Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.
He stood outside Traitor’s Gate, waiting, watching, thinking ‘traitor’ wasn’t necessary the best name for the place. Upsetting-the-King Gate might be the better title. Either way meant death.
The stink from the river rose up around him, a smell he’d known every day of his life, but had never grown accustomed to smelling. The river, the heat and the stink of unwashed bodies defined his world.
The sound of the boat coming down the river came to him, sharp and clear. Wood on wood. Water on wood. Oar by oar by oar.
The Prince sat quiet in the center of the boat, hooded, head bowed, resigned to his fate. Once he was dead, nothing would stand in the way of the Pretender. And that would be the end of Britain as they now knew it.
The Gate creaked upwards. The Prince’s body shivered. The Gate closed.
He stood for another moment then turned away. Just because Britain would be different didn’t mean it would be bad.