“Life’s a bitch, and then you die.”


    That’s what I heard someone whom I didn’t know say, while I was out tending to


    my horse once upon a time. This person’s words would prove to be true time and time


    again over the years, and although I don’t remember this person’s face, nor their voice,


    nor what they had said in addition to that, I can say wholeheartedly that… They have a


    pretty short outlook on life. Or had, as I’d imagine that they would not have been one of


    the lucky few who retain their wisdom in death.


    Perhaps it would be simpler to say that they had a short life. That sounds much


    better, short and sweet. I suppose that’s as opposed to me as I currently am, tall and


    bitter.


    Tall referring to the height of my body of course. What else would I mean by


    that? Looking into the pitch black expanse beyond me, I can only marvel at the afterlife.


    Or lack thereof. I seem to be lying down, which has indicated to me that I am in a


    predicament. I blink my eyes. I’ve never heard of spirits with eyes, thus I can come to a


    conclusion. I am not a spirit.


    This idea is confusing to me, as I remember clearly the day that I died. This


    memory is also the reason for my bitterness. As I recall, it was my own son that did me


    in. With a dagger, no less.


    It hurt so much, being repeatedly stabbed in a variety of places. My son didn’t


    survive that ordeal, though I can’t imagine he suffered nearly as much as I did. When


    his blade had finally pierced my heart, one of my knights burst into the room and lopped


    his head off.


    It’s unfortunate really, he was one of my few sons that I actually liked. He was


    humble, kind and so on. Unfortunately for me as it turns out, he also had a few screws


    loose in his head. Perhaps that’s not an appropriate way to describe it, just as differently


    abled and disabled have a different connotation when used on a person. I suppose that


    it would be better to say that he had his issues. I still loved him though. Right up to the


    moment he died.


    Back to my current situation, I have decided to sit up.


    Or rather, I have decided to hit my head on the hard material above my head.


    Ouch. Perhaps raising the damn ceiling would be an idea that whoever put me down


    here could’ve thought of.


    Alas, your sacrifice was not in vain, poor painless thoughts. Getting a headache


    at a time like this is a wonderful experience, but how can your vision be swimming if


    there’s no light? I certainly have some sense that my vision is swimming at the moment.


    What a disorienting experience, not that I know where I am anyhow.


    I grit my teeth. With that horrible pain in my brain, I finally scan my hands in all


    directions, and immediately detect the reason for my suffering. It’s not just a low ceiling,


    there’s little space between the left wall and the right wall of the enclosed area where I


    am lying down. One important thing to mention, now that I have a general sense of my


    surroundings... I hate small spaces. Hate them. Hate them hate them. I am the fire to


    their water, I am the wound to their salt, I… Hate them. Stupendously. Claustrophobia


    setting in on me, I know only one thing. I must get out.


    I start thrashing as I panic, lashing out with all my might against the dark


    oppression of room that seemed to have built for beings much smaller than I.


    After a while, I calm myself down enough to realize that I’m not hitting anything


    anymore.


    My eyes, which had been shut tight, open. Filled with the manliest tears of


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.anyone I know, they look around.


    There was slightly less perpetual darkness than I was expecting. In sync with my


    scan of the room, green colored torches light up a cavernous expanse, in which I had


    previously been lying in a stretched hexagonal box—oh wait it’s a coffin. The remains of


    a coffin at the very least.


    The base of it was still intact. Under a green luminescence provided by the


    torches, I can see several sparkly pieces of metal which had unique carvings strewn


    across the floor. They are mostly cracked and broken. Oops.


    A relatively intact foot-long black box catches my eye when I take another glance


    at the floor. It’s angled away from me amidst the debris.


    I stand up in the middle of the coffin, realizing at this moment how little comfort it


    had for my poor body. No cushions, no pillows, only a flat surface at the bottom. Hmm.


    Disregarding that, I jump to a spot which seemed to have the least trash on the


    floor in the green light. I still manage to land on a rather sharp piece of wood. I


    immediately shift my weight to the other foot, and brace myself for the pain to come.


    It never arrives though. The feeling of being stabbed which I am so familiar with.


    Curiosity overwhelms me, and I look at my feet with great intent. My skin appears to be


    unpierced, and my bare foot looks as smooth as a river stone. Even on the bottom part


    of it.


    It appears that the sharp piece of wood is not as fortunate as I, as to remain


    unscathed after our contest of strength. In other words, I’m looking at a pile of sawdust


    on the floor where the sharp fellow used to be. Interesting.


    Raising my hand to take a look at it, palm up, the corners of my lips curve into a


    grin at a thought that floats around in my head. I bend down and pick up a piece of


    metal that is twined around a wooden handle with a bunch beautiful sculptures carved


    into it. Slowly, I increase the power of my grip.


    The metal is like soft clay in my hand, easily compressed into a ball with the help


    of my other hand. Somewhere, an artist rolls in his grave. Meanwhile, I move to my


    target, the black box.


    Flipping it over, I see familiar characters formed in a chain that makes a familiar


    pattern. That pattern is my name, and my title. Along with a little message.


    “King Brannon Donnie Daltraesh, the first. May He Rest in Peace.”


    That’s nice and all, but I’m still alive.


    What’s got me particularly confused however, is why this box is mostly intact. It’s


    definitely made out of some super-strong material, but I can’t recognize it under this


    green light, which it seems to absorb entirely.


    “Piece of shit…” I use my voice for the first time since I’ve awakened to curse this


    impenetrable object.


    The torches, which were silent before, suddenly start roaring. Making sounds


    you’d expect from a waterspout, if that waterspout was filled with fuel and set alight,


    they cause another instant headache.


    It doesn’t end there however. The green torches, whose color and dim light I had


    copped with up until now, had their flame transform in an instant. In the time it takes for


    me to take a sharp breath of deep regret, a blinding golden light emits from each torch. I


    slam my eyes shut immediately. My eyelids fail to block the majority of the light, which


    enables me to panic as a circle of darkness extends from the edge of my vision and


    leaves a pinpoint of consciousness, before taking that as well. I faint.