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It was a cool December evening and the moon was high in the sky. A man with hair so dark it had what seemed like a blue sheen in the right light. His eyes were green, and he had a laugh that rang like joyful bells. His fair skin was lightly scarred. He wasn’t alone on this night, however, he was joined by his friend with sunshine in his hair and the ocean in his eyes. They were men with a child’s heart. They loved to use their imagination to brighten up the dull life that they led.
The dark haired man, Jack, was a scholar. He loved to learn about the world. He especially loved history. He enjoyed looking at the past and seeing how people could improve in the future. He was a gentle soul that was more likely to use a book to make a person see sense, be it through throwing it at you literally or figuratively, than just calling them an idiot. That goes to his friend, Mark. Mark was an athletic, knight-in-shining-armor kind of guy. More likely to just charge into a situation than actually think it through. He was in the drama department for college. Yes, drama. He was the one that wanted to play Prince Arthur, or just Prince Charming. He cared about people.
This is where we start. The evening in December. The night of the play that Mark somehow got Jack to participate in. Jack was the wise scholar, of course, with Mark being the foolish prince that never listened. The scene was a battlefield. Jack’s character: the loyal friend that was always at his side.
Mark swung the sword with a mighty flourish, finishing off his opponent with a single stroke. He turned around and saw a flower. It brought a gentle smile to his face, and he bent down. He had just straightened from picking it when a sword struck his back.
“Arthur!” Jack cried, anguish in his voice.
Mark collapsed to the stage, his back to the ground and the flower on his chest. His sword was not in his grasp as Jack ran to him. He skidded to a stop and knelt over his friend.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Arthur, don’t you dare.” He pleaded as he pressed his hands to the man’s chest.
“Merlin, you can’t save me. It was a mortal wound.”
“I know that you are dying.”
“So I think we’ve all accepted that I’m going to die at this point, but since you’re a historian can you at least make my death really cool?”
“Arthur, this is not a joking matter,” Jack growled.
With a great heaving sigh, Mark died. Jack knelt over his friend, great heaving sobs shaking his body. The audience stood with a roaring applause, and the friends bowed to them. This was the story of two great friends and their spreading imagination to the hearts of people around them.