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There was always a certain sadness that lingered in his eyes. A yearning for the past and a life that he once knew, shrouded deep within his spirit origin. Not that anyone noticed. The exuberant laughter that always flew from his lips, the overbearing aura of a pharaoh overtaking that small twinge of grief.
Pockets of pink peeked through the field of green. These flowers were surprisingly hard to find across all the singularities. After much searching, only Babylon had proffered the blossoms, and only this one field. He had not known how difficult these were to find. They had always been easy to find when he was alive, usually only a small walk away.
Ozymandias sighed, the flower falling from his hand. How unfortunate. His home was so far from him now, the rolling dunes and the green Nile all beyond his reach. The joyous silver which he had lost, the naive flower who he could no longer see, and someone that was lost forever. The proud shoulders, slumped slowly, unveiling the fatigue of the world’s greatest pharaoh. He was so tired.
Ice had rained down hard, and many had died. This was the first time that Ozymandias had truly felt his heart shake in fear and a great grief. None of the other plagues had affected him in the way that the hail had. The screams of his people rang in his ears, in perfect concert with the screams he had heard in the background all of his life. Pharaoh covered his ears, hiding away from the terrible reality that he saw.
Nothing is more frightening than the shattering of a truth. That man had stood before Ozymandias in the great darkness, his silver hair resplendent against the oily dark. Voices raised and fell, a crescendo and decrescendo of anger, betrayal, and a singular pleading call. That would be the last time that Ozymandias would ever see his son, the last time he would see Moses as the brother he had once had. The final plague took more than his son.
So tired. So very tired. A king is always the apex of the world, who the masses must adore and fear. A pinnacle of power, and the lowest a human could go. Selfishness in a ruler, greed in a ruler would topple a kingdom as surely as the sun set. As such, even Ozymandias was no better than the worst of his subjects. Not truly. For he could not do the simplest of all human actions. Desire.
Pride he had. Pride he used. For that was the lifeblood of aristocracy, the backbone of the great people of egypt. Desire though, did not exist. Everything he had ever wanted was taken from him methodically. His son and his brother left him alone in the world. Still he faced forward, the arrogance of the great pharaoh hiding the fault within his soul.
Perhaps he could have been saved from his own creeping sadness by that love. A beautiful flower that was truly his, something that he would never permit even the gods to take from him. They did though. As the warmth left that dying hand, Ozymandias felt himself truly and fully alone in the world. His laugh from that day rang louder and farther, the death of his wife and son seemingly lost to the great power of the pharaoh. Always, though the sadness of his eyes tainted the his happiness. Those who gain the most, must also give the most.
The field stood, reflected in the pharaoh’s dull eyes. The only sound that could be heard was the rustling of the wind. Time seemed to stand still for only a moment, freezing everything within that small field. Time always moves on, though. Even divinity can not change that. Ozymandias slowly made his way back to the distant town. Each step, a little weight came off. Each step, his eyes seemed a little brighter. Each step, the sadness disappeared, bit by bit, until only a faint semblance of grief took root in his eyes. Walking onward, Ozymandias twirled a small, pink flower in his fingers, his rambunctious laugh echoing across the valley.