The noise from above penetrates through the castle walls with ease, echoing into its deepest recesses. It spoils the catacombs atmosphere. The distant shouts of joy and bellows make it impossible for me to lose myself in the darkness and the dark makes it equally difficult to imagine what entertainment my nobles found. I'm not even sure why this was my first choice, there was probably a reason when I was discussing this matter with Martin but now that it's gone the fact that this could have been done in the fallen angel if I so wanted becomes increasingly mocking.

Grandfather's cold visage staring at me sullenly doesn't much help. Annoys me more if anything. I thought letting time take the bastard would give me satisfaction. One last insult. Allowing weakness to claim the proud king. He tempted me to do otherwise many times; his demise had been imagined almost every day. I had considered every way at every opportunity. Poisoning, strangling, disemboweling, ensanguination. Once he struck my hand with a silver spoon and it took every ounce of my will not to break him to pieces. In the end I broke his hand and he choked on his own spit. In the end I was left not exactly innocent but also without the satisfactions that came with guilt.

"Well boy," the suitably prickish voice of Bishop Gerard behind me begins, "I must congratulate you. Despite best attempts you're still the same vile, debased scum prince you were when I came to this tainted hole."

"Scum king now," I correct, not bothering to turn to look at him.

"Worse actually," Gerard continues. "Earlier in your life you were just a common street urchin spawned in the wrong bed. Now, well now your a murdering, lying, cruel fucking brat."

"While I do intend to do it quite frequently, King Harold has yet to lie once."

"Do you honestly think anyone in that room thinks that unfortunate King Harry would even clout a child? Tell me boy what made you-"

I snap my fingers and the bishop's mockery is turned into choking.

"I was made by what was around me," I sigh. "Wasn't everyone?"

Only desperate gagging and the thumping of fists against cloth are the response I receive.

"Loosen your grip so he may speak."

Still no coherent response, if anything the bishop grows more desperate for air. I turn around disappointed and see the shape of Martin behind Gerard pulling the shaft of a sledgehammer snugly against Gerard's throat. It's too dark to decipher any fine details but given the fact that his struggling has degenerated into weak slapping I'd say it's time for him to breathe.

"If he dies here I'll be very annoyed brother," I chide. "So if you wish to keep your hands, release him now."

Martin doesn't respond, for a moment he has me believing he'll snap the bastard's neck. But then he removes the handle and Gerard falls to his knees, gasping and spluttering, desperate for the stale air of the catacombs.

"This was supposed to show power, brother," I tut, stepping towards them.

"He's on his knees before you isn't he?" Martin spits like the idiot he is. "Give him a second and he'll beg-"

"My power," I continue. "What fucking good is he on his knees if it's you who put him there and not me?"

"I fail to see your point. He's not dead like you asked, he's-"

"Threats were required to have you do as asked. The lack of immediate obedience demonstrates the limits to my influence and the need for brutality only shows the fragility of my power. Now he knows that you'll only obey if your limbs are at risk."

"It's only him and a couple of dead nobles that-"

"The composition audience doesn't matter. Just that there is an audience and you've made me look weak in front of it."

"Fuck yourself Harold," Martin spits. "You give me a pointless assignment that will have me escort that putrid cunt to an execution that could be performed right outside, you proceed to assault me with s blade and not only expect me to be able to carry out that task but also maintain your fucking appearance."

We're alone, a voice cuts through my mind, cleaving past nerves like a knife edge. I imagine Martin's face, purple, eyes red and bulging, gloved hands around his throat.

Say the bishop did it

Then I'd work him with that sledgehammer for an hour or two. He wouldn't retain his ability to beg.

"Fuck off," I respond coldly brushing these thoughts away.

"Your pardon good-"

Moving a man like Martin isn't an easy task, fortunately moving a man with a knife wounded leg is quite easy. A simple but strong blow to the wound is all that it takes to stagger him, when followed by a harsh shove and he falls onto his back, dropping the sledgehammer carelessly.

"You want to act like fucking child," I spit. "Crawl away and wait outside like a fucking child or you'll beg me to cut out your tongue so we can avoid further incidents like this."

Slowly and pathetically the moron scurries off, like a rat. I collect his sledgehammer and take a moment to marvel at its supreme weight.

"Do you have any brothers Gerry?" I ask.

"No," he manages to get through his coughs.

"Lucky bastard. Fucker thinks because we share some blood he's my equal. Thinks he can keep pushing and pushing his luck. Thinks it'll never fall off the table. Tell me honestly, do you think him to be on par with myself?"

"Fuck yourself," Gerald wheezes.

"I should have expected something to that effect. Tell me something though Gerry. Brother dearest tormented me many a time, he saw many pieces of me stripped of skin, flayed little squares a few inches in dimensions, worked the whip on my back till I could not lie down. Grandfather ordered every abuse but Martin wasn't at all reluctant to wield the tools. So please Gerry just tell me what your god thinks of men like him?"

"Applauds them," he spits. "Sends them to spite demons such as yourself."

"You're an excellent priest Gerry. Your only failing is you chose the wrong masses to convert."

I offer my hand to help him to his feet. He ignores it and clambers up all by himself.

"Well done," I mock.

"Fuck yourself," Gerard spits. "Fuck your games too. Bash me to death with that hammer of yours and let's be done with this."

"You're a braver man than I, Gerry," I yawn. "Thicker too but much braver. In your position I'd have committed regicide as soon as Martin was on the ground, I wouldn't be asking for the hammer politely, wouldn't be standing tall and proud either. But it doesn't matter much as your not getting the hammer, not at this moment anyway-"

"Oh joy," Gerard says dryly. "Will I die the official way? Or will you be even more creative? Shall I be the sacrifice to your pagan fire? Or do you seek to revert completely to savagery and give me to your old forest fairies and river whores? You'll hold a big ceremony no doubt, filled to the brim with whores, your cousin will-"

"None are mine. If it got too hot I'd gladly piss on the great fire and if they were comely enough I'd fuck my way through the entire population of river whores and fairies. I'd trim your thorn god back too if he got in my way."

"Oh how I quake," he jests. "All fear the godless boy king Harold! The whoring, murdering moron!"

"I am many things Gerry but I will not admit guilt to idiocy nor am I without my gods," I sigh. "But you still have yet to learn of your fate Gerry."

"Enlighten me then."

"See I don't like you much Gerry. I spent many hours wondering what to do with you. First I figured hanging would suit just fine, quick, easy, simple but something about it just felt wrong. Then I considered cutting you to bits but it still didn't feel right when I envisioned it. Your demise felt as if it should be noteworthy, something memorable. Then an unlikely fellow called Mr Silver granted me great inspiration. See Gerry you're a symbol of sorts. To those outside these walls you represent ways older than old. Self flagellation, mutilation, martyrdom and human sacrifice. These are all ideas that were abandoned for a reason. Now what place would house the old ways than the Black Hallows?"

"You'll have me chop some logs for a few years?"

"No no dear Gerry. See those trees have become quite the blight. They're all twisted and mutated and fucking hideous. In addition to that the backwards inhabitants are quite hostile. I'm sure you can guess what the skinners do to those they catch. On top of the obvious they use sorceries to keep the victims going for weeks and months.Their pets are equally beastly, crafted from sometimes six or seven dead men-"

"Assume I know all about the land your kind crawled from."

"Well see I want it gone," I state plainly. "So you and several hundred other men will be sent there with top quality axes with the goal of reducing as much of it as you can to splinters. You'll be elites. You'll wake up and the first thing you'll do is cut down trees, you'll continue that until you absolutely must stop. Should the horrors come for you you'll cut them to bits as well. Should one of you die you'll cut them to bits to prevent resurrection. Should one of you prove traitorous you'll cut them to bits. You can see a pattern here. I'm sure"

"I assume there's something to prevent desertion."

"My brother and a group of officers selected by him. Martin might be a somewhat unstable element but he really, really hates you and contrary to his claim he really likes this idea. Should you attempt to run he'll break your ankle. Should you try to fight him he'll break your wrist. You'll be dragged through that damnable forest even if all you're attached to is a miserable torso."

"What's the hammer for then?" Gerard inquires.

I heave it up with both hands and point the head about a foot away from grandfather's stone face.

"That too is a symbol," I state. "A symbol of power that will remain for eternity if allowed to. A symbol that insults me. So I shall take this great hammer and reduce it to dust."

"You defile commoners and kings alike now boy?"

"Only the dead ones," I proceed to slam the sledgehammer into the tomb sending small bits of stone flying and causing cracks to spread through the stone. "He defiled the living."

With that I abandon restraint and pulverise the last remnants of grandfather's likeness.

The process takes over an hour, my arm screams for it to end but eventually the tomb is little more than a mangled stone box onto which I carved 'here lies a man who murdered his brother, king and countless others. May history always remember Harry as a treacherous, lying, weak, vile man.'

"Can you think of anything to add Gerry?"

"Killed by his son King Harold the-"

"Has to be true dear Gerry. Go fetch my brother."

Gerard hesitates before turning and slowly exiting the catacombs. Martin limps to take his place after a few moments.

"You started it bleeding," he grunts.

"Oh how tragic," I yawn. "Get your men, get him and get out. I want you both gone before dawn."

"The men expect-"

"Well should your men have any gripes you be sure to tell them that they must abandon their families immediately because you're an idiot."

"Just because your fucking vanity-"

"Also should Gerry die prematurely I'd recommend you go into the black Hallows alone, go deep and vanish. That'll be all brother. I wish you a good journey."

Even in the darkness I can read his face. I can see how much he wants to break my neck, ram me into a box alongside grandfather, carve his own little message onto it. He turns around and walks away with clenched fists. I allow him to sulk and choose to enjoy my artistry for a few moments.

I see something shift in the dust. An incredibly small movement in the large pile of dust, something that I only noticed by pure luck. I bend over to inspect it, poking around with my knife. Within all the chunks of rock and pulverised powder my blade finds a centipede. It crawls onto the knife without hesitation allowing me to hold it close to my eye. It's not particularly large, barely as long as my index finger and slightly less than a half centimetre in thickness. Its shell is a red so dull that it almost looks brown in the gloom. Antennae scrape about the cold blade searching for something its sharp mandibles can clamp down upon. The reasoning for the insect to enter here surpasses my understanding, plenty of dead flesh for it to feed on in the kitchens or outside the castle walls, much easier to get at too. Crushing the creature is tempting, save some servant the effort of doing the same but something about it manages to attain my sympathy. Something about it seems vaguely pretty to me. It doesn't make sense, I don't think it can make sense. After some consideration I return the insect to the dust, grin at the tomb and turn to move on with my day trying to pretend I never saw the thing.