Post by Captain Americat on Sept 6, 2022 19:59:08 GMT -5
Hello, all! This is my submission for prompt #2 of Brownie's Monday Vibes WFF Challenges. Enjoy!
If you like this and want to read more from me, here's my submission for prompt #1: I Love You Like Moments Before the Rain
~
** Trigger Warning: blood, death **
King ♛
He called himself the King.
But he was not royalty, and he was certainly never a proper king. He rose to his power over the group of loners through tyranny and torture. And no one dared challenge him because they knew the risks of getting too close to the tom in charge. One wrong paw out of step and he’d throw you to the wolves— both literally and figuratively. He had no tolerance for anyone who stood against him. He had no tolerance for those who believed anything different than he preached.
There were many who tried to overthrow him in the beginning, back when his rule was new, back when they didn’t believe he was capable of taking over, back when it seemed like a joke. But, while there were few who stood with him, those foolish (or, some would argue smart) enough to stand loyal by his side made sure that he would remain unchallenged. He ruled by fear, and many perished — or simply disappeared — under his reign.
Overtime, most just settled for the path of least resistance; they learned to cower and obey. Out of the way and quiet, they remained protected and fed. It wasn’t life, but they were alive.
You know all this firsthand because you are his son.
And you are the only one who ever dared challenge him.
It wasn’t for his crown.
It was never for the power.
But when he died, it all became yours.
There was only one complication in which the public was unaware: King Darkfoot didn’t die. He was murdered. While they do not care how he died (and, in fact, rejoice solely for the fact that he is dead), it weighs on you because you are the one with the truth. Because you know which way the scales of justice should tip.
Or… or, do you?
Two wrongs do not make a right— but, can it be argued that if it is for the greater good that it is okay…? Can it be argued that something so… so terrible can ever be right if the world is better off for it? King Darkfoot had taken more lives than he’d ever saved— and, yet— murder? Was it wrong to murder the murderer? Can it ever truly be justified?
No—
No—
Anyone who murders is bad— Anyone who murders is just like him.
No—no—
“King Kida! All hail the Tyrant King’s successor!”
They all cheer as you take your first steps into the crowd as king. You know this stone amphitheater by heart because it has been your home ever since King Darkfoot cleared it of foxes. But it now seems foreign. The voices of the cats around you shout in welcome and their words echo off the walls, but you will not allow yourself to feel welcomed anymore. You do not belong in the place that your father has built upon the blood and bones and misery of others. But, murdered or not, the Tyrant King is dead. And, murdered or not, that title is now yours.
You can’t even lift your head. Invisible lights blind you. Guilt weighs you down.
But, they? They can’t wait to sit his crown upon your head.
You can’t wait to run away.
But—
It is no crown of petals or soft leaves.
It is a crown of thorns.
You can feel the King’s blood already dripping into your eyes.
“King Kida! He has come to save us all!”
***
You lead your father into the forest. He thinks you are joining him on border patrol, and you can feel his pride — for once — because he thinks you’re finally taking initiative and doing your “prince-ly” duties. But, the patrol was actually your idea (you only let him think it was his).
He does not know that you do not feel like a prince because your title was something that never should have existed, and you have no intention of making your father proud. To make him proud would be to do something ghastly. To make him proud would go against all that you are.
No… You have something else in mind… You just don’t know if you’ll be able to do it. Your paws tremble with every step, but you attribute it to the cool, fall air. If your father asks why you shake, you will not tell how you plan to end his life; you will only joke that autumn has arrived too soon.
Your moment comes when your father makes a witty remark about how under-appreciative the cats beneath him are. He never once saw them as equals. He never once believed they were worthy of anything other than making him look good and making him feel powerful. It was only a matter of time before your father would say something to anger you— You take your chance, and you shove him roughly towards the trees, a snarl quivering your lips.
He slams into a tree trunk — hard — and you march towards it, blocking his escape, as he shakes his groggy head and stands upright. “What is the meaning of—?!”
“You don’t get to talk about them that way!” you growl, sticking your muzzle into his. “You were once them! You know what it’s like to have nothing… How can you treat them like that? Why can’t you give them the things we never had? That’s why you declared yourself King, wasn’t it? To save them? To make sure no one had to suffer like we did?” You shake your head, and you laugh. But it is not the hysterical kind of laugh. There’s nothing funny about this. “FATHER, THEY ARE SUFFERING! SUFFERING BECAUSE OF YOU!”
“I saved them,” King Darkfoot says, giving you a shove back. You stumble over your paws, but you do not fall. You stand your ground, and you stare your father down, hackles raised in defense. “But now the rest is up to them. I became king to save myself. I did that. I won’t hand them everything just because they beg!”
“They beg because they are scared!”
“They beg because they are worthless!” the King shoots back.
This only boils your blood. You have always felt like one of them instead of the son of the King. “THEY ALL HATE YOU!” You begin circling your father, trapping him, directing him back towards the wall of trees. “YOU HURT THEM AND YOU TREAT THEM LIKE DIRT AND YOU WONDER WHY THEY SHAKE AND COWER WHEN YOU ASK THEM TO BOW!”
“I keep them safe,” King Darkfoot growls. He flexes his claws in the soft peat of the forest, and when he pulls up his paws, a small, broken flower, specie unrecognizable, falls to the ground. So easily, your father destroys everything with potential. So easily, he kills beauty with just a glance. “I keep them fed. I keep them alive.”
“They want to be happy.”
“You’d think the brats would be happy — or at least grateful — to be alive,” he counters.
“Life isn’t something they should have to ask for; life isn’t something that you grant them.”
“I got rid of all of our enemies! The other gangs would never step paw in these parts of the woods. I chased off the badgers and the foxes— I did that. For you. For our cats. I did that so that we could live in peace.”
“This is not peace. Not anymore, father. This is fear! This is tyranny! You took power that was not yours, and it made you evil. It made you into someone I don’t recognize. It made you into someone that I can no longer love. A true king does not stand over his own and beat them until they fall; he stands with them, and if they fall, he falls beside them or dies trying to hold them up. You have only ever held yourself up, father.”
“I’m all you have! I have held you up, you ungrateful prince—!”
“You have never held me up,” you say with a sad shake of your head. “You don’t even know what it’s like to support another. I learned from a young age how to care for myself. I learned from watching the cats that you hurt— I learned how to love from them. And I realized one thing very quickly: I do not love you. You might be my blood— but you are not my family. Not anymore.”
You launch yourself at your father, fangs wide.
***
You pad deeper into the stone amphitheater. You are finally able to lift your head high in response to the crowd, but you still cannot see a thing. All of your senses are overwhelmed by the noise. The cheers, the hoots, the jubilee, the waterfall crashing down like it knows all your secrets— It’s blinding, and it’s wrong. All of it is wrong.
“The King is dead! The King is dead! All hail the new King! His son, Kida, shall reign!”
In the water that falls from the crevasses of the amphitheater, you stare at a reflection of your father. It is the only thing that is clear through all the noise. He jeers at you, and he taunts you, and you see yourself covered in blood. You can still feel the sticky liquid collected at your paws—
The cheers are like a distant memory. All you can hear now is your father. All you can hear now is the sound of fear dying and guilt being born.
***
The King lies beneath you. Warm and sticky fur; struggling, rasping breath. Your paws are firm on his chest. He thinks this is a joke. He doesn’t think you have what it takes. And, yet, you’ve made it this far. You’ve made it so far as to overpower him, to throw him to the ground, to pierce his fur again and again and again—
“You’re a murderer!” you growl. “You don’t know the first thing about being a king! Heck, you don’t know the first thing about being a father! You don’t know the first thing about love! These cats need someone to look up to— but your own son can’t even look up to you! Why did you ever think you could lead?”
“You’re such a hypocrite, Kida,” he gargles. Blood drips down the corner of his lips. He lets out a laugh that turns into a cough. His muzzle is spotted pink. “You accuse me of being a murderer. You accuse me— me — of being a terrible king—” He jabs a weak paw at your chest and he growls, “But what does that make you?”
You’ve had enough. Your claw slices through his jugular before you can stop yourself. Your father doesn’t even put up a fight. It’s almost like he’s welcomed death. A cruel smile comes upon his lips as blood spurts from the wound in his neck. “A-and w-what does th-that m-make— you—you?” he repeats.
“A sa-savior,” you sputter. But your words lack their earlier confidence. Eyes wide at the horror at what you’ve done, you take your paws from your father’s chest and you step back, breathing heavily.
“A savior,” a voice inside you repeats quietly, as if trying to convince yourself that this murder can be justified. “I’m a savior.” But you stare at the dying King, and you know that he doesn’t agree. He lets out one last chuckle as you blink down at your soaked paws. There is no regret, but your body shakes with guilt and your limbs grow numb with shock.
As the life ebbs from his body, that chuckle is the last to fill your ears. He always got the last word, and although he would not put up a fight, he would not go down without giving you something to think about. He would not go down without you feeling like you were wrong—
“You are no savior,” says the chuckle. “You’re exactly like me.”
You don’t want to be the King.
But it could no longer be him.
His dying grin will forever be plastered in your mind. You do not want to make your father proud; but it dawns on you like the slow smile that spreads upon his face that you have. You have turned against all that you are; you have become your father by doing something only your father would have ever been capable of doing: you killed someone.
It doesn’t matter that it was him.
It doesn’t matter that he deserved to die.
You are just like him.
You murderer. You—
M
u
R
d
e
R
E
r.
You tell yourself that you did it to save the cats that King Darkfoot has so long kept locked up, voiceless, hurt— but, who did you really save?
Who did you really save?
***
They continue to cheer. You reign King — and, yet, you feel no jubilee.
You just killed your father. The blood still itches like some sort of phantom limb between your toes.
You cannot call yourself the King.
“All hail King Kida!” shout the cats who taught you to love.
“You are exactly like me!” repeats the cat who showed you hatred.
You lower your head as the noise erupts like thunder around you. You cannot see their faces, but you can feel the radiance of their smiles and their relief. The King is dead. The King is dead. King Kida reigns. King Kida reigns. We no longer have to live in fear—
They do not know how King Darkfoot died. They do not know that you — the kind son of the Tyrant King — killed him in cold blood.
Would they still cheer if they knew they were crowning a murderer? Would they still cheer for the cat they thought they knew and loved if the truth was out in the open?
He called himself the King.
But you—?
You—
How dare you—
How can you call yourself the King?
If you like this and want to read more from me, here's my submission for prompt #1: I Love You Like Moments Before the Rain
~
** Trigger Warning: blood, death **
King ♛
He called himself the King.
But he was not royalty, and he was certainly never a proper king. He rose to his power over the group of loners through tyranny and torture. And no one dared challenge him because they knew the risks of getting too close to the tom in charge. One wrong paw out of step and he’d throw you to the wolves— both literally and figuratively. He had no tolerance for anyone who stood against him. He had no tolerance for those who believed anything different than he preached.
There were many who tried to overthrow him in the beginning, back when his rule was new, back when they didn’t believe he was capable of taking over, back when it seemed like a joke. But, while there were few who stood with him, those foolish (or, some would argue smart) enough to stand loyal by his side made sure that he would remain unchallenged. He ruled by fear, and many perished — or simply disappeared — under his reign.
Overtime, most just settled for the path of least resistance; they learned to cower and obey. Out of the way and quiet, they remained protected and fed. It wasn’t life, but they were alive.
You know all this firsthand because you are his son.
And you are the only one who ever dared challenge him.
It wasn’t for his crown.
It was never for the power.
But when he died, it all became yours.
There was only one complication in which the public was unaware: King Darkfoot didn’t die. He was murdered. While they do not care how he died (and, in fact, rejoice solely for the fact that he is dead), it weighs on you because you are the one with the truth. Because you know which way the scales of justice should tip.
Or… or, do you?
Two wrongs do not make a right— but, can it be argued that if it is for the greater good that it is okay…? Can it be argued that something so… so terrible can ever be right if the world is better off for it? King Darkfoot had taken more lives than he’d ever saved— and, yet— murder? Was it wrong to murder the murderer? Can it ever truly be justified?
No—
No—
Anyone who murders is bad— Anyone who murders is just like him.
No—no—
“King Kida! All hail the Tyrant King’s successor!”
They all cheer as you take your first steps into the crowd as king. You know this stone amphitheater by heart because it has been your home ever since King Darkfoot cleared it of foxes. But it now seems foreign. The voices of the cats around you shout in welcome and their words echo off the walls, but you will not allow yourself to feel welcomed anymore. You do not belong in the place that your father has built upon the blood and bones and misery of others. But, murdered or not, the Tyrant King is dead. And, murdered or not, that title is now yours.
You can’t even lift your head. Invisible lights blind you. Guilt weighs you down.
But, they? They can’t wait to sit his crown upon your head.
You can’t wait to run away.
But—
It is no crown of petals or soft leaves.
It is a crown of thorns.
You can feel the King’s blood already dripping into your eyes.
“King Kida! He has come to save us all!”
***
You lead your father into the forest. He thinks you are joining him on border patrol, and you can feel his pride — for once — because he thinks you’re finally taking initiative and doing your “prince-ly” duties. But, the patrol was actually your idea (you only let him think it was his).
He does not know that you do not feel like a prince because your title was something that never should have existed, and you have no intention of making your father proud. To make him proud would be to do something ghastly. To make him proud would go against all that you are.
No… You have something else in mind… You just don’t know if you’ll be able to do it. Your paws tremble with every step, but you attribute it to the cool, fall air. If your father asks why you shake, you will not tell how you plan to end his life; you will only joke that autumn has arrived too soon.
Your moment comes when your father makes a witty remark about how under-appreciative the cats beneath him are. He never once saw them as equals. He never once believed they were worthy of anything other than making him look good and making him feel powerful. It was only a matter of time before your father would say something to anger you— You take your chance, and you shove him roughly towards the trees, a snarl quivering your lips.
He slams into a tree trunk — hard — and you march towards it, blocking his escape, as he shakes his groggy head and stands upright. “What is the meaning of—?!”
“You don’t get to talk about them that way!” you growl, sticking your muzzle into his. “You were once them! You know what it’s like to have nothing… How can you treat them like that? Why can’t you give them the things we never had? That’s why you declared yourself King, wasn’t it? To save them? To make sure no one had to suffer like we did?” You shake your head, and you laugh. But it is not the hysterical kind of laugh. There’s nothing funny about this. “FATHER, THEY ARE SUFFERING! SUFFERING BECAUSE OF YOU!”
“I saved them,” King Darkfoot says, giving you a shove back. You stumble over your paws, but you do not fall. You stand your ground, and you stare your father down, hackles raised in defense. “But now the rest is up to them. I became king to save myself. I did that. I won’t hand them everything just because they beg!”
“They beg because they are scared!”
“They beg because they are worthless!” the King shoots back.
This only boils your blood. You have always felt like one of them instead of the son of the King. “THEY ALL HATE YOU!” You begin circling your father, trapping him, directing him back towards the wall of trees. “YOU HURT THEM AND YOU TREAT THEM LIKE DIRT AND YOU WONDER WHY THEY SHAKE AND COWER WHEN YOU ASK THEM TO BOW!”
“I keep them safe,” King Darkfoot growls. He flexes his claws in the soft peat of the forest, and when he pulls up his paws, a small, broken flower, specie unrecognizable, falls to the ground. So easily, your father destroys everything with potential. So easily, he kills beauty with just a glance. “I keep them fed. I keep them alive.”
“They want to be happy.”
“You’d think the brats would be happy — or at least grateful — to be alive,” he counters.
“Life isn’t something they should have to ask for; life isn’t something that you grant them.”
“I got rid of all of our enemies! The other gangs would never step paw in these parts of the woods. I chased off the badgers and the foxes— I did that. For you. For our cats. I did that so that we could live in peace.”
“This is not peace. Not anymore, father. This is fear! This is tyranny! You took power that was not yours, and it made you evil. It made you into someone I don’t recognize. It made you into someone that I can no longer love. A true king does not stand over his own and beat them until they fall; he stands with them, and if they fall, he falls beside them or dies trying to hold them up. You have only ever held yourself up, father.”
“I’m all you have! I have held you up, you ungrateful prince—!”
“You have never held me up,” you say with a sad shake of your head. “You don’t even know what it’s like to support another. I learned from a young age how to care for myself. I learned from watching the cats that you hurt— I learned how to love from them. And I realized one thing very quickly: I do not love you. You might be my blood— but you are not my family. Not anymore.”
You launch yourself at your father, fangs wide.
***
You pad deeper into the stone amphitheater. You are finally able to lift your head high in response to the crowd, but you still cannot see a thing. All of your senses are overwhelmed by the noise. The cheers, the hoots, the jubilee, the waterfall crashing down like it knows all your secrets— It’s blinding, and it’s wrong. All of it is wrong.
“The King is dead! The King is dead! All hail the new King! His son, Kida, shall reign!”
In the water that falls from the crevasses of the amphitheater, you stare at a reflection of your father. It is the only thing that is clear through all the noise. He jeers at you, and he taunts you, and you see yourself covered in blood. You can still feel the sticky liquid collected at your paws—
The cheers are like a distant memory. All you can hear now is your father. All you can hear now is the sound of fear dying and guilt being born.
***
The King lies beneath you. Warm and sticky fur; struggling, rasping breath. Your paws are firm on his chest. He thinks this is a joke. He doesn’t think you have what it takes. And, yet, you’ve made it this far. You’ve made it so far as to overpower him, to throw him to the ground, to pierce his fur again and again and again—
“You’re a murderer!” you growl. “You don’t know the first thing about being a king! Heck, you don’t know the first thing about being a father! You don’t know the first thing about love! These cats need someone to look up to— but your own son can’t even look up to you! Why did you ever think you could lead?”
“You’re such a hypocrite, Kida,” he gargles. Blood drips down the corner of his lips. He lets out a laugh that turns into a cough. His muzzle is spotted pink. “You accuse me of being a murderer. You accuse me— me — of being a terrible king—” He jabs a weak paw at your chest and he growls, “But what does that make you?”
You’ve had enough. Your claw slices through his jugular before you can stop yourself. Your father doesn’t even put up a fight. It’s almost like he’s welcomed death. A cruel smile comes upon his lips as blood spurts from the wound in his neck. “A-and w-what does th-that m-make— you—you?” he repeats.
“A sa-savior,” you sputter. But your words lack their earlier confidence. Eyes wide at the horror at what you’ve done, you take your paws from your father’s chest and you step back, breathing heavily.
“A savior,” a voice inside you repeats quietly, as if trying to convince yourself that this murder can be justified. “I’m a savior.” But you stare at the dying King, and you know that he doesn’t agree. He lets out one last chuckle as you blink down at your soaked paws. There is no regret, but your body shakes with guilt and your limbs grow numb with shock.
As the life ebbs from his body, that chuckle is the last to fill your ears. He always got the last word, and although he would not put up a fight, he would not go down without giving you something to think about. He would not go down without you feeling like you were wrong—
“You are no savior,” says the chuckle. “You’re exactly like me.”
You don’t want to be the King.
But it could no longer be him.
His dying grin will forever be plastered in your mind. You do not want to make your father proud; but it dawns on you like the slow smile that spreads upon his face that you have. You have turned against all that you are; you have become your father by doing something only your father would have ever been capable of doing: you killed someone.
It doesn’t matter that it was him.
It doesn’t matter that he deserved to die.
You are just like him.
You murderer. You—
M
u
R
d
e
R
E
r.
You tell yourself that you did it to save the cats that King Darkfoot has so long kept locked up, voiceless, hurt— but, who did you really save?
Who did you really save?
***
They continue to cheer. You reign King — and, yet, you feel no jubilee.
You just killed your father. The blood still itches like some sort of phantom limb between your toes.
You cannot call yourself the King.
“All hail King Kida!” shout the cats who taught you to love.
“You are exactly like me!” repeats the cat who showed you hatred.
You lower your head as the noise erupts like thunder around you. You cannot see their faces, but you can feel the radiance of their smiles and their relief. The King is dead. The King is dead. King Kida reigns. King Kida reigns. We no longer have to live in fear—
They do not know how King Darkfoot died. They do not know that you — the kind son of the Tyrant King — killed him in cold blood.
Would they still cheer if they knew they were crowning a murderer? Would they still cheer for the cat they thought they knew and loved if the truth was out in the open?
He called himself the King.
But you—?
You—
How dare you—
How can you call yourself the King?