Through the Gates and to the Maze...

My calves were burning. It's not natural to crouch behind bushes for a time as long as this. Yet, the pain was nothing when I saw the hard glint of their crudely fashioned weapons. Their painted faces and screwed-lock wigs obscured by the low hanging branches; the vines of the willow leaves swaying gently in the light breeze. The stream gurgling past by my back was calming: the repetitive snorts of the horses agitating. Then, the crash of sudden contact between skull and stones: horrifying.

          Wooden huts adorned with drying cow hides attract my attention as we amble down the beaten dirt track to the mansion, their motley creating a dappled camouflage of browns, whites and beiges. With my hat askew. Pistol loaded. Balaclava in my back pocket.

          We three attract attention. Our heavy black coats symbolize the revolutionaries - the tyrants as we are named in these lands.

          The crows squawk in the woods, their feathers glistening with morning shafts of light.

          The rough-iron gates stand tall, guarding the only imitate paradise in the county. The overlooking stone gargoyles seem to overt their permanent stares while we sneak through the only bare area of the bushes. Past the tangle of twigs, leaves and rough scribble of branches. The maze on the other side of the green wall is a confusion of long corridors, each one connecting to one another. Just last week I chased a deer down here. It escaped, even with a hand-crafted arrow in its backside. Too bad; it would've feed us for the rest of the week.

          One by one we follow the tracks down to the main square.

          As we approach it, garlands of paper flowers start to appear around the turns in the maze, strung up with string, tied around twigs. The slight sounds of the Tre Fontane start to surround us and then we go our separate ways. We know the importance of this day. A birthday she will never forget - one she will never recover from. We know where the corridors meet up and end.

          I peer slowly around the edge of the shrub. I can see a rush of material. Dyed textures of all colours, swirling about in continuous motion to the classical sounds. All the skirts are gushing: the natural hues coming together in one second and separating the next like a swarm of bees.

          The only skirt that stands out for me is the pure white organza. Sheer and loose around her bosom. Cascading around her arms. Wrapping around her waist. Rippling elegantly down to the wet grass.

          The moment seems to temporarily halt. The dancing figures stop, this image is one I know I won't forget easily; her glowing blonde
hair whips out to the side. Streaks of light, like threads of lightening or ribbons of gold. Her skin and cheeks, neck and forehead - all shining. The damp bottom rim of her petticoat; her naked feet in the long grass. The sun seems to radiate out from the very core of her soul. Her sapphire pupils reflect the blue sky at which she is staring.

          But that is my cue: the instant of complete and utter serenity.

          I rush. Straight in. Behind her. The wooden handle of the dagger digging into my rough palm. I hold it up to her throat. She is stiff with fear.

          She smells like the summer breeze.

          There is a gasp - a gasp that resonates from the very bottom of everyone's throats. One of complete shock, torment and perturbation. All eyes flick to the same spot. To me.

          The others uncover themselves from the shadows. Then crawl in, as insects from under rocks do. The spectators squirm as they realise they're being surrounded. The option of retreat is no longer open to them; they are like cattle being herded for the slaughter.

          But one of my men starts to approach one individual in particular.

          I recognise the King - by the long, curling chestnut brown of his royal wig.

          The black coat pulls out his pistol. Pulls back the crudely curved trigger. The wig takes the dagger from my man's belt. This was not the plan. Not here.

          The blade flashes, springing from his hands to the abdomen of my man. And then a red rose starts to blossom from the hole, growing steadily. While my man starts to fall down. Down to the ground. Pale and still and silent.

          Then we ran.

          In all different directions.

          Back past the maze, through the gates and down the path by the houses. Colours passing by are blurs. People stop to watch us as we stampede by them. We run until we see the boundary fence of the village. Then there is no-one.

           Out into the green land; the city of the flowers and the woods. The skies always seem bluer out here, with the ever populating evergreen trees and the vibrant green grass. But this time the sunset seems more gruesome a red than the usual elegant pink. Because as I hide in the bushes, I can hear the storming hooves of the horses whose riders are tracking me; trying to find and kill me. That I know. Else, they wouldn't be in such a big group, or with their specially made weapons, designed for this exact purpose.

          Stinging nettles surround me, forming blisters on my legs and arms, and the sparrow that peers down at me from its high branch is surely giving away my hiding place. The nervous energy that I feel is transferred through every nerve, to every limb.

          My calves are burning. It's not natural to crouch behind bushes for a time as long as this. Yet, the pain is nothing when I see the hard glint of their crudely fashioned weapons. Their painted faces and screwed-lock wigs obscured by the low hanging branches; the vines of the willow leaves swathing gently in the light breeze. The stream gurgling past by my back is calming: the repetitive snorts of the horses agitating. Then, the crash of sudden contact between skull and stones: horrifying.

          The shock of the noise stuns me, and the horses also startle and run away uncontrollably. I look behind me, to the base of the cliff - to the stones covered by moss, lichen, and now blood. I can see the face of the corpse: blood still slightly oozing from his head and other open wounds.

          I recognise him; it's my father - the leader of our revolution. He means so much, to so many people.

          I feel anger boiling in my heart and my head. So I look up, up to the top of the cliff. Looking down is another face I recognise. But this one bears a wig. A black one. That shines in the evening coloured glow of fading light, along with his sword unleashed from its sheath. And the expression that goes with it is a strange one - one of great fury and of great relief.

          I know understand my fathers actions: he would rather jump from that ledge than no longer have the option of freedom.

          But in that moment, I lose my sense of place and time. And I stand up.

          Because that face I remember too. It is the King's military servant. He sees me. And I can see him, along with that staggered scar that stretched his lower eyelid down to his puckered cheek and jaw. The mark glistens demonically.

          Now there is a look of triumph. What better prize than the leader of the revolution dead by his own hands? The son captured.

          In this place; I am revealed.