Something I wrote, many, many years ago.

I am a writer. At least, I like to think I am. A few weeks ago my brother Daniel finally got around to hooking up my old hard drive into my new computer (Tyler's computer.. hehe..) I was reading through all my old files, and I had forgotten how good I used to be at writing. This is just a snippet that I wrote, I don't know when, and I think it's rather good. Tell me what you think.

Confessions of an Emperor

My full name is Enthalio Karavis Thorocel the III. As the sixth son of my noble father I was unlikely to inherit the title and responsibilities that come with being the heir-apparent to a Baron, and therefore when I came of age my lord father encouraged me to take a respectable role within the few opportunities open to me in the castle, in order to make myself useful and not be a burden upon my mother and her daughters. I had no intention of becoming a priest of Ktahn, for I considered the ways of the Order to be barbaric and beneath my morals. I also had no desire to join the Emperor’s army, for having served my mandatory six years as a Messenger, I had taken in my fill of bloodshed and hard living. Therefore the last option open for me was to take the position of a scrivener. There are few scribes in the Empire, for many of the people are illiterate and have no use for books and parchments. Therefore to be a scribe, or a scribbler as some like to say, is a uniquely noble profession, only for those of great intelligence and regard.
It was with some zestfulness that I took to my occupation, quickly rising to the very top of my small order, for my handwriting was crisp yet beautiful, and the speed of my hand soon became a thing of legend. I could write words as easily as speak them, with no mistakes or lack of clarity in the letters.
In a land completely ruled by a single man of such terrible power that all who speak his name shrink with terror, it is not always good to rise to the very top of your order, for very often you are noticed. To be noticed by the Emperor can be either a kiss or a bite from the mouth of fate, for the Great One is as easily disposed to anger as he is to mirth. It was my unfortunate destiny that the Emperor, viewing a snippet of my writing upon a single letter I had written for an illiterate baron, decided that he loved no other font but mine, and would have me become his personal scribe.
My forced transfer to the palace of the Emperor took place within the space of a few hours. My father’s winter castle was located in the countryside a few miles from the Emperor’s residence, as were the winter castles of half a dozen barons who lived and died under the Emperor’s rule. It did not take the Emperor’s Guard long to remove me from the comfort of my home and take me to the palace, giving me time only to put some clothes on my back, and to grab my favourite quill pen.
They told me that everything I could want would be provided once I began serving the Emperor. I was not comforted, for the notion of being the Emperor’s personal scribe was more frightening to me than if they had told me that the devil himself was going to make me his assistant.
I must confess that I did not act like the sixth son of my father, the Venerable Baron Karavis Enatlio Hehln Thorocel the IV. Tears streamed from my eyes as I begged my captors to return me to my mother’s castle. They laughed and jeered at my sadness, but the captain of the guard became angry and struck me, rebuking me for a fool, to be so unhappy at the most fortunate thing that could happen to me.
At the time I was seeking comfort, and I clung to those words, repeating to myself that it was a very fortunate thing, that I could become a favourite of the Emperor’s, and become very respected. It was small comfort, for I never was the type to hunger after mankind’s approval. I was born reclusive and an introvert, content to stay within a little circle of friends and family, shunning the outside world, except for the worlds I found in books. Yet still I repeated it to myself, until the tears slowed and eventually stopped.
Before long I was kneeling at the foot of the Emperor, before his magnificent throne built of white marble and silver, encrusted with blue gems of all sizes, all brilliantly shining in the light of the fires that roared and snapped. The Emperor was once a man whose very stature induced fear and trembling in his peers, yet he was now an old man, withered and bent. My first impression of him was that he seemed very like a weathered stump of what once was the mightiest tree in the forest, brought down by age, crippled by storms, drained of life and colour by death who stood ever knocking at his door. His back was bent, his thin neck slumped, and he was barely able to hold his head upright.
He asked me my name, and his voice was weak and lacking of colour and vitality.
I answered, my eyes turned to the floor, as I bent and kissed the marble step as a sign of my deference.
He ordered me to write something for him, and for the first time I witnessed the hub of activity that is aroused by a single sentence that issues from an Emperor’s mouth. Before he had even finished commanding me to write, a servant had brought me a chair, another a desk, yet another some ink, and yet another some parchment. The servant who brought me a quill pen I waved away, for I had brought my own.
Breathlessly I obeyed him, writing, for what reason I do not know, my lord Emperor’s name.

"My Lord Emperor, the great Anathias Emilanan Tekuram, Ruler of the 12 nations."

I wrote this, holding my breath as the Emperor stood, shaking on feeble legs, and walked down to stand at my shoulder and observe me. He watched in silence for some time, his eyes upon the ink that flowed slowly from my quill. I prayed that he would not see my hands shaking.
“You write beautifully.” He said, his voice devoid of emotion or warmth.
“Thank you, my lord Emperor.” I said, my words drying onto my tongue.
“I will dictate.” He said, for the Emperor did not need to say more. I knew my duties.
I waited with pen poised as the Emperor shuffled back to his mighty throne, and sat with his back supported by soft pillows. Though he was now dwarfed by it, there was once a time when the Emperor seemed too mighty to sit upon any chair, even a throne.
I began to write as he began to speak, and these were the words I recorded.

“The Regrets of an Emperor. Written 6th day of the 3rd month of 1042.

I became Emperor while I was still a young boy. My father, the Emperor Emil, was assassinated just days before my tenth birthday. Instead of the relatively small birthday celebration that had been planned for me, there was instead a coronation. I cannot say that I was very upset, for I longed for power, even at that age. When I was seven I had a very clear dream that my father died and I became Emperor, and since that night I had lusted after the throne, counting the days until inevitably, my father finally was slain by a jealous family member.
Within days of my coronation I set in place new laws, destroying orders that had been in places of power since the Elder days, and setting up new ones when and where I saw fit. No one countered me, for I was Emperor, and the Emperor’s word is law. My mother even dared not disturb me, for I had cultivated a nasty temper, and was used to getting my own way.
By the time I turned 16 my harsh rule had gotten so unstable that 6 of the 12 nations revolted, calling me a bogus Emperor, demanding I leave the throne, and taking my younger brother to use as collateral. My brother was my playmate and friend, someone I had been very fond of, but I dismissed all of my emotions, preferring to sacrifice my brother rather than even think of giving up my throne.
Consequently my brother was killed, and his quartered remains were delivered on four separate days to the palace.
Through intimidation and force I kept the rule of the other 6 nations, wresting from their populations an army so great that if they stood side by side in one parallel line they would encircle the world five times. With this great horde I stampeded across my Empire, killing every man, woman and child in the rebellious lands, uprooting their kings and dynasties, and crushing their armies. It was over in a few years, I was twenty years old, Emperor of an Empire that had suffered the worst civil war in history. My family was decimated, for many of my brothers & sisters and cousins were kidnapped by the enemy in an attempt to sway my onslaught, to no avail. The blood of my kin was expendable.
For many years I lived in relative quiet, serving no one, being served by all. Whatever I wanted, there it was, with a snap of my fingers, miracles occurred. I was a god, a being of such power that none dared to look me in the face. It never crossed my mind that I might not have the right to take whatever I wanted.
I met my queen at a ball I gave after the birth of my first bastard son. She was the youngest daughter of a king from a land not under my dominion. As soon as I laid eyes on her I wanted her, and that very second I stopped the band from playing, and demanded that she marry me at once. Her father turned white, but her face grew red with anger, and with some vehemence she declared she would not marry me, for she was betrothed to someone else.
It was not wise of her to humiliate an Emperor. Her father understood this; it did not take him long to flee my Empire, returning back to the sorry domain he hailed from. Yet I could not forget her, despite her rejection, and within the space of a few weeks I mustered an army to attack the kingdom of Tenj, and plunder it of its princess.
My army left no survivors in any village they came across on their path towards the king’s palace. There was no warning, no way for them to raise their defences. After a week of steady, deliberate attack, my army had crushed the palace, killed the king and his sons, and had taken his daughters and wife as spoils. I meant it to be a sign, a warning for the other kingdoms not under my domain; they were not beyond my reach. If I wished it, I would crush them.
I married the girl, though she was broken in spirit, and the moment I wed her I despised her, for she had a sad countenance and eyes that stung what little of my conscience was left. Because I despised her, I enjoyed taunting her, letting her think I was releasing her family, then putting them to death before her eyes, and letting her think she was going to be returned to her land, taking her by carriage along the road towards her place of birth, then instead stopping at the border, and imprisoning her in a tower, the only window facing away from where she desired to be.
In this way I broke her, until she was one of the walking dead, incapable of speech or any of the things living souls do. She stood by me, always dressed in the finest liveries, jewels upon her hair, but she was a corpse.
She bore me ten sons, and died the moment I told her she could."

WELL!

Yeah, I think it's good. Evil guy, eh?