He walked with a jump in his gait; heartbeats tap-danced in his chest and were echoed in each step. Every step was a step toward a future he wasn’t ready for. On his face was a plane of fresh, flat skin; on his hands, stories; on his fingers, words; his lips, kisses; his eyes reading the writing on the wall but not wanting to hear the message. It’s your turn now, son echoed off his eardrums, pounded on his anvils, stood in his stirrups, beat with his hammer, and swirled through the canals to his brain. His mind buzzed with everything that surrounded him: the cool ground that touched the tips of his big toes as he dragged them, prolonging the inevitable; the red flags that fluttered behind the lines of soldiers that pre- vented him from stepping to the side and fleeing his fate; the mile-long walk; the guns that glistened, unused but poised to bite at a kneecap or elbow; the looks of calm respect in the soldiers’ eyes because they knew their job: protect the young man, with his head shaved so close that the only shadows were of the little pebbles of hair that dared peek out, too scared to face the masses; the mile-long walk that was now only a quarter of a mile; the slapping of his sandals on the cobblestone; the look that would undoubtedly be on the Emperor’s face.

The Emperor’s face, rippled with oceans of wisdom, ridged with mountains of knowledge, a map of the world on his face, words as smooth as silk on his tongue, hands that tingle the skin, shake a little, have rivers of veins snaking their way along their lengths, tributaries of blemishes and scars wrapping around bones that have been hurt and bruised, loved by a woman with eyes so deep in love, so deep brown, so thoroughly encompassing, that when they fell upon the Emperor, his thoughts were grains of sand on a beach, swept away to the depths of the sea, maybe to resurface when he did from her eyes, alive and breathing and ready to grow old with her. Ready to be a leader, to lead his nation, to learn his traditions and to raise a family who would appreciate the crevices in his face. The map that details everywhere he’s been, and predicts, tells where his son, the future of the nation, will go: from Japan to Russia to America to France, to fall in love and writhe in the pain of hate, to feel the hunger of his people and to bathe in the gluttony of his own wealth, swimming in the fact that one day he would die.

And the young man who walked one mile from his room to the steps of the palace, lined on both sides with thousands of guards; with red flags flapping and symbolizing a new dynasty; with sandals shuffling in fear, in anticipation, something the Emperor wouldn’t understand because he outgrew that emotion decades ago. He would take his place, would feel the cool waters of the brook that ran through the palace, would fall in love with a pretty princess from another province, would go places, would experience things and would become a map, an atlas, a picture of the future and a picture of the past. On the steps as a blank canvas, his almond-shaped eyes full of questions that would only be answered by sitting on the Emperor’s throne, by growing up, by being the future, by excelling beyond his yesterdays and becoming tomorrow today. The writing was on the wall, he just didn’t want to read the message.