A Fallen Kingdom

The man trudged through the forest, the soft grass by the river silencing his footsteps. Everything was quiet. The cool breeze that had followed him for a time faded, and so no leaves stirred. Only the soft babble of the water reminded him he was not deaf. The trees watched him as he walked, glaring mutely. He was not welcome here. He was no longer welcome anywhere.

The last rays of light had vanished beyond the horizon when he reached the outskirts of the ruins. It was an enormous labyrinth of fallen stone and rotting wood. Grass had grown through the cracks in the pavement. Moss clung to the old walls while vines hung from towers whose roofs had long-since collapsed. The stench of rot had faded since he was last here, replaced by the smell of the forest. This place was already beginning to be reclaimed by nature. His worn boots made small thuds as he stepped onto the stone path leading into the dead city. A building to his left was still recognisable, the large oven holding the burnt remains of its owner's final meal. A skeleton with tattered clothes lay near the doorstep, a rusted sword sticking out of its ribcage. The man remembered him- a jovial lad who showed much promise as his father's son. On numerous occasions had he come down to the store to sample the boy's pastries. He would always let the man take one for free whenever he passed by, eagerly seeking approval for his talent in the kitchen. He would have been a father himself by now.

A large crater in the middle of the street blocked the man's way. It was too large to climb around, and so he turned into an alleyway and moved up a set of stairs. Shadows concealed him, hiding him from the accusing dead. He stopped. There was movement ahead. The man held his breath. The shuffling was louder, moving towards the exit of the street. For the briefest of seconds he glimpsed the four legs, the red eyes, the gaping mouth. Then it passed, never knowing the man was there. He let out his breath, slowly, and waited, counting the moments in his head until he was assured it would not return. The shuffling faded. The man left the alley.

Back into the main street, the man couldn't see where the creature had gone. He did remember seeing it in a cage once, being carried away to the dungeons with all the others. That was when they had first started appearing. The things who had been threatening the city. Now there was no dungeon, nothing to stop them from roaming freely.

More bodies lined the street, some thrown against the sides of buildings near small craters, others riddled with arrows. One small skeleton had its hand curled up into a fist, clutching at something that had long since vanished. The man bent down into the overgrown grass and picked a yellow flower. He walked over to the skeleton and placed it in its hand. It was the same species he had given her earlier that fateful day. He hadn't realised until after he saw the body how much it had meant to her. He straightened himself and wiped away a tear. He could no longer remember her name.

The buildings cleared away to a tangle of grass and trees, rotting benches poking out of the tops of the green blades. Rising from the sea like a ghost was  the white marble stage, still standing. Despite himself, the man smiled sadly. He had performed on that stage, playing the villain who was to be struck down by the hero of the play. He had volunteered for the role to entertain the children. They had laughed and clapped when he dramatically fell down, holding the wooden sword under his arm. They all helped him up afterwards, cheering for him instead of the hero. He was their real hero.
The man had to look away at that point.

The castle loomed ahead of him now, a crumbling fortress that guarded its city like a gravestone protects its dead. Vines grew here, too, replacing the colourful banners that had once adorned its walls. The red carpet remained, faded almost into the gray of the walls. The man ascended the steps, taking care not to trip. More skeletons were splayed out across the staircase, these ones mainly wearing rusted chain-mail over ruined tunics. He stepped through the broken remains of once-great wooden doors and into the castle itself.

The throne room was always the worst. Signs of battle were evident here, a futile last stand against an impossible enemy. More craters. More bodies. One of the four majestic pillars that had lined the great hall had fallen, and moonlight streamed in from the ceiling. Suits of armour guarded the ruins, eternally watching, their swords pointed down at their feet. Some had fallen in the conflict, others taken apart, breastplates and helmets worn by the skeletons. There was a specific statue he was looking for. The last of the column, wearing no helm and holding no sword, but instead a crown, resting upon its headless shoulders.

His crown.

The man reached up and took the crown, holding the emerald-studded gold in his hands for the first time since he placed it there, so long ago. He placed it on his head and it fit perfectly among his matted brown hair. He strode up to the throne itself and sat down, adjusting the tatters of his coat. From there, he gazed down at the scene laid before him. The open doors gave him a good view of the destruction of the street he had walked, the ruined throne room.

His throne room. His castle. His kingdom.

He was king of a dead city and had a crown of gold to show for it.

The man sat, unmoving, as memories flooded him. The civilian bursting into the room, an arrow in his back, pointing at the city before collapsing. Telling the royal guards to go investigate. Taking the helm and sword from the statue, prepared to fight for the kingdom he had raised up. Seeing the creatures pouring from the gaping hole in the dungeon he had placed them in, swarming over the streets.

It was a massacre.

In no time at all they had reached  the steps of the castle. Civilians rushed past him to sanctuary as he stood with the guards, hacking and slashing. Falling back. Barricading the doors.

Nothing stirred. Still no breeze. In his mind though, the laughter echoed through the shell of the room. As he sat on his throne he could still hear the girl's laughter as the jester juggled his torches, feel the warmth of a hand clasping his as a woman stood to his side. He clenched his hand and felt nothing but cold air. The laughter died. He opened his eyes to an empty ruin. At the bottom of the stairs he could see a sword, discarded when he had realised they needed to run. Dust clung to it now, maroon stains on the blade from his efforts outside. They had breached the doors and the soldiers would not hold them off much longer. Standing, the man followed the scene. He watched the apparitions as they fled down the hallway. They had expected to escape from the East tower, but it was already overrun. The rubble was still there. He peered down into the chasm in the tunnel caused by the explosions. It was too large a gap to jump. On the other side he could see the helmet he had worn, thrown off him from the blast, separating the man from his family. Dodging the creatures, he had run, calling back to his family to take another way around, promising to meet them in the forest.

There were no bodies here. They must have run back.

The man returned to the throne room, breaking into a run. He ran through the empty hallway, checking rooms. Ashes. More bodies. Up some stairs. Through a window he could see the East Tower. He remembered reaching the balcony, the monsters close behind him. Stepping up onto the ledge. Giving them a military-style salute. Falling- no, jumping- backwards. Feeling the rush of air on his skin, pulling at his hair and beard. Hitting the water. Pain, but no death.

The man turned from the window. Ascended another staircase. The last room at the end of the hallway. His bedroom. The doors rotted on their hinges. He had never come this far in his previous return visits. He didn't want to accept it. They were still out there, looking for him.

The curtains around the bed had fallen to the floor, ripped from the railing. The bed covers were slashed. The stench of rot was still in this room. Moonlight streamed in from the open window, illuminating the scene inside. Curled up on top of the bed were two skeletons wearing the remains of fine clothing. The larger one clutched the smaller one, shielding it from a danger that could not be stopped. A sword lay across the foot of the bed, carelessly tossed after the deed was done. The blood still stained the blade.

The man crossed the room, knelt down in front of the bed and wept.


I haven't updated in a while, but I'm hoping this makes up for it. The story was written by me in one night when the urge struck me. It's loosely based on the story behind this video, to which I was compelled to write about once seeing.
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=I-sH53vXP2A
I hope you enjoyed the story, anyway. I did put a lot of effort into it. No, it's not supposed to be happy. Not all stories are.

I'll try to do a discussion by the end of this week.
-Amino