as written by Script
Hot water cascaded onto his bare flesh, a steady stream billowing from above, breaking over his head and flowing down to the soles of his feet. Enveloped in the steamy embrace of the water’s flow, he felt his mind ease into a relaxed state, his spirit finding zen in the simple act of bathing. He was engulfed by the ambient sounds of the forest; of frogs and birds singing their collective song in a harmonious chorus; he could see the light of the sun breaking through in rays as the shade of the trees painted over the skyline; he watched as the grass rustled, contained predator and prey alike within the vibrant green garrison.
The trees around him rose like oaken towers to the sky, their ever-watchful tenants looming above, ready to be carried off on wings of resplendent color. Beneath his feet he could almost feel the softness of the rich soil, that longing sensation seeping its way to his very bones. He glanced around himself as the water blanketed his person, taking a deep breath, trying to capture that wondrous forest air within his own lungs. He exhaled, a smile curling at his lips as for just one moment, he could escape reality.
Then, with his hand on the holoscreen to his right, he sealed off the faucet, cutting short the water’s descent. Circling around his feet, the liquid drained beneath him, the scenery before him breaking down in a multitude of brightly-colored squares, until he was left staring at the flat, translucent walls of glass that encircled his shower chamber. He sighed weightily, trodding to the door, his feet slapping against the still-wet tiles underneath his soles. The thin glass slid sideways, and he reached out for his towel, rubbing himself down with the soft cotton until he was sufficiently devoid of moisture. He dressed quickly, donning a pair of boxer-briefs and a plain, white bodysuit that was specifically designed to his proportions, fitting snugly against his frame. He found the damned thing uncomfortable.
Not as uncomfortable as what was to come next, however.
He exited his washroom, stepping out into his chambers. He stopped, allowing himself a glance about the room; his bed had already been made up by one of the many servants roaming around the palace, the azure silk sheets smoothed out flawlessly, with nary a wrinkle in sight, the top portion folded over delicately. The room was massive, bearing a plethora of ironwood furniture, from stout bedside tables to hulking wardrobes. The large, ornate window overlooking the garden was framed by the velvet curtains that were now carefully pulled aside to invite in the morning sunlight. Overhead hung a delicately-crafted chandelier, the entire apparatus smithed from only the purest gold, its fluorescent light enough to encapsulate the whole room in its mighty glow. The carpets were a deep crimson, with gold-colored lines arranged in diamond patterns, soft to the touch and easy on the feet to walk upon. The walls were painted a pale blue, and were decorated with a variety of paintings, many of which that were far older than he.
He shook his head as he surveyed his surroundings, the dreary monotony of his situation settling in and making a home of his soul, driving further the nails of his weariness and apathy; none of it towards his people, no, but towards his station. King John Pendleton IV had been known by that title for going on twenty-nine years now, after succeeding his own father at the ripe old age of twenty-five. It was a position that, so long ago, Johnathan had accepted with a great deal of pride and sense of responsibility; he had been delighted to bear the burden of kingship, to lead his country, his people, into the next era of prosperity. Now, all he felt was the weight of exhaustion and the tedium of routine. Formality now equated to over-long, arduous meetings with government officials about topics that they had covered umptillion times prior, and protocol meant strict regulations that only served to make living as ghastly as one could possibly imagine.
Bleary-eyed and downtrodden was the new normal for John, and there wasn’t much he could do to relieve himself of the anguish. Not for the moment, at least. As ashamed as he was to admit such a thing to himself, there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t yearn for his son’s deployment to end so that he could come back home--a hero--so that John could finally surrender his throne and live out his remaining days a normal, burdenless man.
Sitting on the nearby leather sofa, he let slip another gaunt exhale, resting his weathered arms on his knees, his entire body wracked from the strain of sovereignty. He slipped his face into his hands, feeling every wrinkle, every scar that adorned his wisened face, the white, coarse hair on his strong chin. He ran his weathered hand through his sickly blonde hair, frustrated and contemplative about how he was going to make it through the day without collapsing from the boring chore that had become his every day.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door leading to his bedchambers. “M’lord?” Came the muffled voice of the Morrigite manservant, “Are you ready? It’s time to prepare for your address, sir.” One last burdened sigh escaped his lungs, evaporating into the air, dispersing within the sound waves that carried it off to the high heavens, to be forgotten with the rest of his woes. He stood, his deep blue and piercing gaze hardening upon the doorframe, as if trying with all their might to see past it, to see beyond the walls of the palace and into a better place. Alas, the king was resigned to see through his duty, and suddenly he was drawn back to the reality at hand. “M’lord?” came the concerned cry of the servant. John cleared his throat. “Come in.”
It was time to waste another precious day.
Hot water cascaded onto his bare flesh, a steady stream billowing from above, breaking over his head and flowing down to the soles of his feet. Enveloped in the steamy embrace of the water’s flow, he felt his mind ease into a relaxed state, his spirit finding zen in the simple act of bathing. He was engulfed by the ambient sounds of the forest; of frogs and birds singing their collective song in a harmonious chorus; he could see the light of the sun breaking through in rays as the shade of the trees painted over the skyline; he watched as the grass rustled, contained predator and prey alike within the vibrant green garrison.
The trees around him rose like oaken towers to the sky, their ever-watchful tenants looming above, ready to be carried off on wings of resplendent color. Beneath his feet he could almost feel the softness of the rich soil, that longing sensation seeping its way to his very bones. He glanced around himself as the water blanketed his person, taking a deep breath, trying to capture that wondrous forest air within his own lungs. He exhaled, a smile curling at his lips as for just one moment, he could escape reality.
Then, with his hand on the holoscreen to his right, he sealed off the faucet, cutting short the water’s descent. Circling around his feet, the liquid drained beneath him, the scenery before him breaking down in a multitude of brightly-colored squares, until he was left staring at the flat, translucent walls of glass that encircled his shower chamber. He sighed weightily, trodding to the door, his feet slapping against the still-wet tiles underneath his soles. The thin glass slid sideways, and he reached out for his towel, rubbing himself down with the soft cotton until he was sufficiently devoid of moisture. He dressed quickly, donning a pair of boxer-briefs and a plain, white bodysuit that was specifically designed to his proportions, fitting snugly against his frame. He found the damned thing uncomfortable.
Not as uncomfortable as what was to come next, however.
He exited his washroom, stepping out into his chambers. He stopped, allowing himself a glance about the room; his bed had already been made up by one of the many servants roaming around the palace, the azure silk sheets smoothed out flawlessly, with nary a wrinkle in sight, the top portion folded over delicately. The room was massive, bearing a plethora of ironwood furniture, from stout bedside tables to hulking wardrobes. The large, ornate window overlooking the garden was framed by the velvet curtains that were now carefully pulled aside to invite in the morning sunlight. Overhead hung a delicately-crafted chandelier, the entire apparatus smithed from only the purest gold, its fluorescent light enough to encapsulate the whole room in its mighty glow. The carpets were a deep crimson, with gold-colored lines arranged in diamond patterns, soft to the touch and easy on the feet to walk upon. The walls were painted a pale blue, and were decorated with a variety of paintings, many of which that were far older than he.
He shook his head as he surveyed his surroundings, the dreary monotony of his situation settling in and making a home of his soul, driving further the nails of his weariness and apathy; none of it towards his people, no, but towards his station. King John Pendleton IV had been known by that title for going on twenty-nine years now, after succeeding his own father at the ripe old age of twenty-five. It was a position that, so long ago, Johnathan had accepted with a great deal of pride and sense of responsibility; he had been delighted to bear the burden of kingship, to lead his country, his people, into the next era of prosperity. Now, all he felt was the weight of exhaustion and the tedium of routine. Formality now equated to over-long, arduous meetings with government officials about topics that they had covered umptillion times prior, and protocol meant strict regulations that only served to make living as ghastly as one could possibly imagine.
Bleary-eyed and downtrodden was the new normal for John, and there wasn’t much he could do to relieve himself of the anguish. Not for the moment, at least. As ashamed as he was to admit such a thing to himself, there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t yearn for his son’s deployment to end so that he could come back home--a hero--so that John could finally surrender his throne and live out his remaining days a normal, burdenless man.
Sitting on the nearby leather sofa, he let slip another gaunt exhale, resting his weathered arms on his knees, his entire body wracked from the strain of sovereignty. He slipped his face into his hands, feeling every wrinkle, every scar that adorned his wisened face, the white, coarse hair on his strong chin. He ran his weathered hand through his sickly blonde hair, frustrated and contemplative about how he was going to make it through the day without collapsing from the boring chore that had become his every day.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door leading to his bedchambers. “M’lord?” Came the muffled voice of the Morrigite manservant, “Are you ready? It’s time to prepare for your address, sir.” One last burdened sigh escaped his lungs, evaporating into the air, dispersing within the sound waves that carried it off to the high heavens, to be forgotten with the rest of his woes. He stood, his deep blue and piercing gaze hardening upon the doorframe, as if trying with all their might to see past it, to see beyond the walls of the palace and into a better place. Alas, the king was resigned to see through his duty, and suddenly he was drawn back to the reality at hand. “M’lord?” came the concerned cry of the servant. John cleared his throat. “Come in.”
It was time to waste another precious day.