
The large oak door swung open. The swift clunk-clunk of
high-heeled boots approached the ruler. Ivanovich observed his father’s hunched
body and wispy hair, the cane clasped between his pasty knuckles. He cleared
his throat with what he hoped was with a formidable air.
His father’s head whipped around in a frenzy. The coat
flourished around his dress pants, revealing an attire dark as his expression.
Ivanovich strained to mask the horrified look on his face.
His mouth trembled as he mustered a grimace, eyes sweeping over Ivan’s pallor.
Tentatively, he ambled forward to get a proper look at the poor man.
A guttural, wretched shriek escaped from the Tsar’s jaw as
he clasped a body to his chin. A gasp left Ivanovich, yet he was still glued to
the patchy rug where warm blood still steeped through and stained his leather
boots. Ivan rocked back and forth miserably, eye sockets hollow and dark enough
to outline his wide, stunned eyes. Ivanovich helplessly watched his own father
crumple to the ground, unblinking as the stared into the distance. He cast a
glance around the room-upturned furniture, the wrinkled rug and the cane on the
ground where its tapered end was spotted with gore. As his gaze moved up, his
father’s shrivelled hands swathed in the dark coat shrouding the blush pink of another’s silk garb. The man
looked to the ruler’s chest helplessly, blankly, limbs mangled beneath him as
he half-heartedly clung onto Ivan’s arm.
And at his hollowed cheek, the Tsar’s leathered fingers clamped
tightly around the man’s head, attempting to staunch the violent gush of blood
that flooded from it. Alas, his efforts were fruitless. It was evident in his
blanch and doomed gaze that he had lost. Ivan mewled pitifully as he swayed,
eyes empty with nothing but defeat. Yes, he had lost. No, not a precious son he
loved- the only heir that would pass on his legacy.
Ivanovich looked over the scene dispiritedly, scrutinising
the familiar arch of the jaw and sharp eyes he had always greeted in the
mirror. He watched his pathetic father mourn the loss of the royal line,
watched his living body crumple and his eyes dim. But try as he might, he could
not feel any rising triumph overshadow the sinking feeling in his stomach.
