THE KING IS DEAD

01

I. The Crown
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❝THE KING IS DEAD.❞
*ృ༅*. 𝕻𝖚𝖗𝖊 silence; one so thick, it seemed to drown all of the country. No one could breathe. The sky was the darkest gray, the air damp with the threat of rain, fitting for the tragic news—and that choked the world all the same.

The King is dead. Four horrid words, and they dug and burrowed themselves deep into the hearts and souls of the people. They mourned their king, the beloved and just, and the abrupt end of his short life cut them open.

The King is dead. His twin sons were orphans now. But they were not lamenting the loss of their father, no. They were furious of his death. Furious, these boys, for very different reasons.

The eldest was angry, for he knew not how to rule.

The youngest was angry, for he would not be the one to wear the crown.

It had all happened so fast, too fast. The King had left months ago to lead the charge in this wasteful war against the humans. Yesterday, he was returned in the arms of his second-in-command—bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. This morning, he had lain in bed, breathing his last, squeezing his eldest son's hand as he choked, Do your best.

The King is dead. Died this cloudy morning in September, surrounded by his council, his twins, his best friend. He did not die alone, but he died in fear and in pain.

"The King is dead," repeated the Abbot, voice strong despite circumstances. The rain began to fall, drip-drop-dripping steadily, crying. "Peace be with him. Long live the King."

The prayer was whispered a thousand times at the same time. The Abbot went on, speaking of the recent battle, but neither of the royal twins were listening. 

The eldest held his head down, hands clasped behind him. The youngest glared at him from his place two yards away, clenched fists stuffed in his trouser pockets.

Both their hearts skipped when the Abbot addressed the oldest.

"All hail your new King."

A crown was placed upon the eldest's head. Heavy, it was, this crown of emerald and silver. Heavy in duty and in weight. The Prince had trouble holding up his head, and anyone with eyes saw the horror in blue irises. The panic, the dread—evident and not encouraging.

"Hail Scourge, son of Jules and Aleena, King of Green Hills."

"Long live the King," the people chanted.

"Long live the King," grumbled the younger brother. His grumblings did not go unnoticed.

The Abbot prayed over Scourge, offering him the golden sword—the blessed sword of his fathers—and the young royal had a hard time taking the hilt.

Scourge did not know the slightest of being King. He skipped out on those lessons, paying his little brother to do them, too busy running off in the day and smashing girls in the night. So, in taking this sword—this ancient, legendary sword—and accepting the crown . . . Scourge felt he was dishonoring the kingdom of Green Hills, disappointing his parents, his ancestors.

He was a failure, and he knew it. His brother knew it.

The people knew it.

Scourge was not the best at anything; it was why he skipped his lessons. He had a hard time learning; he was slow. It was all too much. Too much pressure, too many rules, too many pointless things to memorize.

But his father's final words—hoarse and choked, spoken mere hours ago—rang out in his ears.

Do your best.

He would. Scourge would try. Try, or die trying. He would honor his ancestors, his poor father, by giving it his all. He had to try, for himself, for his parents, his brother—for his kingdom.

Scourge struggled, but he took the hilt. He held the legendary Excalibur in his hands. He held up his head. He raised the sword skyward.

"Long live the King."

The people murmured their prayers, folded hands aloft. The Abbot bowed low to his new King.

"All hail King Scourge."

Scourge's heart was racing. His tears blended in with the rain, unnoticed. His brother stormed off, disappearing in a flash of blue, and such raw rage could be felt, tasted.

As he lowered Excalibur, Scourge felt the sickening anchor of dread hang itself from his neck. Something whispered in his ear, frantic and secret, telling him that he would not live long as the King, not long at all.

And he agreed with it.