The Boy King

“You can’t win,” said the Great King. He slumped comfortably on his dark throne, dulled with age, donning a regal crown resting atop his head. His sword sat within reach, but no weapons were drawn. The conversation was a calm one compared to the carnage that littered the halls of the castle and stained the streets of the city.

“Oh?” the Boy King inquired, with a taunting grin upon his youthful face and his bright green eyes glistening in the moonlight filtering through the windows high above the ground, “And whatever makes you say that?”

The Boy King, clad in crude leather armor, stood just feet away from the Great King’s throne. His sword was sheathed at his side, easily reached, but his casual demeanor did not call for violence.

The Great King sat up on his throne, his dark eyes focused on his opponent. “You were foolish to come here, boy. Your numbers are few; every inch of this city is soaked with the blood of your men.”

“And where are your men?” The Boy King bit back, “is that not their blood in the streets as well? Or are they cowering behind closed doors?”

“A noble king,” The Great King lectured, “divides his forces as he sees fit.”

The Boy King raised his voice, “A noble king does not send young men to fight while he gluts on his throne.”

“Your words tempt me to strike you down right here and now,” The Great King said, eager to shift the topic of conversation, “But I must know, what lunatic convinced you that you could win this war?”

“I had a dream,” the bright-eyed Boy King said softly, “of a better world. Of a place where freedom reigns and where pain is cast into a deep pit.”

“A dream?” the Great King guffawed, “You slaughter my men, invite yourself into my court, and you have the audacity to speak of dreams?

“And what do you dream of at night? What dream is more noble than one of freedom?”

“I do not dream, boy. I am as content as can be on this throne.”

“Well then I pity you.”

“Pity is nothing but-”

“Your heart is cold,” the Boy King’s voice rose as he interrupted the Great King, “You sit on a throne of rotting dreams. Your crown reeks of tyranny and you convince your subjects that this is a land of freedom and security.”

“Get out,” the Great King spit as he sat up and reached for his sword, “before I feed you to my dogs.”

The Boy Prince stood his ground and let out a weak laugh, “You’ve already lost, Your Majesty. Your streets are stained with the blood of your men and your pride has led you to assume otherwise.”

The Great King rose from his throne and approached a window. Opening the window, the Great King beheld his downfall. Soldiers clad in great shining armor perished left and right while mobs of peasants and forgien allies stormed every dark alley and every bustling square. Behind trees and buildings, the sun began to rise on the gore and decimation.

“You see, Your Highness, the problem with treating your subjects as pawns,” the Boy King softly spoke on, “is that you forget their power.”

Rage spilled onto the Great King’s face as he turned from the open window, tearing his eyes from the carnage and gluing them onto the Boy King. He slowly unleashed his sword and approached his opponent.

Despite the threat, the Boy King stood his ground. There wasn’t a single hint of fear in his face when he drew his sword and prepared for the worst. “For the dreamers,” he whispered to himself as the terrible might of the Great King’s sword crashed into his.

The two swords clashed into each other again and again as each blow was exchanged. The Boy King was a suitable opponent, although his dexterity was lacking. Each time his blade sagged, the Great King attempted to deliver a great cut. However, the Boy King stumbled away just enough to miss the strike. The Boy King dodged a cut to the arm and kicked the Great King in the abdomen.The Great King stumbled back on impact and his crown flew off his head and hit the tile with a magnificent, metallic rattle.

After a quick recovery, The Great King swung his sword down upon his opponent. Lunging back, the Boy King raised his sword to block the strike and braced for the impact. Sword pressed against sword as the Boy King grabbed forcefully onto the Great King’s blade. The blade cut into his hand as he yanked the blade further into his. Both hilts collided and the Boy King pushed his blade up, pulling the other sword out of the Great King’s grip. The Boy King tossed both blades aside and both kings were left unarmed.

With a great burst of strength, The Boy King pushed the Great King back across the room and up against the open window where nothing but the Boy King’s grip kept him from falling outside the tall castle and to his death.

“I don’t want to kill you,” admitted the Boy King as he held tight onto the Great King’s elegant tunic, keeping him from his death. Sweat dripped down his brow and his eyes teared up with overwhelming fatigue and a burning desire to rest.

“I’m already dead,” breathed the Great King as he raised his arm and plunged a dagger into the Boy King’s abdomen and ripped it back out. Before the Boy King processed what had happened, the Great King tore out of his grip and plummeted to the cobblestoned streets hundreds of feet below the window.

Tears streamed down the Boy King’s face as he slowly sank to the cold tile floor, seeking rest. Sharp, agonizing pains pulsed through his body as his wound burned with pain and blood melted into his tunic and stained his hands. He struggled to reach out to a nearby curtain, billowing in the wind, and ripped off a large section. Winces and grunts of pain escaped him as he tied the light fabric tight around his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding and live another day.

A small shock shot through him at the revelation of the Great King’s death. As evil as he was, the king was still human. And so, The Boy King mourned the loss of a man whose dreams were twisted and corrupted by the allure of power.

Once he gained enough strength, The Boy King slowly stood up and made his way out of the castle. Before leaving the throne room, he dipped down and collected his sword. While he was still down, he picked up the crown that once belonged to the Great King. Standing back up, he placed the crown atop his dark, shaggy head of hair. The crown, being too big for his head, dipped down to the side.

Once he had been crowned, The Boy King held a tight hand on his wound as he continued to stumble out of the throne room and walked the hallways illuminated by the rising sun pouring through the windows. He descended a great many flights of stairs and slowly staggered down many halls before reaching the great castle doors. The door stood wide open, welcoming him into his new kingdom. The Boy King stumbled out of the castle's must and darkness and into the radiant sunlight and crisp morning air. The sun dried his tears as his pupils burned from the blinding light.

Where there were just minutes ago ruined buildings and oppressed subjects, there was now a kingdom free from tyranny. As the sun continued to rise, it filtered through the green foliage of trees and spread down the cobblestone streets and onto people’s faces. Birds sang a morning song as The Boy King looked upon the fruitful splendor of peace.

Fresh tears escaped his eyes as he dropped to his knees, not from pain or fatigue, but from relief and ecstasy. He kneeled before a great kingdom he had delivered from darkness before and thousands of men, women, and children whom he had fought for. And there he remained. A boy with a crown too big for his head and wounds too big for his heart.

The Boy King whispered once more, “For the dreamers.”

THE END