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Entry tags:
Pretty King
Summary: Joshua is overthrown as the king by Miniamoto.
The silky king sat on his silent seat, armed in pride and silver.
His generals surrounded him, ambiguously, slipping in and out of the shadows. Not that the King cared, he sat on his silky throne. A general appeared, the second-in-command, and he knelt in front of his silky throne with a bowed head.
“Milord. Please. Give Shibuya one more chance,” he said, groveling. The king dismissively stared through the penetrating darkness, hand resting below his chin. Toying with a coin, he flipped it within his slippery fingers. Such small fates would not interest a king.
“It is only a village,” the king said. “A trifle.” He flipped the coin again. It fell against the silver throne, landing on its head. He took it again, and flipped it again in the air, spinning wildly and catching the dim light.
“Please! Shibuya can change.” The general bent even lower. Like a dog, a groveling puppy. Desperation crept into the great general’s voice. His meaty fingers, strong with muscle, gripped to themselves on the floor.
“If we erase it,” the king said, resting on his hand, “then we won’t need to change it all.” The general grimaced, flinching under the weight of the words. The king slowly curled a smile.
“Kitaniji,” the king said, “Don’t tell me—“ And he giggled, because it was funny, yes, it was very funny. In the darkness of the hallowed room, here was a general, begging like a dog, for some mere scraps of a village. “Don’t tell me you actually care about Shibuya, Kitaniji.”
“Milord . . . “
The king’s smile faded away, and he impatiently flipped his coin again. When it landed on its side, he smashed it away with a broad stroke of his hand. It clattered in a corner of a room, no longer visible to the human eye. Its rattling echoed throughout the room. He was bored, restless, irritated.
“How about a game?” he said suddenly, and then he smirked. “What do you think about that, Kitaniji?”
“Milord?”
“If you win, Shibuya can stay.” The king’s smile grew wider. “If you lose, then it’ll be erased—“ He snapped his fingers, and the sound sliced through the air. “And you along with it.”
“. . . What sort of game?”
“A game of the dead. Isn’t that fitting, Kitaniji?”
“A game of necromancy,” Kitaniji said, “For those of us in Hell.” He slowly raised his head. His eyes were shielded by an eyeguard, but the king could tell that he was nervous, eyes sweeping around the room. Perhaps it had been light once, but now it was enveloped with a shifting darkness, swallowing the walls and floor and ceiling, and leaving only the silver throne.
“I’ll choose someone,” the king decided, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. “to make it more fair. Use my troops, Kitaniji. Take Kariya and Uziki. I will choose a villager to represent me—and they will play for their lives.” He suddenly smiled, taking his hair between his fingers. “And you and your troops shall play for yours.”
“Milord—“
The king smiled.
“Milord,” the general said again, in a low, guttural voice, “we will do as you say.” He disappeared into the shadows, not by movement, but rather for the darkness to slowly seep into his existence. The king watched, with detached interest, as the general dissipated. When the last remainders of him was gone, the king searched for a coin again. A silver coin rolled at his feet.
Mr. Hanekoma appeared from the walls, darkness falling off him in strips and curls. The king irritably took the coin, clutching it in his palm until it was warm. He flipped it again, but it was too warm, and he fiddled with it unhappily. In a land of Lords and Sirs, Mr. Hanekoma stood out above them all.
“There has been taboo noise,” the king said suddenly, “in the surroundings. It has been interfering with my works.” Not magic, because if he said magic, then it would cease to exist. But nor was it explainable by physical actions alone. The noise, a static that tore through the universe, irritated him as much as the coin.
“I see,” said Mr. H.
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“If that is what you wish.” Languidly, strolling like a stray cat, Mr. H paced the darkness. It seemed to clear a pathway for him. The king flipped the coin again, and it landed on tails.
“That is what I wish. Investigate,” the king said, “about this increased activity.” He stood up, slipping the coin back into his pocket. Its value was no concern to him. It was a toy, and he was not done playing with it yet.
“As you say, milord.”
“I’ll leave the situation in your hands, then.” Mr. H was somewhat his mentor to somewhat his companion, an ever-lasting presence that lingered in the darkness. He did seem to come from the world, but helped him wordlessly just the same. The king fully expected an entire report about the mysterious noise when he returned, since it was Mr. H, after all. Somebody who could be trusted.
“Joshua.”
The king halted in his descent into the shadows, the black shapes clinging to his arms. When he turned, the darkness had crowded to half his face.
“Be careful,” Mr. H said, and raised a hand.
The king left his dark room and silver throne, and disappeared into Shibuya.
The pretty, pretty king disappeared into Shibuya.
--
Oh, he was mad! Mad as a bat, mad as a rat, mad. He sprouted off mathematical terms with a certain frenzy, and the pretty king raced down the street, knife in his hand. The pretty king, small and pretty, ran down the street.
Behind him, Miniamoto sprang behind him, cloaked and wrapped in black. He must have seen something burned into the back of his eyes, because he looked insane, crazed, half-crazed.
The silky king sat on his silent seat, armed in pride and silver.
His generals surrounded him, ambiguously, slipping in and out of the shadows. Not that the King cared, he sat on his silky throne. A general appeared, the second-in-command, and he knelt in front of his silky throne with a bowed head.
“Milord. Please. Give Shibuya one more chance,” he said, groveling. The king dismissively stared through the penetrating darkness, hand resting below his chin. Toying with a coin, he flipped it within his slippery fingers. Such small fates would not interest a king.
“It is only a village,” the king said. “A trifle.” He flipped the coin again. It fell against the silver throne, landing on its head. He took it again, and flipped it again in the air, spinning wildly and catching the dim light.
“Please! Shibuya can change.” The general bent even lower. Like a dog, a groveling puppy. Desperation crept into the great general’s voice. His meaty fingers, strong with muscle, gripped to themselves on the floor.
“If we erase it,” the king said, resting on his hand, “then we won’t need to change it all.” The general grimaced, flinching under the weight of the words. The king slowly curled a smile.
“Kitaniji,” the king said, “Don’t tell me—“ And he giggled, because it was funny, yes, it was very funny. In the darkness of the hallowed room, here was a general, begging like a dog, for some mere scraps of a village. “Don’t tell me you actually care about Shibuya, Kitaniji.”
“Milord . . . “
The king’s smile faded away, and he impatiently flipped his coin again. When it landed on its side, he smashed it away with a broad stroke of his hand. It clattered in a corner of a room, no longer visible to the human eye. Its rattling echoed throughout the room. He was bored, restless, irritated.
“How about a game?” he said suddenly, and then he smirked. “What do you think about that, Kitaniji?”
“Milord?”
“If you win, Shibuya can stay.” The king’s smile grew wider. “If you lose, then it’ll be erased—“ He snapped his fingers, and the sound sliced through the air. “And you along with it.”
“. . . What sort of game?”
“A game of the dead. Isn’t that fitting, Kitaniji?”
“A game of necromancy,” Kitaniji said, “For those of us in Hell.” He slowly raised his head. His eyes were shielded by an eyeguard, but the king could tell that he was nervous, eyes sweeping around the room. Perhaps it had been light once, but now it was enveloped with a shifting darkness, swallowing the walls and floor and ceiling, and leaving only the silver throne.
“I’ll choose someone,” the king decided, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. “to make it more fair. Use my troops, Kitaniji. Take Kariya and Uziki. I will choose a villager to represent me—and they will play for their lives.” He suddenly smiled, taking his hair between his fingers. “And you and your troops shall play for yours.”
“Milord—“
The king smiled.
“Milord,” the general said again, in a low, guttural voice, “we will do as you say.” He disappeared into the shadows, not by movement, but rather for the darkness to slowly seep into his existence. The king watched, with detached interest, as the general dissipated. When the last remainders of him was gone, the king searched for a coin again. A silver coin rolled at his feet.
Mr. Hanekoma appeared from the walls, darkness falling off him in strips and curls. The king irritably took the coin, clutching it in his palm until it was warm. He flipped it again, but it was too warm, and he fiddled with it unhappily. In a land of Lords and Sirs, Mr. Hanekoma stood out above them all.
“There has been taboo noise,” the king said suddenly, “in the surroundings. It has been interfering with my works.” Not magic, because if he said magic, then it would cease to exist. But nor was it explainable by physical actions alone. The noise, a static that tore through the universe, irritated him as much as the coin.
“I see,” said Mr. H.
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“If that is what you wish.” Languidly, strolling like a stray cat, Mr. H paced the darkness. It seemed to clear a pathway for him. The king flipped the coin again, and it landed on tails.
“That is what I wish. Investigate,” the king said, “about this increased activity.” He stood up, slipping the coin back into his pocket. Its value was no concern to him. It was a toy, and he was not done playing with it yet.
“As you say, milord.”
“I’ll leave the situation in your hands, then.” Mr. H was somewhat his mentor to somewhat his companion, an ever-lasting presence that lingered in the darkness. He did seem to come from the world, but helped him wordlessly just the same. The king fully expected an entire report about the mysterious noise when he returned, since it was Mr. H, after all. Somebody who could be trusted.
“Joshua.”
The king halted in his descent into the shadows, the black shapes clinging to his arms. When he turned, the darkness had crowded to half his face.
“Be careful,” Mr. H said, and raised a hand.
The king left his dark room and silver throne, and disappeared into Shibuya.
The pretty, pretty king disappeared into Shibuya.
--
Oh, he was mad! Mad as a bat, mad as a rat, mad. He sprouted off mathematical terms with a certain frenzy, and the pretty king raced down the street, knife in his hand. The pretty king, small and pretty, ran down the street.
Behind him, Miniamoto sprang behind him, cloaked and wrapped in black. He must have seen something burned into the back of his eyes, because he looked insane, crazed, half-crazed.