Playtime

I watch him warily, the king who’s fallen from his throne. He has bitter eyes, bitter and cold.

“I am a king! You’re nothing but a girl playing at being a soldier!”

I continue my pacing, “Soldier? You insult me.”

“If not a soldier, what are you? Nothing. A piece of refuse to be cleaned from my halls. I am a king!”

This time I stop and judge his face for a moment. Judge the rage and hate and bitterness that play across his face.

“Who am I? I’m a killer, I play at nothing. And if I am nothing more than trash in your halls, why are you on your knees before me? If I am trash then so are you, father.”

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