The Crown of Thorns

“Ecce, rex tuus!”

My eyes fly open and I, instantly awake, jolt back in my seat. My shoulders hit the frame of

my wooden chair and I wince at the touch. Blinking, I rub my eyes with my hands. Blinking

again, my world comes into focus. My ears begin to ring, so I tug at one of them in annoyance. A

few seconds pass and the ringing fades out, only to be replaced with distant screaming.

I feel a chill roll down my spine. The screams aren’t charged with fear. I know those types of

screams. I don’t know much about what my father does, but I do know that he hears those

screams day in and day out. It’s as though he’s become immune to them. I also know that this

ongoing convention has triggered a different reaction from the others.

These screams are charged with hate.

I bite my lip in discomfort and glance at the servant-girl seated beside me, who is focused on

her sewing. I ask her what is happening outside, only to receive an incoherent response. The

girl’s fingers gently slide off the table and fall into her lap as she sinks into a moment of somber

distance. Her eyes are gazing at the rust-colored wall behind me. I stare at her, unsure of what to

say. My head is beginning to hurt again.

Another round of screaming penetrates my mind and I wince, bowing my head down to cover

my ears with my hands. Make it stop! I don’t know who can stop this. Father has the authority,

and this is clearly occurring with his permission. If he wanted this to stop, it would have by now.

Impatiently, I heave myself out of the chair and begin to walk toward the sound. Ignoring the

servant-girl’s warnings, I creep through the halls, one after another after another. My bare feet

graze the smooth floor and send cold shocks through my warm body. I wipe my sweating hands

on my dress and pause to fix the flower-crown on my head. My fingers brush the soft green

leaves and I smile to myself. Father may be the governor of the province, but he calls me a

queen. And a queen must always look presentable.

I continue to wander down the hall and the loud jeers of the crowd outside grow more and

more blaring. I take deep breaths and clench both of my fists. My curiosity is clearly impeding

my judgment but I pay no attention. I hear what sounds like slapping, then more screaming.

Gagging. Choking. Crying? I keep walking.

A slight breeze hits me in the face as I turn the corner onto the balcony outside. My eyes

close briefly, only to reopen and widen in horror. My fingers grip the wall and do not let go.

What is going on?

There is a man about forty feet away from me, sitting on a makeshift wooden bench with a

reed coming out of his hand. His suntanned skin is stained red in almost every visible place, and

blood is gushing from his neck, his hands, and his face. Crimson spots are spreading all over his

irregularly ripped tunic. His head is bowed low, his lips pursed together, his eyes closed. Around

him are four soldiers. Their lips are moving, but I can’t hear their words; the crowd is hollering

and drowning out any additional noise. I don’t want to hear their words. Or do I? I close my

eyes, only to open them at the sound of the man’s hoarse, shallow breaths. A couple of the

soldiers have begun to slap him again. One is also holding the reed, leaving their victim’s hands

empty, his palms outstretched, as though he is trying to touch the air — the only thing not

covered in his blood. The brutal callused hands of the soldiers torment his face, over and over

and over.

My entire body feels paralyzed, as if I am also the one being slapped. However, my eyebrows

raise just a little as I realize that one of the soldiers has continually been pushing on one specific

part of the victim’s head. However, my view is obstructed. My hands fly to touch my own head,

which is still adorned with leaves. I take a deep breath, only to stop breathing again once I hear

the soldiers’ mocking words. “Salve, Rex Iudaeorum!”

My brows furrow in confusion. How can this man be a king? Kings are figures of authority,

much like my father. They stand in the face of injustice. They execute the law. They hold the

ultimate power. Yet this man defies all of that. Here, kneeling on the dusty ground, with blood

pouring from his face, his lips closed, his head bowed, his clothes ripped, his body broken, he

stands against what any man would consider to be a king.

And somehow, it seems as though he holds all the power in the arena.

Is he permitting this to happen to him?

He seems too complacent to be unaware of what is happening. He is gasping for shallow

breaths, but he is breathing. He is bleeding, but he is conscious. I see his chin bow ever so

slightly…a nod? Is he agreeing to this pain? By what authority? Through whose authority?

His own?

The soldier shifts to one side to adjust his grip on the reed and my breaths instantly shudder.

The king is crowned with thorns.

Gnarled, brown, curled thorns are piercing into his head, cutting through every precious piece

of skin on his forehead and temples. His hair is mangled and tied, dangling limply from

underneath the crown. Before I know it, my eyes are wet. I cannot watch any longer. How could

my father be allowing this? He is supposed to be our leader. He is supposed to be our king.

Kings don’t act like this. For a second I am ashamed to be a queen.

The feeling lasts longer than a second. The shame is sweeping over me, turning my cheeks

red. My heart is throbbing within my chest. I shouldn’t be here.

I am about to close my eyes and leave when one of the man’s eyes opens. His chin tilts a

millimeter to the side and that is when I see him.

He sees me.

One look, and I am paralyzed again.

His gaze…his beautiful, breathless, intoxicating gaze has penetrated into me. A piece of

Heaven has touched my eye; the supernatural has met the natural, all with one simple glance.

This doesn’t feel right…I shouldn’t be watching him be tortured. He knows I’m watching. Does

he want me to be watching? Guilt immediately impedes my mind as the moment ends and his

eye closes with the next strike of the reed. My body has feeling again. My arms shake and my

fingers press into the wall. One of the soldiers turns to face me, and I instantly shift to hide. Did I

scream? How could I not have? I had seen the man whom they’re abusing, this victim, this

“king”…for whatever reason, I know He is a king. I know I am not worthy to be this close to

him.

The screaming of the crowd begins to die down, dissipating into meaningless obnoxious

chatter. I hear footsteps receding and my curiosity once again gets the better of me as I turn the

corner to look at the balcony. Is it curiosity, or is the effect that this man has on my heart aching

for me to come closer? All of the soldiers are gone; my father is as well. I creep forward and

notice that while the bench has also disappeared, the victim is still there. He is kneeling on the

ground, with his head slumped and his hands tied behind his back. His tunic is almost completely

ripped to shreds and I can see the jagged, swollen, sickening cuts on his body through the tatters.

The only part of him still intact is the crown. The crown of thorns. None of them are broken.

There is a pool of blood at his feet. A pool is an understatement; it’s turning into a river.

Instinctively I begin to move toward him, ignoring any qualms my queasy heart might have

previously had. Once I start walking, I can’t stop. My fingers are outstretched, as though I’m

walking on a narrow surface. In and out, in and out, I breathe. With every step I feel more fear —

but I also feel more alive. It’s as though I’m meant to be near this man. His presence is magnetic,

drawing me closer and closer even though he is hardly moving…hardly breathing…hardly even

here.

He says nothing as I kneel down beside him. I can see every scar on his face. Every crusted

tear that’s slipped out of his eyes. Every bruise, every cut, every piece of reed left behind from

the whippings. My hands reach out to touch the thorns, but I cannot bring myself to do it. It is as

though the thorns have a higher authority than me. After all, they are touching him — something

I am unworthy to do.

I feel unsteady, so my hand reaches to press the ground for support. It lands in a pool of

blood. Expecting a response — any response — from the man beside me, I nervously wipe my

hand on my dress and stare. He says nothing. My nose twitches and the crown of flowers on my

head shifts to one side.

The crown of flowers.

My hands fly to my head and delicately remove it. Setting it on my lap, I gaze at the beautiful

green leaves. Their intricacy, their fine-pressed lines, their freshness…I rip them apart. One by

one, I rip them apart until my lap is filled with a pile of green. Then, taking the largest piece, I

lean forward and press it onto his cheek. Gently, softly, I press it into the blood.

Am I even supposed to be doing this?

I swallow hard and nod. You know you are. My heart has stopped racing. It’s fallen into a lull,

a drumming so quiet I can hardly even feel it. I could care less if I am dragged away by the

soldiers. My thoughts are silent. It’s like the world has fallen away. This is what I long to feel

when I stand beside my father. This is what a queen is supposed to feel in her moment of glory.

Then how come it’s occurring when I’m sitting on the ground with my knees pressed into the

crimson-stained clay, while my hands are gently wiping away the blood of a victim so brutally

marred?

I curl my lips and breathe through my nose, slowly and calmly, as I continue to massage the

plants into his skin. The pile of red leaves grows by the minute until there is no more green. I

push myself up and kneel before him as the cascade of red falls to the ground. I should stand up

to leave, but I can’t. Something about him is paralyzing me again. But did it ever really stop the

first time?

My mouth opens to say something — anything — but he beats me to it. His eyes open, wider

than I’d seen them before — and I meet his gaze. My body wants to convulse out of fear, holy

fear, fear of a king, but instead I feel myself crumpling into tears. I squeeze my eyes shut and let

them trickle out. They slide down my face and fall onto my hands…into his hands.

“Filia mea,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse and beautiful. I can’t look at him. Not after

that. He doesn’t even know me. How can he call me his daughter?

Somehow, I feel more love for him than I do for my own father.

“Regina mea,” he whispers again.

This time I do open my eyes.

He has called me his queen.

So he is a king.

I know he is a king.

He coughs briefly and blood spatters in a spray in front of him. Somehow, none of it lands on

me. He swallows and turns to meet my gaze again. His voice lowers to a weak whisper. He’s

using all his remaining strength to utter a few last words to me.

“Beati mundo corde,” he murmurs, his fingers trembling in place, “quoniam ipso Deum

videbunt.”

Every ounce of feeling rushes out of my body. How can it…how can it be…I do not

understand. I cannot understand. My head is beginning to ache, like an earthquake is rumbling in

its depths. It’s breaking everything in its wake, crashing, crumbling…I gasp for air. A tidal wave

has torn through my mind and its wake is sweeping me away. I push myself off the ground and

stand, my knees weak, my lungs gasping for air. Reality is hitting me again. Or is it reality? This

interaction has felt more real than anything else in my life.

“Mariana!”

My mother’s voice startles me. She cannot know where I am. I glance in her direction, only

to look immediately at the man again. He gives me the faintest whisper of a nod. I nod back, as I

feel a tear trickle down my cheek. At least, I think I do. Before I know it, I am running back into

the chamber. His words are echoing in my head. His voice was enough to satisfy my weary heart.

I want to look at him again, but I hear the soldiers’ footsteps. I know I cannot return.

But there is no going back.

I have seen the king. The king who wore the crown of thorns.

And he has called me his queen.