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Each new crown was forged from a single golden monolith found in the tombs of our Founders, and the blood of the last King conquered. No man could lay true claim to the throne without spilling blood of the one who sat before. This was tradition, the way of the Hunt.
They say he drew maps of galaxies on his arms, plucked stars to form eyes, shaped mountains with his fingers––the Allfather, the Maker, the First. He is the Founder of the Hunters, the Creator of the kingdom. Laurus was created from his hands, and it will end at the hands of his son––the Ender.
He was crowned King when the world was born, and his subjects were barely alive yet they were old. They cheered when the crown of gold was placed upon his head, and celebrated at the feast. Their King was a good one.
King Ramsey was a drunkard, but only revealed after his third year of rule. He would stumble around the palace, using the Fool’s arm for support as he laughed for no reason. Some feared he was going mad, others that he was a good for nothing King. Among the latter was a man named Ryan Haywood, though he was Vagabond among the soldiers. He was a knight directly under the King, and only wanted the crown. He decided that the King’s rule was due to come to an end –– and he was to take over.
In true tradition of the Hunt, he challenged the King to a duel, but one hidden from the public eye. The only eye that would see was the one of the Fool, who saw everything. Ramsey and Haywood stood ten paces apart. When they started, there were two moves: Haywood’s sword running through the King’s chest and the King crumpling. “For Dominus. Princepsque. Omnium. Regum. For all your pretty names, you’re still just a drunkard mortal. The old King is dead. Long live the new King,” he said. “Still clinging to life?” He asked when Ramsey shifted under his sword.
A skeletal hand came from the King’s cloak, drawing the sword out of his body. It clattered to the floor, useless. It reached for Haywood’s throat, stopping millimetres away. Ramsey smiled, saying, “Drunkard? Naturally. Mortal? I am so sorry to disappoint, Vagabond. Take the crown if you wish. But heed my warning, King Haywood. Blood begets blood and the crown sings for it. Can you resist?”
He blew away as if dust, the crown falling into a puddle of blood. Haywood picked it up and placed it upon his head, smiling as he saw himself in the mirror of the room. A king with a crown of thorns.
The kingdom feared their King; they tried to do their best. He was cruel and mad, always making some announcement about the fight to the death between two people. They were scared of being the next in the ring, so they blended in with each other. They melted together, the same dreary colors of a stormy sky.
There was one man who wanted the crown. He was nothing more than a flower man, always with a rose on him. His name was Ray, and he was ready to spill the blood of the King to receive the crown himself. He challenged the King to a duel, the loser of which was to be exiled to the Nether. Whoever entered the Nether wouldn’t come back alive.
It was Ray who won, with the blade of his sword at the throat of the King. The King had lost, but the new King had forgotten the ancient rule of the Hunt: no man could lay true claim to the crown without spilling the blood of the one before. Blood was not spilled, but Haywood was exiled. Ray was crowned, and he was nicknamed the Red King. He seemed to be a kind King, much like the first, but underneath his masquerade, he had qualities that the King before him possessed.
The crown was heavy, and he felt like there was something laughing at him. He felt mad, but it was as if he saw things. Specters and hidden doors that led to nowhere. He heard the laughter of a man who wasn’t there. He heard the voice of a man who was dead. “Being a king isn’t all that great, it is?” It would whisper to him at night. “Heavy lays the head that wears the crown,” it told him whenever he placed the ring of thorns upon his head. He could look into mirrors and see a glimpse of a smile over his shoulder, but when he checked, no one was there.
It’s easy to look at the Vagabond and imagine him the cruelest — but Haywood only wears ruthlessness as a mask, to intimidate and enthral. The Red King’s malevolence is a part of him, hidden like iron thorns beneath gentle petals. Roses are red, yes, but do not forget that red is fire, and red is blood. In his dominion, they are all one and the same, and they answer to none but him.
There was another, behind the Red King, that seeked the crown. He wanted it, but only because he felt as if the King was mad. The kingdom could not handle another mad ruler, so he decided to kill him and claim the crown for himself, but only in the most righteous of ways. His name was Mogar, his real name washed away on the streets. He found the King, and said to him one thing, “Tonight you die.”
And the King looked at him, a saccharine smile upon his face. “Please do.” And the sword swung, blood was spilled, and Mogar spoke.
“The King is dead. Long live the King.”
"They say madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin — but when Haywood took the throne, he had snatched the coin and said, ‘Why not both?’” The scribe told the King, seeing as he was the one who had to tell of the history before.
“The Mad King,” Mogar said, “the great King that smiled when he crushed a heart beneath his foot. Then the Red King.”
“He was good at first, but he had not followed the rules of the Hunt and instead exiled the Mad King. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. The crown that was not his.”
“By that logic, I am not the true king either.”
“No, your majesty. You slayed the untrue King. You are the Righteous King, the Bringer of New Beginnings. We are counting on you.”
Ryan exited the portal, looking about as he saw that he was inside of the dungeons. He was already inside, and it was easy to get to the throne room by using the secret passages. It took mere minutes for him to enter the throne room, and he looked for the crown of gold that he would reclaim.
He saw it; it was lying on his throne. It was a human wearing a bear skin, the king but soon to be the dead king. “Oh, how I didn’t realise that they would let an animal rule the kingdom,” he said as he stalked towards the golden throne. The king stirred, eyes blinking then registering the person. He jumped into a defensive position, drawing his sword at his side. “KIng Mogar, is it? Or do they know it’s you, Michael?” The man winced at the sound of his true name.
“There is no more Michael, Vagabond,” he hisses, eyes narrowing at his enemy. “There is only Mogar, the Warrior, the one who will kill you for once and for all.” He raised his sword, ready to strike at any moment.
"People tell stories of spectres and beasts from beyond the Nether, but they forget that true monsters walk among them — mortal men hungry for blood and power." Ryan smiled as he made a motion with his right hand, and conjured a sword of out the air. The one in the King’s hand disappeared. “The Nether was lovely, but this is where I belong, King.”
The diamond sword that was engraved with Mogar was the one that had been pushed through the King’s chest. “The King is dead! Long live the King!” He said as he left the body on the ground and took the crown from the curls that adorned his head.
“The Mad King is back,” was spoken to the empty throne room, with a humourless laugh.”
King Haywood sat upon the throne, watching as the water poured from the heavens. Edgar sat beside him, his eyes on the book floating in the air. “Edgar,” he said, “If I told you that you were to die by my orders, would you kill me?”
The sorcerer looked up, replying with, “I have no other choice. By doing so I would die as well, but I have waited too long to take your life.”
“Very well. Announce it to the kingdom that whoever kills you shall be able to spill my blood, thus becoming the King.” Edgar nodded, vanishing as Haywood looked outside, waiting for the end of his long life.
The Fool had the Blacksmith give him a sword of diamond, he enchanted it and ran it through the Blacksmith to test it. It was sharp, though dulled by its first kill, but that was easily fixed by placing it on the sharpening stone. He approached the King, telling him that he wanted to defeated the Beast, the Minotaur.
The Beast was in a maze, reminiscent of the one that was built in Crete by Daedalus. The Fool knew it by heart, and was swift to kill. He crept among the halls, like a wolf stalking its prey. He found the Minotaur standing in the middle of the maze. He gave a loud war cry as he rushed towards it, slicing its legs and arms. It roared in pain, and the Fool took the time its mouth was open to run the blade through the roof of its mouth, through the head.
His remaining sanity was gone as he stood upon the bloody carcass of the Beast. The Fool has slain the Beast of the court. Nothing stands between him and the crown of the Mad King. With a sword of blood strapped to his side, he approached the throne room and told the king of his victories.
“I have slain the Beast,” he said, bowing down to the King.
“Very well,” said Haywood. “To claim the crown you must spill my blood. Hurry, I will die soon.” There is something about Gavin the King does not recognize as the sword is pressed into his hands — something about the sharp smile or the wicked ease with which the Fool handles his blade that sets his teeth on edge. The Fool did not hesitate before taking his bloody sword and placing it at the King’s throat.
“The old King is dead. Long live the King. Goodbye, Mad King.” A sliver of scarlet raced down the King’s throat, and he smiled, before taking off his crown.
The crown of thorns was now a crown of fire, and it blazed as it sat upon the Fool’s head. “The Foolish King, King Gavin.”
The Fool was the son of the First. He was the Ender. The crown of flames that adorned his head lit The Fool’s true face as he smiles like a vicious thing, borne from obsidian and mist and fire, and those who see past his golden veneer, see it only once.
“this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a w h i m p e r.”
–– T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men.