- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
Ding, dong, time is up! Nine entered, nine we present. The theme of this third run of FFS was:
Dreams of Glory
Along with the following prompts to help you on the road of seeking dreams and aspirations in life:
- I came; I saw; I conquered.
- Just as the sun set, so too did her ambitions soar.
- Don't fly too close to the sun.
- Our wildest dreams are just that: pure fantasy.
- Best not to wake the Sleeping King.
And you delivered! Nine dreams and aspirations were entered, nine stories will be shared. However, remember there will be no public voting. The Flash Fiction Selection is meant to be a challenge to complete a story within a short time with a limited amount of words. Instead of winners there there will be Finalists, chosen and nominated by the judges. If one particular piece stands out a Grand Finalist will be announced, but a round may very well pass without one being chosen. The pieces of the Finalists and Grand Finalist will receive a special spot in the FFS Hall of Fame and the writers get snazzy ribbons under their usernames to show off! Though, always remember, you are a winner already for completing the challenge!
Your judges for this event are: @Turtle of Doom, @Nemopedia, @Holmishire, @Eru
-
- You can still leave a review for the submissions if you like! Just because this isn't a contest and there will be no public voting doesn't mean that we will take away the fun of reviewing. To help you a little we shall reveal the judging rubric the judges use to choose the Finalists of this event in the 'Rubric' tab.
- Please make sure to read over the rules under the tab 'Rules' before you leave and write your reviews.
- Submissions may contain graphic material. Only entries with explicit sexual content are marked with NSFW.
- Finalists will be announced later down the road after the release of this thread.
- There will be multiple Finalists. It can also happen that the judges decides that everyone is nominated as a Finalist.
- The title of Grand Finalist will be reserved for the one exceptional piece that the judges believe deserves some extra recognition and attention. However, not every FFS will see a Grand Finalist announced.
- Unless the author explicitly expressed the wish for anonymity all entries will be published with the author's name attached next to it.
- You can still leave a review for the submissions if you like! Just because this isn't a contest and there will be no public voting doesn't mean that we will take away the fun of reviewing. To help you a little we shall reveal the judging rubric the judges use to choose the Finalists of this event in the 'Rubric' tab.
-
- You are welcome to leave a review and critiques of the entries. However, keep in mind to keep it constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go.
- You are encouraged to read every submission before reviewing. None of the entries exceeds the 750 word count, so they aren't exceptionally long. We know we can't enforce this rule, but try to give every piece the attention it deserves!
- Not all entries are open for reviewing. These submissions are marked as 'No reviews' or 'Judge only reviews'. Please respect that wish and refrain from reviewing these entries.
- We encourage you to lay down the strengths and weaknesses of the submissions based on the rubric instead of letter/numerical grading. This is because point/grade systems can vary in interpretation and understanding. We invite you to write out why you find it a hit (or miss) at certain points over lazily grading it.
- The rubric provided is entirely optional for use. You don't have to follow it. It is merely to give you an idea on how the judges will review the submissions.
- You are welcome to leave a review and critiques of the entries. However, keep in mind to keep it constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go.
-
Cohesiveness
- Did the author manage to bring a complete story to the table?
- How did the entry match the prompts given? Did it fit, or did it feel forced?
- Is there a clear beginning and end? Does it flow seamlessly from beginning to end?
- Were there any lines, or details that you felt like unnecessary? Or did every line have its function?
- How engaging was the story?
Engagement
- How did the author convey the emotion in the story? Did it sway you, manage to pull you in?
- How engaging did you find the story to be as a reader?
- Did the mood feel appropriate for the setting given? Did it make sense?
Originality
- How creative did you find the entry accompanied with the prompts given? Was the plot a refreshing take on the prompts, or did it show a lot of imagination?
- What about the plot twists? Did the writer manage to surprise you?
- Did the author make use of any literary devices (foreshadowing, euphemisms, personification, etc...)? What did you think of the execution of it?
- Are there any underlying themes or subplots that you could find?
Polish
- Are there any spelling/grammar errors in the piece? If so, did they distract or add up in the story?
- What about punctuation and sentence structure? Did they vary, or was the writer lacking in that department?
- Were there any words that you would have replaced, or that confused you?
- What did you think of the paragraphs? Were they properly formed, or perhaps too long? How did it affect the reading?
Neobendium, 747 words
"Best not to wake the Sleeping King." The warning rattled from behind the bars of the dark, cold room, and a young thief glanced over her shoulder to look at the legless old man occupying the cell next to hers.
"What?"
The man, long white hair falling over his gaunt and wrinkled face, leaned forward and gave her a toothless grin. His gums were so black, Xaria thought that perhaps maggots would start to crawl from his mouth if he didn't keep it shut. "The Sleeping King," he repeated, as if that would explain his ramblings. "At the top of the stairs."
Xaria frowned at him for a long few seconds before she shook her head and turned back to her lockpicking.
A few blissful moments passed in peace and silence, before he spoke again, his voice weak and cracking. "You never told me why you're in here, you know. Kids don't get thrown down in this hole."
She let out a frustrated groan before turning to glare at him. "If I tell you, will you shut up?"
He cocked his head to one side, still smiling, and slowly offered her a single nod.
"Fine." With a sigh, the teenager slumped against the wall farthest from the man and brushed her short, sweaty black hair from her face. "I stole the Duke's ring the night of his wedding to pay for my sister's school," she shrugged. "As one historic guy maybe said once, 'I came, I saw, I conquered.'" With that abrupt and vague explanation, she snatched her lockpick once more and knelt before the door, only to be interrupted again by the man's cackling, wheezing laugh.
"Seems more like you were the one conquered," he chuckled, finding her predicament quite funny.
She shot a cold blue-eyed glare over her shoulder before going back to ignoring him. Once more, silence fell over the pair, until, inevitably, he broke his promise. "So when you break out, are you going to get me, too? Considering we're best friends at this point, I'd think you pretty rude if you didn't."
Xaria grumbled under her breath, shut her eyes, and smacked her forehead against the grimy bars of the door. "I don't care what you think, and no," she snapped, before taking a short breath and twisting herself back around, the lockpick wriggling around desperately in the old, rusted padlock. "Besides...you probably deserve to be in here."
"Rude." The man's chains rattled as he scratched at his flea-infested, thinning white hair. He blinked at her a few times from dulling eyes. She didn't blink back, nor respond. Finally, he huffed as she pushed the squeaking cell door open and started to walk past his cell. "Kid."
Xaria was tempted to ignore him, but the desperation in his voice was enough to make her turn around. "What?"
"I'm going to be gone soon," He admitted. "Fulfill an old man's last wish?"
"Depends," the girl responded coldly. "What is it?"
"Just let me see the sunrise. I know the way out...I just need a pair of legs."
Xaria looked at the doorway, then to the man, and back, before she let out a heavy sigh and took her lockpick in hand once more.
The journey out of the prison was uneventful yet nerve-wracking as ever. As it turned out, the 'Sleeping King' was the Duke's guard dog- and the reason the old man was legless. But the dog had been dead for years, and thus was no longer a threat. Really, nothing was much of a threat anymore. The two lone prisoners, cast away in a rotting dungeon, were the only souls that stayed in the place for longer than an hour.
As they exited the decrepit, crumbling spires of the prison, the old man turned his face up to the lightening sky, and the sun that was revealing itself from behind the rolling hills. "It's beautiful," he remarked in a breath, his voice whispering and cracking.
"Yeah," Xaria mumbled, laying him down and propping him up against a tree so he could watch.
A few minutes passed in silence before the man glanced up at her. "Hey kid, do me a favor."
"Yeah?" the girl looked down at him with a small frown, noting how weak his voice had become.
"Don't fly too close to it."
With that, he was gone, leaving Xaria with wild dreams of freedom, hope, and justice that were nothing but pure fantasy in her shattered, unbalanced world.
"What?"
The man, long white hair falling over his gaunt and wrinkled face, leaned forward and gave her a toothless grin. His gums were so black, Xaria thought that perhaps maggots would start to crawl from his mouth if he didn't keep it shut. "The Sleeping King," he repeated, as if that would explain his ramblings. "At the top of the stairs."
Xaria frowned at him for a long few seconds before she shook her head and turned back to her lockpicking.
A few blissful moments passed in peace and silence, before he spoke again, his voice weak and cracking. "You never told me why you're in here, you know. Kids don't get thrown down in this hole."
She let out a frustrated groan before turning to glare at him. "If I tell you, will you shut up?"
He cocked his head to one side, still smiling, and slowly offered her a single nod.
"Fine." With a sigh, the teenager slumped against the wall farthest from the man and brushed her short, sweaty black hair from her face. "I stole the Duke's ring the night of his wedding to pay for my sister's school," she shrugged. "As one historic guy maybe said once, 'I came, I saw, I conquered.'" With that abrupt and vague explanation, she snatched her lockpick once more and knelt before the door, only to be interrupted again by the man's cackling, wheezing laugh.
"Seems more like you were the one conquered," he chuckled, finding her predicament quite funny.
She shot a cold blue-eyed glare over her shoulder before going back to ignoring him. Once more, silence fell over the pair, until, inevitably, he broke his promise. "So when you break out, are you going to get me, too? Considering we're best friends at this point, I'd think you pretty rude if you didn't."
Xaria grumbled under her breath, shut her eyes, and smacked her forehead against the grimy bars of the door. "I don't care what you think, and no," she snapped, before taking a short breath and twisting herself back around, the lockpick wriggling around desperately in the old, rusted padlock. "Besides...you probably deserve to be in here."
"Rude." The man's chains rattled as he scratched at his flea-infested, thinning white hair. He blinked at her a few times from dulling eyes. She didn't blink back, nor respond. Finally, he huffed as she pushed the squeaking cell door open and started to walk past his cell. "Kid."
Xaria was tempted to ignore him, but the desperation in his voice was enough to make her turn around. "What?"
"I'm going to be gone soon," He admitted. "Fulfill an old man's last wish?"
"Depends," the girl responded coldly. "What is it?"
"Just let me see the sunrise. I know the way out...I just need a pair of legs."
Xaria looked at the doorway, then to the man, and back, before she let out a heavy sigh and took her lockpick in hand once more.
The journey out of the prison was uneventful yet nerve-wracking as ever. As it turned out, the 'Sleeping King' was the Duke's guard dog- and the reason the old man was legless. But the dog had been dead for years, and thus was no longer a threat. Really, nothing was much of a threat anymore. The two lone prisoners, cast away in a rotting dungeon, were the only souls that stayed in the place for longer than an hour.
As they exited the decrepit, crumbling spires of the prison, the old man turned his face up to the lightening sky, and the sun that was revealing itself from behind the rolling hills. "It's beautiful," he remarked in a breath, his voice whispering and cracking.
"Yeah," Xaria mumbled, laying him down and propping him up against a tree so he could watch.
A few minutes passed in silence before the man glanced up at her. "Hey kid, do me a favor."
"Yeah?" the girl looked down at him with a small frown, noting how weak his voice had become.
"Don't fly too close to it."
With that, he was gone, leaving Xaria with wild dreams of freedom, hope, and justice that were nothing but pure fantasy in her shattered, unbalanced world.
RJS, 674 words
She stood on the hill, tears tracing pale streaks onto her soot-blackened face as she looked down on the town that had once been her home. Smoke still wreathed the streets, dark and menacing as the tents that lay across the river from it. The roars of laughter did nothing to hide the wails that emanated from there. Her family. Her friends. Everyone. All dead, or facing an even worse fate.
She had been lucky. When the gates fell, when the panic hit, she had tripped. A sharp pain in her chest had plunged her into blackness, and she had awoken crushed under suffocating weight. Clawing her way out past the judging stares of faces she had known, she eventually emerged from the heap of corpses she had been covered in. She had run around the city, desperately seeking a friendly face, yet the only ones she found were glassy eyed and slack-jawed. Charred wood and charnel pits were what the town had become.
The army of the rebel Duke Artemis had turned up two weeks prior, demanding allegiance and tribute. The burgomaster had refused and barred the gates, awaiting the arrival of the King's Army to relieve the siege. Those had been a tense few days, the occasional rain of arrows keeping people inside, and those who had to move about town did so with fearful haste, one eye on the sky at all times. They weren't prepared for a long siege, having just depleted their winter stores, and the situation rapidly became worse.
The Duke swiftly proved the allegations against him to be true. Rotting carcasses, severed heads and worse rained down once the catapults were constructed, and towers rumbled up to the walls full of men intent on replenishing their ammunition. She had run, caught in the panic of the others as the slaughter, looting and burning began. She had been lucky. In the panic, she had tripped. Shortly afterwards, as she had struggled to her feet, a sharp pain in her chest had plunged her into blackness.
She had awoken who knows how many hours later, crushed under suffocating weight. Clawing her way out past the judging stares of faces she had known, she eventually emerged from the heap of corpses she had been covered in. She had run around the city, desperately seeking a friendly face, yet the only ones she found were glassy eyed and slack-jawed. Charred wood and charnel pits were what the town had become. So she had climbed to this hill, drawn to one thing and one thing alone.
She raised her eyes from the town to the horizon, watching as streaks of blood-red oozed across the sky. The sun slowly slid deeper beneath the horizon, and she breathed deeply as the last glimmer of its light vanished. The stones behind her began to thrum, pulsating with energy that everyone in the village had been warned to stay away from. An ancient site of unholy power so strong that even the mightiest of priests had failed to consecrate it. She had stumbled into it as a child, had heard whispers, mutterings, promises. She had always been confused why it was dangerous, since she had returned safely from it. Now she knew why. Breathing in deeply, drawing the power into herself, before breathing it out over the streets so far below.
The streets stirred into life. Figures that had lain lifeless crawled to their feet and began to lurch towards the gates, heading in a straight line for the camp. The sun had set on her for the last time. She would never again see the light of day, but her vengeance would ring eternally. The sun set on the world of the living, and her ambitions for the dead were just begun. She looked down once more at the bloody wound that she bore, dried blood caked around the hole in her chest. First the Duke. Then the King. Life was, after all, an unreliable thing - fleeting and brief. Death was much more reliable.
She had been lucky. When the gates fell, when the panic hit, she had tripped. A sharp pain in her chest had plunged her into blackness, and she had awoken crushed under suffocating weight. Clawing her way out past the judging stares of faces she had known, she eventually emerged from the heap of corpses she had been covered in. She had run around the city, desperately seeking a friendly face, yet the only ones she found were glassy eyed and slack-jawed. Charred wood and charnel pits were what the town had become.
The army of the rebel Duke Artemis had turned up two weeks prior, demanding allegiance and tribute. The burgomaster had refused and barred the gates, awaiting the arrival of the King's Army to relieve the siege. Those had been a tense few days, the occasional rain of arrows keeping people inside, and those who had to move about town did so with fearful haste, one eye on the sky at all times. They weren't prepared for a long siege, having just depleted their winter stores, and the situation rapidly became worse.
The Duke swiftly proved the allegations against him to be true. Rotting carcasses, severed heads and worse rained down once the catapults were constructed, and towers rumbled up to the walls full of men intent on replenishing their ammunition. She had run, caught in the panic of the others as the slaughter, looting and burning began. She had been lucky. In the panic, she had tripped. Shortly afterwards, as she had struggled to her feet, a sharp pain in her chest had plunged her into blackness.
She had awoken who knows how many hours later, crushed under suffocating weight. Clawing her way out past the judging stares of faces she had known, she eventually emerged from the heap of corpses she had been covered in. She had run around the city, desperately seeking a friendly face, yet the only ones she found were glassy eyed and slack-jawed. Charred wood and charnel pits were what the town had become. So she had climbed to this hill, drawn to one thing and one thing alone.
She raised her eyes from the town to the horizon, watching as streaks of blood-red oozed across the sky. The sun slowly slid deeper beneath the horizon, and she breathed deeply as the last glimmer of its light vanished. The stones behind her began to thrum, pulsating with energy that everyone in the village had been warned to stay away from. An ancient site of unholy power so strong that even the mightiest of priests had failed to consecrate it. She had stumbled into it as a child, had heard whispers, mutterings, promises. She had always been confused why it was dangerous, since she had returned safely from it. Now she knew why. Breathing in deeply, drawing the power into herself, before breathing it out over the streets so far below.
The streets stirred into life. Figures that had lain lifeless crawled to their feet and began to lurch towards the gates, heading in a straight line for the camp. The sun had set on her for the last time. She would never again see the light of day, but her vengeance would ring eternally. The sun set on the world of the living, and her ambitions for the dead were just begun. She looked down once more at the bloody wound that she bore, dried blood caked around the hole in her chest. First the Duke. Then the King. Life was, after all, an unreliable thing - fleeting and brief. Death was much more reliable.
Greenie, 570 words
There were three of us that day, staring up at near possible death with just our meager armour, weapons and spells at hand. None of us had expected this small expedition would end up with our paths crossing goblins, giant snapping turtles, bandits, and now out of nowhere, a large and clearly upset ferocious bear.
We had travelled together frequently. I liked to think myself the brains of the group, but I'm sure the others would disagree. The others included Cramer, our resident tree-hugging magic hands, and Morin, ax-wielding dwarf extraordinaire. We'd been relaxing in the local tavern, having a drink for old time's sake, when lo and behold a shady fellow in a dark hooded robe came over to us and offered a treasure map in exchange for five gold pieces.
Naturally we all coughed up what we had. Adventuring was what we did, and treasure was what we wanted. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?
Well, you've already read what up above.
So there we stood in front of a bear's den, beaten and bruised, each tethering on the brink of health. Ironically it was our magic hands healer Cramer who was the closest to collapsing- the dude didn't seem to realize that support meant keeping himself safe as well as keeping us alive while Cramer and I did the harder work.
"Okay," he said, giving me and Morin a thumbs up. "I'm going to use my dagger!"
"Wait, that's not gonna work-" But he was off, dashing forward with a look of determination on his sweaty, grimy face, a feeble battle-cry trailing from his lips... and then he missed, flailing in place as he tripped over goodness knew what. "Oh dear-" He never got to finish what he was saying as the bear rushed at him, knocking him down. It wasn't hard to tell he was unconscious.
"Cramer!" My eyes jerked toward Morin, who had his axe up and ready. "It's up to you bud!" His weapon was the strongest we had; maybe if he struck the bear hard enough, it would retreat.
"Gotcha," he muttered. He too rushed forward, as quickly as his short legs carried him, beard flying over his shoulder like a hairy black scarf. With one grand sweep of his axe he embedded it into the bear, causing quite a bit of damage, what with all the blood.
"Dangit, it's stuck!" He had a boot pressed against the roaring bear as he tried to pull out his axe while trying to dodge the angry paws that kept trying to slap him away. "Benny!"
***
So much pressure was on me, and I knew very well that all that kept me and my friends from being torn apart by a bear was the small object in my hand. Feeling their eyes on me, I swallowed hard and let it fall. Each thud seemed to take a lifetime, but at last it came to a stop.
The die on the table read 20.
"It's a crit, you hit the bear." Our dungeon master Daniel was impassive as ever, but that didn't stop Cramer and Morin, or rather Jon and Steven from letting out shouts of triumph. A few dice rolls later, my arrow killed the bear that an axe couldn't.
And as promised, there was indeed treasure at the end.
Even if it's all pure fantasy, we came, we saw… and I conquered.
We had travelled together frequently. I liked to think myself the brains of the group, but I'm sure the others would disagree. The others included Cramer, our resident tree-hugging magic hands, and Morin, ax-wielding dwarf extraordinaire. We'd been relaxing in the local tavern, having a drink for old time's sake, when lo and behold a shady fellow in a dark hooded robe came over to us and offered a treasure map in exchange for five gold pieces.
Naturally we all coughed up what we had. Adventuring was what we did, and treasure was what we wanted. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?
Well, you've already read what up above.
So there we stood in front of a bear's den, beaten and bruised, each tethering on the brink of health. Ironically it was our magic hands healer Cramer who was the closest to collapsing- the dude didn't seem to realize that support meant keeping himself safe as well as keeping us alive while Cramer and I did the harder work.
"Okay," he said, giving me and Morin a thumbs up. "I'm going to use my dagger!"
"Wait, that's not gonna work-" But he was off, dashing forward with a look of determination on his sweaty, grimy face, a feeble battle-cry trailing from his lips... and then he missed, flailing in place as he tripped over goodness knew what. "Oh dear-" He never got to finish what he was saying as the bear rushed at him, knocking him down. It wasn't hard to tell he was unconscious.
"Cramer!" My eyes jerked toward Morin, who had his axe up and ready. "It's up to you bud!" His weapon was the strongest we had; maybe if he struck the bear hard enough, it would retreat.
"Gotcha," he muttered. He too rushed forward, as quickly as his short legs carried him, beard flying over his shoulder like a hairy black scarf. With one grand sweep of his axe he embedded it into the bear, causing quite a bit of damage, what with all the blood.
"Dangit, it's stuck!" He had a boot pressed against the roaring bear as he tried to pull out his axe while trying to dodge the angry paws that kept trying to slap him away. "Benny!"
***
So much pressure was on me, and I knew very well that all that kept me and my friends from being torn apart by a bear was the small object in my hand. Feeling their eyes on me, I swallowed hard and let it fall. Each thud seemed to take a lifetime, but at last it came to a stop.
The die on the table read 20.
"It's a crit, you hit the bear." Our dungeon master Daniel was impassive as ever, but that didn't stop Cramer and Morin, or rather Jon and Steven from letting out shouts of triumph. A few dice rolls later, my arrow killed the bear that an axe couldn't.
And as promised, there was indeed treasure at the end.
Even if it's all pure fantasy, we came, we saw… and I conquered.
Anonymous #1, 742 words
Tana stormed out of the guildhall with laughter ringing in her ears. Her fellows in the Shadow Guild were— Letting out a snort of a laugh, Tana shook her head and dropped the nonsense. They were just a group of petty thieves who hung out in the back room of a shitty tavern. They liked to act big, but they had no real ambition, no dreams.
They'd laughed at her plan to rob the King's vault because they had no imagination. So what if he had guards and mages? They couldn't catch what they never saw, and Tana was practically invisible when she wanted to be. She would sneak in there and steal everything herself, and everyone would know her name. Well, not her real name, but a title. Yeah, a title. They'd call her the Lady of the Night and— Wait, no, that was a term for a whore. A different title, then.
Tana found a place to wait and watch the castle and its guards. Just as the sun set, so too did her ambitions soar. She found an opening, and she wasted no time taking it. Two minutes after slipping out of her watching spot, she was over the wall and climbing through a window into the keep within. Getting around without being seen was child's play thanks to all the statues and tapestries decorating the halls. She settled on the title Queen of Thieves while she crept around, a title that would go well with the Queen's own jewels.
It took Tana over an hour to finally find the vault: a pair of large doors carved with the scene of a bountiful feast. There were no guards in the long hall leading up to it, which was strange, but she didn't let that stop her. The lock was a complicated piece of work, but her tools eased it open in under a minute. Her heart thudded like a drum in her chest as she pulled the door open just a crack and slipped into the vault.
The room was empty but for a single chest on pedestal. That was very odd indeed, but Tana pressed forward. She tested the lid carefully for tricks and traps, but it wasn't even locked. It opened without a sound and... Goose egg. Literally. She reached in and pulled out a single large egg and stared at it with her brows drawn together in confusion.
"What the fuck?"
As soon as she spoke her bewilderment aloud, there was a flash of white that filled her vision. Suddenly she was facing a horde of tall and grotesque creatures, nightmares made flesh. They were looking at her and edging forward, and they looked hungry.
"What the fuck is this?"
Another flash and Tana was laying in a bed. She scrambled upright and found a man laying on his side, looking at her with a smirk on his face before he spoke. "Well, you certainly live up to your name, Lady of the Night." That wasn't just any man though, that was a face she was familiar with, in profile at least. That was the King himself, and they had... No, impossible. This was all impossible.
"What the fuck is this nonsense? Stop messing with my head, you bastard!"
There was a final flash of light, and Tana found herself sitting on a stone floor with her hands bound in manacles chained to the wall above her head. The truth came rushing back to her: she'd been grabbed about five minutes into her jaunt into the castle, taken to the dungeon, and then the King's pet wizard came down to get inside her head and see if she was an assassin. He was sitting there on a stool in front of her, chuckling at her. Not just laughing, chuckling, laughter's jerk cousin.
The wizard spoke and amusement was clear in his voice. "So, just a thief then. A fairly skilled one, though. I could make use someone with your particular talents. How do you feel about working as a spy, Queen of Thieves?" He chuckled at his own little quip, but this time Tana didn't mind it as much.
Spying would probably be more fun and profitable than stealing, at least. Tana shrugged, rattling her chains. "Sounds good to me. Beats rotting in a dungeon." It wasn't quite the sack of gold and jewels from her dreams, but it was a step in the right direction.
They'd laughed at her plan to rob the King's vault because they had no imagination. So what if he had guards and mages? They couldn't catch what they never saw, and Tana was practically invisible when she wanted to be. She would sneak in there and steal everything herself, and everyone would know her name. Well, not her real name, but a title. Yeah, a title. They'd call her the Lady of the Night and— Wait, no, that was a term for a whore. A different title, then.
Tana found a place to wait and watch the castle and its guards. Just as the sun set, so too did her ambitions soar. She found an opening, and she wasted no time taking it. Two minutes after slipping out of her watching spot, she was over the wall and climbing through a window into the keep within. Getting around without being seen was child's play thanks to all the statues and tapestries decorating the halls. She settled on the title Queen of Thieves while she crept around, a title that would go well with the Queen's own jewels.
It took Tana over an hour to finally find the vault: a pair of large doors carved with the scene of a bountiful feast. There were no guards in the long hall leading up to it, which was strange, but she didn't let that stop her. The lock was a complicated piece of work, but her tools eased it open in under a minute. Her heart thudded like a drum in her chest as she pulled the door open just a crack and slipped into the vault.
The room was empty but for a single chest on pedestal. That was very odd indeed, but Tana pressed forward. She tested the lid carefully for tricks and traps, but it wasn't even locked. It opened without a sound and... Goose egg. Literally. She reached in and pulled out a single large egg and stared at it with her brows drawn together in confusion.
"What the fuck?"
As soon as she spoke her bewilderment aloud, there was a flash of white that filled her vision. Suddenly she was facing a horde of tall and grotesque creatures, nightmares made flesh. They were looking at her and edging forward, and they looked hungry.
"What the fuck is this?"
Another flash and Tana was laying in a bed. She scrambled upright and found a man laying on his side, looking at her with a smirk on his face before he spoke. "Well, you certainly live up to your name, Lady of the Night." That wasn't just any man though, that was a face she was familiar with, in profile at least. That was the King himself, and they had... No, impossible. This was all impossible.
"What the fuck is this nonsense? Stop messing with my head, you bastard!"
There was a final flash of light, and Tana found herself sitting on a stone floor with her hands bound in manacles chained to the wall above her head. The truth came rushing back to her: she'd been grabbed about five minutes into her jaunt into the castle, taken to the dungeon, and then the King's pet wizard came down to get inside her head and see if she was an assassin. He was sitting there on a stool in front of her, chuckling at her. Not just laughing, chuckling, laughter's jerk cousin.
The wizard spoke and amusement was clear in his voice. "So, just a thief then. A fairly skilled one, though. I could make use someone with your particular talents. How do you feel about working as a spy, Queen of Thieves?" He chuckled at his own little quip, but this time Tana didn't mind it as much.
Spying would probably be more fun and profitable than stealing, at least. Tana shrugged, rattling her chains. "Sounds good to me. Beats rotting in a dungeon." It wasn't quite the sack of gold and jewels from her dreams, but it was a step in the right direction.
Jays, 177 words
There once was a tortoise named Slow and Steady who beat a hare in a foot race.
The tortoise then went about bragging about his "Slow and Steady" being superior to all other qualities and challenged each animal he met to test his perseverance, all of whom declined out of politeness.
Slow and Steady grew even more arrogant, mocking the other animals for being cowards. Their effort to avoid him further fueled his misguided pride.
One day the tortoise came across a snake, and as usual dared it to test his perseverance. However, this time the animal took the tortoise up on his offer, and challenged him to see who could travel further North.
Without a thought, Slow and Steady put his head down and walked North in his slow, steady pace, resolute and determined. He eventually walked straight into a human village and was captured and eaten.
The snake curled itself back into a comfortable sleeping position, having never moved at all, "Don't brag about your perseverance, because without a brain it wouldn't yield any accomplishment."
The tortoise then went about bragging about his "Slow and Steady" being superior to all other qualities and challenged each animal he met to test his perseverance, all of whom declined out of politeness.
Slow and Steady grew even more arrogant, mocking the other animals for being cowards. Their effort to avoid him further fueled his misguided pride.
One day the tortoise came across a snake, and as usual dared it to test his perseverance. However, this time the animal took the tortoise up on his offer, and challenged him to see who could travel further North.
Without a thought, Slow and Steady put his head down and walked North in his slow, steady pace, resolute and determined. He eventually walked straight into a human village and was captured and eaten.
The snake curled itself back into a comfortable sleeping position, having never moved at all, "Don't brag about your perseverance, because without a brain it wouldn't yield any accomplishment."
Draugvan, 490 words
Anastasia yearned for the sunset. Golden, yellow, orange, peach and purple rays that danced across the lids of her eyes when the moon was out. The spectrum of colours swirled in her memory like paint on a canvas. Ink, dye, pigment were mere representations of colour. But the sun, old and inviting, was true colour itself and her art could not be complete without it.
As she walked the sun's lowest arc intersected the distance, spreading succour across the mountains in hues of caramel and lemon. The dark ridge traced brightly against the evening sky was where she was headed.
Trees rose before her in a lurid attempt to hold the sun. They rose higher as she approached the mountains upon which the sun lay splendid and bare. All around were quivering pines and greedy little bushes and weeds trying to eke away the sunlight and soon the naked sun was shrouded by a canopy of insolent shifting grey.
Ana knew the time had come once again to bed down for the night. She found a derelict farmhouse along the way just as evening threatened to become night. Slim speckles of light peeked through holes in the bush to keep her pointed West. She would bed down here, with her face toward the setting sun to witness every nuanced change of colour.
The evening light faded through peach and purple then just as it was about to disappear entirely for the night the light ahead dripped through the canopy in a sour yellow. Ana watched wide-eyed as the sun fell out of the sky and onto the ground a short distance away. Ana heard a skittle-scratch in the greyscale darkness and imagined a man springing deftly through the brush with the jaunty thither of a lunatic. As she watched, specks of light dotted the dark ahead one-by-one appearing further away than the last like footsteps. Eventually the form ceased moving and the light stopped far ahead.
Ana got to her feet and followed the trail of light. Either side was black and the marks of light were all that she could see. The canopy overhead blocked even starlight so the underbrush was awash in murk. Ana moved slowly, feeling forward with each step in case of errant roots and switches.
As she came upon the end of the trail of light she could make out the broad-shouldered shape of a man. She called out. The man turned slowly to regard her with a face glowing luminescent yellow, bald scalp, sunken brow, crooked teeth and ungainly wide ears. The man stood regally and locked her gaze. His whole skin was vibrant.
Ana swallowed a breath and stepped toward the living sun. He embraced her as she placed a hand on his chest, feeling the cold layer of pearlescent thick mucus that seeped from his body. She looked into his passionless, glassy eyes and it was the last thing she ever saw.
As she walked the sun's lowest arc intersected the distance, spreading succour across the mountains in hues of caramel and lemon. The dark ridge traced brightly against the evening sky was where she was headed.
Trees rose before her in a lurid attempt to hold the sun. They rose higher as she approached the mountains upon which the sun lay splendid and bare. All around were quivering pines and greedy little bushes and weeds trying to eke away the sunlight and soon the naked sun was shrouded by a canopy of insolent shifting grey.
Ana knew the time had come once again to bed down for the night. She found a derelict farmhouse along the way just as evening threatened to become night. Slim speckles of light peeked through holes in the bush to keep her pointed West. She would bed down here, with her face toward the setting sun to witness every nuanced change of colour.
The evening light faded through peach and purple then just as it was about to disappear entirely for the night the light ahead dripped through the canopy in a sour yellow. Ana watched wide-eyed as the sun fell out of the sky and onto the ground a short distance away. Ana heard a skittle-scratch in the greyscale darkness and imagined a man springing deftly through the brush with the jaunty thither of a lunatic. As she watched, specks of light dotted the dark ahead one-by-one appearing further away than the last like footsteps. Eventually the form ceased moving and the light stopped far ahead.
Ana got to her feet and followed the trail of light. Either side was black and the marks of light were all that she could see. The canopy overhead blocked even starlight so the underbrush was awash in murk. Ana moved slowly, feeling forward with each step in case of errant roots and switches.
As she came upon the end of the trail of light she could make out the broad-shouldered shape of a man. She called out. The man turned slowly to regard her with a face glowing luminescent yellow, bald scalp, sunken brow, crooked teeth and ungainly wide ears. The man stood regally and locked her gaze. His whole skin was vibrant.
Ana swallowed a breath and stepped toward the living sun. He embraced her as she placed a hand on his chest, feeling the cold layer of pearlescent thick mucus that seeped from his body. She looked into his passionless, glassy eyes and it was the last thing she ever saw.
RiverNotch, 514 words
He came
Her American father was more Filipino than she was. He'd come here two decades ago a missionary, returned home half a decade later a husband. Now his daughter's arrived, no one knows why, ignoring her tita's cautions and asking all these questions.
One of these questions ticked Cesar, I'm sure. Cesar operates smooth, and even I'd shown more interest in the girl...
The rumors only grew worse after that day. Every macho man in the village bragged, but always with the same refrain, "No biyak". Apparently, Cesar was the violation -- or, by some accounts, the culmination.
"Americans are more comfortable with it, anyway", dismisses Tita Sita. "We Filipinos are pious, unlike the whites. Before the Spaniards came, we were innocent about our nakedness; when they arrived, we learned how to cover up. It was the Americans who introduced us to spaghetti straps and jean shorts."
He saw
Nenita's three companions were alone on the beach. The white one, her cousin, was squatting on the rocks, whining about the village's lambanog. The black one, their valet, stood some distance away from him, ready with the toilet paper. The brown one, their guide, waited near the treeline, leering at the girl.
Cesar's chance had come.
He launched himself from the water, thrust his spear up the white boy's ass, then threw him into the spume, ending him with a stomp. The guide panicked, while the valet drew his pistol.
The first shot struck the palm tree far to the left of Cesar. But Cesar, too, was tense, dropping his spear and struggling with his blade.
The second shot glanced the feces-faced rock right behind him: a quick, or lucky, dodge.
The third shot scratched the knuckles of his sword-hand.
The fourth shot pierced his side -- but only through skin and fat.
The fifth shot hit him square in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone.
The sixth shot flew into the clouds. Cesar squeezed the gun out of the valet's hand.
The valet was not as agile as Cesar. On Cesar's first swing, the bolo bit into the man's left side. Blood and water sprayed out of the wound, followed by the ooze of fat. The blade had cut nearly halfway through the belly. A breath, and his corpse slid off of Cesar's knife.
When Cesar surveyed the scene, he saw the body of the guide lying close to where he'd panicked. He didn't know whether the man had fainted or had actually died of shock -- he didn't care.
Just within the woods, Nenita was lying on a makeshift hammock, asleep. She smelled of sweat and last night's drink. Her fingers were dug into her shorts, as if to scratch an itch.
He conquered
"That was our golden age", Cesar's father would often muse, "the days before the Spaniards came..."
The men from the ship gave Cesar paper, even though he'd asked for coin. All he could do was sit on the docks, his shoulder-wound rotting beneath the bandage, as the Norinco guard sneered at him, and the ship, with its precious cargo, sailed for home.
Her American father was more Filipino than she was. He'd come here two decades ago a missionary, returned home half a decade later a husband. Now his daughter's arrived, no one knows why, ignoring her tita's cautions and asking all these questions.
One of these questions ticked Cesar, I'm sure. Cesar operates smooth, and even I'd shown more interest in the girl...
The rumors only grew worse after that day. Every macho man in the village bragged, but always with the same refrain, "No biyak". Apparently, Cesar was the violation -- or, by some accounts, the culmination.
"Americans are more comfortable with it, anyway", dismisses Tita Sita. "We Filipinos are pious, unlike the whites. Before the Spaniards came, we were innocent about our nakedness; when they arrived, we learned how to cover up. It was the Americans who introduced us to spaghetti straps and jean shorts."
He saw
Nenita's three companions were alone on the beach. The white one, her cousin, was squatting on the rocks, whining about the village's lambanog. The black one, their valet, stood some distance away from him, ready with the toilet paper. The brown one, their guide, waited near the treeline, leering at the girl.
Cesar's chance had come.
He launched himself from the water, thrust his spear up the white boy's ass, then threw him into the spume, ending him with a stomp. The guide panicked, while the valet drew his pistol.
The first shot struck the palm tree far to the left of Cesar. But Cesar, too, was tense, dropping his spear and struggling with his blade.
The second shot glanced the feces-faced rock right behind him: a quick, or lucky, dodge.
The third shot scratched the knuckles of his sword-hand.
The fourth shot pierced his side -- but only through skin and fat.
The fifth shot hit him square in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone.
The sixth shot flew into the clouds. Cesar squeezed the gun out of the valet's hand.
The valet was not as agile as Cesar. On Cesar's first swing, the bolo bit into the man's left side. Blood and water sprayed out of the wound, followed by the ooze of fat. The blade had cut nearly halfway through the belly. A breath, and his corpse slid off of Cesar's knife.
When Cesar surveyed the scene, he saw the body of the guide lying close to where he'd panicked. He didn't know whether the man had fainted or had actually died of shock -- he didn't care.
Just within the woods, Nenita was lying on a makeshift hammock, asleep. She smelled of sweat and last night's drink. Her fingers were dug into her shorts, as if to scratch an itch.
He conquered
"That was our golden age", Cesar's father would often muse, "the days before the Spaniards came..."
The men from the ship gave Cesar paper, even though he'd asked for coin. All he could do was sit on the docks, his shoulder-wound rotting beneath the bandage, as the Norinco guard sneered at him, and the ship, with its precious cargo, sailed for home.
SkittlesAndSpike, 736 words
"You don't have to do this. We can just walk away and pretend this never happened." Lukas held me by both of my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. He was worried about me, as a best friend should. He didn't want me to end up paralyzed, dead or worse.
I was starting to think maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn't worth it. I didn't have to risk my life trying to perform some impossible task. Many men greater than I had tried, and they'd all failed. What chance did a scrawny fellow like myself stand? I should just listen to Lukas. Between the two of us he was always the smart one. But just as I thought about walking away I caught notice of them, staring at me with disapproval in their eyes and an unimpressed look on their faces.
"No..." I shook my head and pushed Lukas back, ignoring the stunned look on his face. "You're wrong. If I walk away now I'll never be able to show my face in this town again." This was something I had to do. I had to prove that I wasn't a coward, that I was every bit the man I said I was. This was a matter of personal pride.
The patrons of the bar cheered as I entered the small stadium and, with no hesitation, mounted the mechanical beast before me. I dug my knees into its side and gripped the handle on its back tightly. I raised my free hand into the air and suddenly, the cheering stopped. The entire room went quiet, waiting for me to speak. With all eyes on me, I could feel fear and anxiety building inside my gut, but it was too late to back out now.
"...Let's do it." Was that really my voice? It sounded so...so...strong! So confident! Maybe I could really do this! The cheering came back in full force, and the beast below me rumbled, sending the ball of anxiety I felt earlier reverberating throughout my body.
I was pretty sure I was going to die.
With a loud snort I was jerked to the left, then to the right, both times threatening to throw me off if my grip on the handle was to loosen or my knees to slip. My wrist and shoulders were already starting to ache, and this was just the beginning. I had 2 minutes and 57 seconds more of this to go and I could already feel tonight's dinner coming back up.
By the end of it all I'd barely managed to stay on the death machine, but sadly, my adoring audience had scattered, leaving only Lukas to congratulate me on my victory. I didn't blame them, I'd been firing off blobs of chewed Tex Mex and beer like cannonballs the entire time. At least they'd seen me start, and that took guts of steel (which I clearly did not have).
Lukas helped remove my dizzy and wobbly ass from the mechanical bull, which let out one last snort, this one in defeat. "I can't believe you did it. It was disgusting, but you did it." He patted me on my back, grinning from ear to ear. "They were watching the whole time."
They better have been. I'd grabbed the bulls by the horn, almost literally, and proven myself as a man. I was owed a kiss. I turned my head in her direction and put on quite the triumphant look (except for the bits of puke dribbling down my chin). "Gotta say man, I'm proud of you." Lukas gave my back another pat. He was just happy that I didn't make him look like a loser in front of two hot girls but I didn't care. I was too happy that I beat the Bucking Bull challenge.
"Ya know, it wasn't even about impressing girls. It was about getting out there and proving myself." I started with my victory speech. As weak as I sounded, I liked to think it was pretty good. "I was scared to get on that bull, but I did it anyway!" I raised a hand into the air and pointed it at one of the girls, who was rolling her eyes, but at least she was smiling.
"I came; I saw; and I-" Puked whatever else I put in my stomach today all over the floor.
There goes that kiss.
I was starting to think maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn't worth it. I didn't have to risk my life trying to perform some impossible task. Many men greater than I had tried, and they'd all failed. What chance did a scrawny fellow like myself stand? I should just listen to Lukas. Between the two of us he was always the smart one. But just as I thought about walking away I caught notice of them, staring at me with disapproval in their eyes and an unimpressed look on their faces.
"No..." I shook my head and pushed Lukas back, ignoring the stunned look on his face. "You're wrong. If I walk away now I'll never be able to show my face in this town again." This was something I had to do. I had to prove that I wasn't a coward, that I was every bit the man I said I was. This was a matter of personal pride.
The patrons of the bar cheered as I entered the small stadium and, with no hesitation, mounted the mechanical beast before me. I dug my knees into its side and gripped the handle on its back tightly. I raised my free hand into the air and suddenly, the cheering stopped. The entire room went quiet, waiting for me to speak. With all eyes on me, I could feel fear and anxiety building inside my gut, but it was too late to back out now.
"...Let's do it." Was that really my voice? It sounded so...so...strong! So confident! Maybe I could really do this! The cheering came back in full force, and the beast below me rumbled, sending the ball of anxiety I felt earlier reverberating throughout my body.
I was pretty sure I was going to die.
With a loud snort I was jerked to the left, then to the right, both times threatening to throw me off if my grip on the handle was to loosen or my knees to slip. My wrist and shoulders were already starting to ache, and this was just the beginning. I had 2 minutes and 57 seconds more of this to go and I could already feel tonight's dinner coming back up.
By the end of it all I'd barely managed to stay on the death machine, but sadly, my adoring audience had scattered, leaving only Lukas to congratulate me on my victory. I didn't blame them, I'd been firing off blobs of chewed Tex Mex and beer like cannonballs the entire time. At least they'd seen me start, and that took guts of steel (which I clearly did not have).
Lukas helped remove my dizzy and wobbly ass from the mechanical bull, which let out one last snort, this one in defeat. "I can't believe you did it. It was disgusting, but you did it." He patted me on my back, grinning from ear to ear. "They were watching the whole time."
They better have been. I'd grabbed the bulls by the horn, almost literally, and proven myself as a man. I was owed a kiss. I turned my head in her direction and put on quite the triumphant look (except for the bits of puke dribbling down my chin). "Gotta say man, I'm proud of you." Lukas gave my back another pat. He was just happy that I didn't make him look like a loser in front of two hot girls but I didn't care. I was too happy that I beat the Bucking Bull challenge.
"Ya know, it wasn't even about impressing girls. It was about getting out there and proving myself." I started with my victory speech. As weak as I sounded, I liked to think it was pretty good. "I was scared to get on that bull, but I did it anyway!" I raised a hand into the air and pointed it at one of the girls, who was rolling her eyes, but at least she was smiling.
"I came; I saw; and I-" Puked whatever else I put in my stomach today all over the floor.
There goes that kiss.
Childish Grumpino, 700 words
The task is routine, it is all but muscle memory now.
It is all Pan has ever known.
Each morning she rises from her cot and dons the robes of her position in the Temple. Each morning she joins her brethren in burning the sacred oils, the scents bringing her to a quiet sense of purpose. After lunch she takes her place in the Choir arrayed before the Door That Must Not Be Opened, invoking their hymns to the Sleeping King.
The Sleeping King who dreams the world around them. Thus claim the Prophets. The Sleeping King's slumber is the very ground they walk upon. When he is calm, the world is at peace. When he is fitful, the world knows only chaos. Thus Pan and her brethren in the Temple must be watchful to ensure that the Sleeping King is not disturbed.
That above all else, he is never woken.
The days blend into the next as Pan makes her way through a life of prayer and comtemplation. Without question. To be a servant of the Temple is to preserve the very fabric of the world itself.
This she believes, without question.
Until the day Ylar arrives at the Temple.
He is unlike any man Pan has met; tall and lean compared to the stocky Priests and frail Prophets. His head has been recently shaved, but this only further shows his weather-beaten features. To her astonishment he seeks her out on that first day, turning to her rather than to the more senior members of the Clergy.
Soon he has her sitting, enraptured to something she has never heard before. A challenge to the words of the Prophets, spoken by an ordinary man with such conviction she cannot help but listen.
"Have you heard the the Sleeping King?" Ylar asks, "Has anyone? How do we know he dreams?"
"We know by his slumber," Pan recites, "when he is disturbed, so too is the realm. The same for the lands around us." Yet he just smiles.
"And you have seen this with your own eyes?" Meekly, defeated, she can but shake her head.
"I am a simple man," he continues, "I believe in the nature of cause and effect. The sun shines, my crops grow. The rains flow too often, my crops rot. Who is to say whatever is beyond the Door That Must Not Be Opened is not the same?"
"That is for the Prophets to decide," Pan replies half-heartedly.
"The Prophets are old. They are lost to tradition." Ylar's eyes burn with the passion of his words. "This temple holds the fate of the world in its hands, yet it succumbs to routine. That is sad, is it not?"
After this, Pan no longer knows restful sleep.
She cannot deny the truth of this man's words.
"What if we could control his reactions?" Ylar asks one day as they partake in oil duty, "what if we could assure calm and bountiful times for all? Would you do it?"
"That is not for me to decide," Pan declares, but she fears she no longer believes it.
"We could ensure that all are fed, that all are warm and healthy. Is that not the greatest kindness? Is that not what the Sleeping King would want?"
Ylar's question burns to her core.
"I do not know what he wants," she replies, and Ylar smiles.
"Has anyone asked him?"
After this, Pan does not know sleep.
She rises from her spartan cot, donning the robes of her position in the Temple. She joins her brethren in burning the oils. As they depart for lunch she lingers, her eyes flicking between the departing clergy and the door.
He lies on the finery one would expect of a King, all drapes and canopies that Pan cannot help but marvel at. As she stands over him, hands shaking, she sucks in a last, desperate breath.
And then she lowers her arms onto the sleeping form, gripping his shoulders and shaking him roughly.
The King's eyes flutter open, gazing bleakly. His mouth opens, inhaling deeply.
Her shoulders tense, her stomach tightens, her whole body bracing.
From this moment, her world will never be the same again.
It is all Pan has ever known.
Each morning she rises from her cot and dons the robes of her position in the Temple. Each morning she joins her brethren in burning the sacred oils, the scents bringing her to a quiet sense of purpose. After lunch she takes her place in the Choir arrayed before the Door That Must Not Be Opened, invoking their hymns to the Sleeping King.
The Sleeping King who dreams the world around them. Thus claim the Prophets. The Sleeping King's slumber is the very ground they walk upon. When he is calm, the world is at peace. When he is fitful, the world knows only chaos. Thus Pan and her brethren in the Temple must be watchful to ensure that the Sleeping King is not disturbed.
That above all else, he is never woken.
The days blend into the next as Pan makes her way through a life of prayer and comtemplation. Without question. To be a servant of the Temple is to preserve the very fabric of the world itself.
This she believes, without question.
Until the day Ylar arrives at the Temple.
He is unlike any man Pan has met; tall and lean compared to the stocky Priests and frail Prophets. His head has been recently shaved, but this only further shows his weather-beaten features. To her astonishment he seeks her out on that first day, turning to her rather than to the more senior members of the Clergy.
Soon he has her sitting, enraptured to something she has never heard before. A challenge to the words of the Prophets, spoken by an ordinary man with such conviction she cannot help but listen.
"Have you heard the the Sleeping King?" Ylar asks, "Has anyone? How do we know he dreams?"
"We know by his slumber," Pan recites, "when he is disturbed, so too is the realm. The same for the lands around us." Yet he just smiles.
"And you have seen this with your own eyes?" Meekly, defeated, she can but shake her head.
"I am a simple man," he continues, "I believe in the nature of cause and effect. The sun shines, my crops grow. The rains flow too often, my crops rot. Who is to say whatever is beyond the Door That Must Not Be Opened is not the same?"
"That is for the Prophets to decide," Pan replies half-heartedly.
"The Prophets are old. They are lost to tradition." Ylar's eyes burn with the passion of his words. "This temple holds the fate of the world in its hands, yet it succumbs to routine. That is sad, is it not?"
After this, Pan no longer knows restful sleep.
She cannot deny the truth of this man's words.
"What if we could control his reactions?" Ylar asks one day as they partake in oil duty, "what if we could assure calm and bountiful times for all? Would you do it?"
"That is not for me to decide," Pan declares, but she fears she no longer believes it.
"We could ensure that all are fed, that all are warm and healthy. Is that not the greatest kindness? Is that not what the Sleeping King would want?"
Ylar's question burns to her core.
"I do not know what he wants," she replies, and Ylar smiles.
"Has anyone asked him?"
After this, Pan does not know sleep.
She rises from her spartan cot, donning the robes of her position in the Temple. She joins her brethren in burning the oils. As they depart for lunch she lingers, her eyes flicking between the departing clergy and the door.
He lies on the finery one would expect of a King, all drapes and canopies that Pan cannot help but marvel at. As she stands over him, hands shaking, she sucks in a last, desperate breath.
And then she lowers her arms onto the sleeping form, gripping his shoulders and shaking him roughly.
The King's eyes flutter open, gazing bleakly. His mouth opens, inhaling deeply.
Her shoulders tense, her stomach tightens, her whole body bracing.
From this moment, her world will never be the same again.
I was unsure if anyone would realize I used the 'wildest dreams' prompt, so I'm truly glad you did! And also wondering why I didn't think about 'the sleeping king' :"D