Servants and slaves bustled around him, floating to their destinations. He reclined back in his comfy throne, eyes affixed on the distant horizon. The not-so-distant sun glowed down on him with a smile of benevolence. Temple-like houses dotted the sky, all of them suspended in the air, wavering ever so slightly in the wind.
With a sigh he sipped on his wine, the bitter-sweet taste swirled around his mouth.
An anxious servant floated down towards him with a book in his hand. The servant's toga flapped around as he descended and held the book out to him.
He fixed a hard glare on the servant, and the servant looked down at his feet nervously.
"Can you explain to me, servant, why you are late?" he asked with a slight raise of his eyebrow.
The servant shifted in the air. "S-sir, Lord Byron would not relinquish such a fine book so quickly, it took much convincing."
He extended his hand and the servant immediately flinched away.
He kept his hand there; the servant hastily understood and placed the expensive leather-bound book in his open hand. "Do not fear me so," he said with a rough undertone as he pulled the book to his chest. "You disrespect me with such rudeness. Would you rather be in the care of Lord Deming?"
The servant shook his head frantically, not meeting his eyes.
His foot tapped against the smooth, pearly-white stone, irritated. "I would think not. Now go, leave me be."
The servant quickly zoomed away, dodging past other flying servants. He watched him go with a tense annoyance bundled in his chest. A pack of fools served him, but that was all he could afford, since he only ruled over eight measly provinces.
He felt not a twinge of remorse for treating that servant so harshly; it was simply the way it was.
The flying servants worked at their tasks all around him, all of which let slivers of hate crack through their false smiles. Their greedy eyes always watched him, daydreaming of what they wanted to do to him.
He smirked at the irony of this. His servants thought they were morally above him, but they were fools to believe such optimistic lies. If they had his position of power, they would treat their servants with the same indifference. It was how the universe worked, after all. They would be no different, likely worse, for they had not experienced the struggle to power as he had.
With a grim peace in his heart, he glanced around at the holy-white marble that made up his temple. Not a single scratch interrupted its smooth surface; his slaves had kept it that way by months of hard work. Of course, he had not assisted them, for he had far more important meetings to attend to.
Then he turned his attention out into the world. His temple floated high up in the air, hundreds of other temples had stationed themselves near his. He felt content to enjoy the view, to watch the whirlpools of dark, overcast clouds grazing throughout the sky. The happy sun peeked through a gap in the clouds, openly showing its approval to him.
In the corner of his vision, a more dignified servant slowly glided over to him. She was technically an advisor of his, but to him there was no difference between his underlings.
She stopped in front of him, meeting his eyes directly and without hesitation. "My lord, there is need of you at the under-temple--an attempted dropping."
He sighed internally, this was the third time this month. But it had to be done, if he didn't show the slaves that they couldn't revolt then they would have no reason to listen to his directions.
With a shake of his head, he stood from his chair and walked forward. Walking was far more dignified, of course; most servants tried to walk when they could, in an imitation of importance. But the servant beside him did not walk, she did not even let her feet graze the floor. He thought her mercy was foolish.
He walked to the edge of his temple and stepped off. He fell and immediately the wind whipped around him, blowing his hair and toga around him. He gracefully descended down the thick walls of the temple. Cries of anger and pain already filled the air, he would have to find a way to quiet that.
The massive, heavy temple cast a deep black shadow on the two of them as they dropped lower and lower, until they had reached the underside of the temple.
Twenty slaves pressed their shoulders up against the bottom of the temple, straining in raw exertion. Curses, shouts of rage, and raw hate were hurled at him. He certainly didn't need twenty slaves just to keep up the temple, but it was just an extra safety measure.
Their pure, unbridled hate filled his ears, making him smile. He couldn't have cared less.
