The Roots of Royalty


I was in the craggy streets of some old European country. I was among a small group of black smiths, drunks, and peasants looking to release the wear and tear of our society of oppression. A sharply dressed man in a curly grey wig, cane, and a coat with tails that reached the backs of his knees summons a few of us, declaring we are royalty. Among us contained the last names of the Slav’s  and the bjornes. The bjornes were a decedent of a man name sanjaborne.

I come into the imperial palace and am placed before the Grand duchess in her library. Through her we learn the history of our linear heritage, though in the oddest of fashion. She says no word, but hands us a book to read first, as is customary in their culture when meeting someone new. In it she talks about how greetings done so through books are exhausting, “for even Beethoven wrote books, and he, through a masterful magician of the piano, was dull in his writing skills.” Then she goes on to talk about the history of our family, and the sentencing of death through soldiers of war. These men whom are the head branches of our families escaped the palace, and lived in hiding. Why they were put to death in this book, I don’t remember, but whats more important is that times had settled, and these men who were to be executed under no fault were now safe to show their faces, and return home.

When I was done, I closed the book, and painted a portrait of her looks into memory from the table that sat 30. The duchess herself was ghostly white, 5’4, thin, and stood as straight as a plank of wood. Time had aged her snow-white complexion to expose her deeply crevassed wrinkles, and the hair to match. You could somehow tell she use to be a brunet from her eyebrows, but no more. The gown was a fitted cream lace that wrapped around her shoulders and hung from there. A ribbon wrapped around her body, starting from her right shoulder, and ended at her left hip. We never spoke in person because not everyone could finish the book, but I couldn’t figure out what to make of her. To say the least, she was frail and beautiful for her age, though distant from the story of her life.


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