The reward for killing the king should be death, no matter the circumstance. Because if you live long enough you’ll wish it was yourself on the other side of the weapon. I know I do.
I killed the king. I killed the king without thought, remorse, or care for my own safety. And yet, here I am celebrated as a hero, the lone rebel who stood up to a tyrant and slit his throat. I remember standing in his room, my dagger sheathed in blood and the king lying dead before me. I didn’t want to be a hero—I wanted my home.
Here, I am home and still there is no peace, the new king stands muddy up to the eyes in my library, and I am contemplating regicide, yet again. Iri showed him in, without thought to my order that I was not to be disturbed. I suppose king trumps employer. Just my luck.
That's my way of dealing with the ups and downs of writing. What's yours?