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Do Not Speak Ill Of Peacekeepers

She seems insignificant. A nothing. And yet

Yet his men tell him his recent losses are because of her. This child in a mourning gown. The King; a conqueror of thousands, cannot believe it. Will not believe it.

How could a simple child have brought his armies to their knees, made the strongest and fiercest of men run for the hills. How could she have simply strolled into his palace, past the bloodthirsty hounds that lined every door, slipping around the blades of his guards, the deadly tricks crafted by the most heinous of magics and the traps constructed so elegantly by the most insane of men?

All to come and stand in his throne room, and claim she came to speak of peace.

The King scoffs, eyes narrowed at the girl that stands before him. Again, his eyes flicker over her form; taking in her shoulder-length black hair, her ragged dress, the plainness of her face, her slight stature. Her eyes are the only things worthy of note; dark and pretty, twin orbs of obsidian.

“What need have I for peace?” The King sneers, rolling his eyes, his hand waving, motioning for guards to remove her. But no one moves, she remains, staring directly at the old man. The King sits up, takes notice of the status of his men; how their faces have gone pale, eyes wide with unspeakable terror, how they press themselves back, gazes darting for the doors. His men, good loyal and brave men, watch the child as if she were a monster.

The King opens his mouth, to bark an order, but he never gets the chance to speak. He, and everyone else, is silenced by a sound, soft and almost unheard in the large throne room.

The girl sighs, and his shoulders are thrown forward, back nearly breaking under the crushing weight of the small sound. The guards shudder, armor rattling, but they make no move save to press themselves flatter against the stone.

“I had hoped you could be reasoned with.” She says, shoulders falling, head shaking gently, from side to side. The eerily familiar look and motion of a disappointed parent. As if she truly was sorry, as if she was the one who wore the crown, who held the power.

“You brought this upon yourself.” She says, raising her gaze to his, and her eyes sparkle like dark glass; beautiful and sharp.

Then, she speaks, soft tones echoing, volume rising, overtaking the sounds of metal falling across stone, the heavy footfalls of the fleeing guards. Piercing silence rises beyond his windows, and then, the gentle patter of rain. A chill that sweeps through the room, cool fingertips dragging across his skin.

She speaks of his crimes, the horrors of war, painting splashes of crimson across his memory. She tells the sorrowful tales of those beneath him, of the people he’d claimed and enslaved when he conquered this land.

Her ethereal voice weaves promises of destruction, of balance, of the peace and glory that will rise from the ashes of his fallen kingdom. The flowers and lives that will grow and flourish from the rotten earth he has carved out for himself.

The King opens his mouth to object, but cannot will a single breath to leave his lips, cannot escape the brutal truth in her voice. The haunting beauty of the promises that drip from her lips, a sickeningly sweet sting of poison that burns the blood in his veins.

His hard won crown growing ever heavier and sharper with every note, and finally, the King sees her. Sees the unnatural beauty and youth of her appearance. The inhuman glow of her aura, gentle and bright. What stands before him is divine, is power incarnate, and no man, not even he has hope of stopping her.

With his growing horror, his slipping sanity, he hears them. The whispers that flow from the death he had wrought, ragged terrible voices that seep from the treasures the King had amassed from over the long years.

Foolish man, his once blood-stained gold and gems seem to sneer. Greedy worm, growl his stolen silken robes, the tapestries that depict his victories. Whispers slip through the stone, the voices of those who toil under him, who have died for his selfish desires.

Many have prayed, and with our endless sorrow and anger, we have called her. She who has no use for blades or shields, no desire for gold or jewels; only the calm of the soul, the peaceful silence of the world matters to her. She is the truth, the compassion and empathy of all who have ever lived, and she will set things right.

She will be your destruction, and our salvation. For your victories will be our coin, the price for the future happiness and glory of the people you once held so tightly in your hands.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ends. The King finds himself kneeling at her feet, panting, shuddering, and filled with the knowledge that he is completely alone.

And the man stained with the lives of the innocent, this broken King, screams. Throws back his head and curses the heavens themselves for delivering this creature to him. Even now, he will not accept defeat, will not accept a loss delivered by a child. Divine or not.

“I am a king!” He bellows, spitting at the girls feet. She smiles at him, eyes sad yet full of mischief. She leans down, posed and elegant in her dark rags, and nearly nose-to-nose, she whispers to him;

“And I am a God. She grins, still pitying, still sad, still wicked.

I am Celia, the Goddess of Peace. I was summoned by thousands upon thousands of prayers sung in my name, my Lord. Tonight, your reign ends, and in it’s place, I will sow peace.”

She rises, turns on her heel, and walks out his door. Steps soft, dark hair swaying from side to side, she leaves as she had entered; easily, without concern or fear. Strolling into the silence born of her words.

And the once godlike King curls into himself, crumbling, succumbing to the forcefully gentle lull of oblivion.

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