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Befitting a Fallen King

But that was not the most pressing issue.

As warriors wielding the sword from an early age, we had grown to cherish life with every breath. Death was not something we feared for it was commonplace.

As the leader of my brotherhood, the specter of death was something that was even more of a possibility for me despite any illusions of immortality. My father had after all died in his forties. I myself, despite my own sense of immortality, had come close to death numerous times.

It was for this reason that I was genuinely concerned with finding Darius in his final moments.

You would hope and think that the last King of the Persian Empire would die in battle or in some other virtuous manner, but no.

You would also hope to think that the last King of the Persian Empire would die in the company of his fellow men, but no.

I found Darius when it was too late. I approached the scene and saw a man lying in chains on the floor. It was Darius. His heavy breathing overtook my senses. His royal mantle was soaked in blood, the javelin that had seared his breast was still protruding him. There was no man near him to talk about. Begging for every last breath, he begged for water… I would have run after some myself but could not stand to leave him alone, so I sent Polystratus to fetch some. Darius clenched my hand, thanked me for not dying alone and breathed his final breath.

I took off my royal cloak and placed it over his body.

This was no way to die as a King. There was only one thing I could do: I took Darius’ fallen soul and buried him in Persepolis, alongside other members of the Achaemenid forebears.

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