They call us “keepers of the king’s threshold.”
Guards. Watchmen.
Whatever the title, it means the same thing:
We stand while others live.
I am Bigthan.
I have stood outside the king’s private chambers for fifteen years. I watched his robes change. Watched queens come and go. Watched the wine flow and the empire forget.
And I’ve grown tired of standing.
Vashti Was Right
They say Queen Vashti was proud. Disobedient. But I remember her face when she walked past us, tall and straight, refusing to answer the king’s summons like some painted trophy.
The others whispered, “She’s made a mistake.”
But I thought: She remembered she was human.
And what did her dignity earn her?
Exile. Erasure.
Now they say a new queen has been crowned.
Esther.
A young one. Quiet.
They say she pleases the king. They say she’s beautiful.
But I’ve seen enough beautiful women swallowed by this place. They shine… and then they fade.
Only the throne remains.
A Palace of Hollow Power
We who guard the door hear everything.
Arguments. Deals. Laughter. Secrets. Prayers.
We know which ministers curse the king when he leaves. We know which nobles send gifts to both sides of a conflict.
And we know how little any of it matters.
The king sleeps soundly while famine chokes the outer provinces.
He drinks while soldiers bleed.
He parties while families vanish under his decrees.
We are told he holds power.
But we see how easily that power shifts — between robes, between whispers, between whims.
And so… I began to wonder:
What if he were replaced?
The Weight of a Thought
It started small.
A seed.
A sigh too long. A shift in tone.
“This cannot go on.”
And then Teresh — my fellow guard, my brother in this still life — voiced what I had not dared.
“There are men better suited to rule.
And none worse to serve.”
I didn’t disagree.
We said no more that night.
But a thought once planted does not stop growing.
The Girl with the Crown
One night, I saw her.
Esther.
She passed by with her servants.
Soft footsteps. Head low. Eyes wide.
She looked like someone who was still learning how to breathe in a palace full of gold.
And for a moment, I hesitated.
Was she like Vashti? Would she speak truth? Or would she be another silent figure smiling at a king whose hands signed destruction in ink?
She nodded politely to me.
A small gesture. Almost nothing.
But it made the silence around me feel heavier than usual.
Before the Fire Breaks
We made no official plan.
No knives drawn.
Just an agreement of the eyes.
The king would sleep.
And the world would change.
But before anything was done — before even a word could escape our lips — someone knew.
A Jew named Mordecai.
How he heard, I don’t know.
But he told the queen.
And she told the king.
And that was the end of my beginning.
They Will Not Sing About Me
There will be no songs for men like me.
Only silence.
A footnote in the scrolls: “Two guards conspired against the king and were executed.”
They will say I was bitter.
And perhaps I was.
But more than that — I was awake in a kingdom where too many had chosen to sleep.
