Demons Aren't Usually Called Charlie

Francium

He pulled himself off the cold floor. Stone isn't a very good conductor, he should know that. He knows most things. Briskly, he dusted himself off. That floor was hardly ever cleaned, he should get someone to do that. However his people aren't abundant, he thought, so maybe not.

Francium's armour clinked as he walked over to his throne. He sat down and ran his ochre fingers through his tawny hair. Why was he sleeping on the floor? No good answer came to mind. Maybe he'd been drinking? No, he only did that on special occasions, like when he won a battle. Thoughtfully, he raised his hands up to his face. The gauntlets he wore were as cold as the floor. Francium sighed. A deep, weary, concerned sigh.

The throne room was built into a cave system. An unusual choice but Francium liked it like that. The columns of basalt towered above him, giving him a feeling of insignificance. Francium craved that feeling, it was a rare one for him. There was only a few candles in the large room but it was enough; he and his peers had very good night-vision. Anyway the room couldn't be too well-lit or they'd be discovered. That could never happen. And apart from the candles, the only other thing in that room was the throne itself.

The throne goes back for millennia. In fact it was crafted by Francium himself. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Made from the purest iron. A simple material. Yet easy to work with. Swirls of iron cascaded from the sides and reached the high, high ceiling. Embedded in each swirl were rare gemstones. Each end of the swirls dipped in a different metal. These represented his people.

Yet something was different. There were no swirls. The throne was nothing but the iron chair. Bare. Simple. Down graded. Francium lept up. He became very uneasy. Footsteps came from the other end of the cave.They bounced and echoed off the walls. Francium whipped around. A slim figure stood at the end.

The figure walked towards Francium. It had a certain swagger about it. The figure had clearly done this before. It was calm, confident, calculating.

Francium stood there hesitantly. What should he do? Should he approach the figure? He clearly need to be taught a lesson - you can't just saunter into a king's throne room. Carefully, he followed this train of thought and took a few small steps forward. The figure laughed.

"You're a king. Are you scared of a human like me?"

Francium could see the figure clearly now. The shadows from the candlelight danced about his person. The man was unusual looking. He wore a black hoodie, cropped at the sleeves. The arms underneath were heavily bandaged for no apparent reason; he didn't act like an injured man. He wore casual grey jogging bottoms and plain trainers. Who enters the company of a king dressed like common scum? But that wasn't the unusual part. The unusual part was the face. Or the lack there of. The man wore a mask. It was simple, white with crosses for eyes. The only part of the face you could see was his mouth and chin. His facial hair was scruffy and unshaven, a dark walnut just like his unkempt hair. There was a large white scar that went down his lips. Very striking.

"What do you want?" Francium tried his best to sound confident but the man was unnerving.

The man rocked back and forth on his toes.

"Seriously though, are you scared of me? You never answered my question." He smirked.

"You are in the company of a great king! Act in the correct manner for someone such as you!" Francium was growing agitated with this man's truly erratic behaviour.

The man took a step closer. Francium did not back down.

"Answer the fucking question."

Francium was taken aback by the man's sudden anger and aggression.

"I am not scared of a human like you." Francium answered, trying to sound confident.

"Liar." The man flicked his tongue like a lizard, over-enunciating the word.

The man had seen straight through Francium. Truth be told he was scared of this human. He seemed unstable and unpredictable. He had all the qualities of a mad-man.

"Liar." The man took a step closer. "Liar" Another step. "Liar." The man breathed into Francium's face.

"I am not a liar." Francium whispered with anger.

"That's just another lie." The man grabbed the chain that connected Francium's shoulder pieces together and whirled him around.

"Do you know why I'm here?" The man asked, angrily.

"No."

"I fancied killing something today." He said coldly. "You're a dead man walking, Francium."

He cocked his head to the side.

"If that's okay with you?" He added, mockingly.

The mad-man must have seen the panic in Francium's eyes as he laughed. Francium had had enough. He wasn't going to be belittled or killed by a human, especially not this lunatic. Clenching his fist, Francium prepared for a fight.

"Imbecile. Do you have no idea what effect that would have?" Francium punched the man.

The mad-man had clearly underestimated Francium. The punch had landed square in the jaw. It sent the mad-man sprawling across the floor. There he stayed for awhile. Francium walked over. He intended to finish this job. But the mad-man picked himself up. What?! This mortal human should not have been up this quickly. Francium furrowed his brow. Who was this man? The mad-man got to his feet. Spitting blood, but not defeated. He wiped the remaining crimson onto his bandages and croaked;

"You have no idea what I've been through. You are not my first rodeo, and you are certainly not my last."

Francium was simply too stunned to take in what happened next. The mad-man reached for something in his back pocket. A dagger. A small simple dagger. And charged at the king.

The dagger pierced Francium's abdomen with surprising force. It sent him flying backwards. He hit the ground with a dull clink. The mad-man landed on top of him, kneeling. It winded Francium.

"And here we have a dying king. You were never supposed to die. How poetic. But," The mad-man twisted the blade, Francium grimaced. "This dagger is made of Francium, bitch. The only thing that can kill you."

Francium attempted to say something, but he could only gasp and gargle on the metallic taste of his own blood. The mad-man drove the blade deeper into his stomach, the only thing stopping it was the cool butchers slab of marble floor. Francium's innards split out of his dying body, this man had disemboweled a king.

"This dagger was really fucking expensive, so you better be grateful." He twisted the blade again. Francium could feeling himself slipping from this reality.

"Your whole life revolves around yourself. You create francium, you bleed francium, you are francium. Frankly, you deserve to die." The mad-man twisted the blade a final time before carving a name into Francium's chest. Too weak to grimace, to weak to look at the name. The man with the mask wiped the blood onto his hoodie and started to walk away.

"Good riddance."

Francium stared up at the basalt columns. Some king he was. Killed by a human. Pathetic.

He didn't have much time to mull over his life. Francium could feel the life drain out of him like his blood. His emerald eyes lost their spark. Francium was left for dead. Lying in his own blood. A phantom of himself.

Light from candles flickered. The ground was a cold embrace. Francium groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He was awake.