The night air stings, mingling with the burn of standing in absolute stillness. My eyes are closed but, through my golden lids, I can see the growing lightness of the dawn.
I am a statue.
“This is humiliating,” I said.
“I know,” he replied, “but if it works it’ll go down in history.”
“Can’t we use paint?”
“No, it’d crack, you need to be there before they do the security assessments; that’s 24 hours at least. I’m sorry, it’s the only way.”
I nodded at him, then to the man with the buzzing needle.
I am a statue.
With the dawn comes the sound of people, the extra staff for the grand opening.
My breath is slow, the pain in my arms, legs, back swelling with every minute. I let it wash through me, but do not move.
I am a statue.
The first time I looked in the mirror I wanted to vomit. It had taken so long I’d either fainted or fallen asleep.
“Think of it like this,” he said, hand on my shoulder, “You’ll be famous for the rest of your life.”
I looked again into the mirror, at the dull golden monstrosity that was my skin, then I vomited.
I am a statue.
I repeat the words, a mantra, focusing on the sound of the crowd as they are shepherded into place. The sword is heavy, it is all I can do not to drop it.
I am a statue.
“You can do this!” he said to me as I got ready. I nodded and he held my face in his hands. “Everything depends upon this, the new king will be here, you can’t let us down.”
Lifting the sword, I clambered into position.
I am a statue.
A fanfare, the crowd hushes. I count in my head, imagining every movement of the carefully orchestrated parade, the royal car drawing closer. The sword is in my hands; I open my eyes.
I am not a statue!
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