Harold leaned back and stretched, ears registering the pop-pop-pop of aging joints and discs jostling into place. So, this was it. Almost the end. There was only the aftermath to consider and the thought of writing it curdled him. Cause followed effect, and he saw how this would end. The Mercian king’s head mounted on a pike, the corpse left for the vultures.  And what would his dead eyes see?

The capital sacked, shopkeepers and merchants robbed at sword-point. Villagers left to wander the devastated countryside with empty hands and emptier eyes. Once-proud Mercian fortresses turned into tombs for the restless dead.

The king's predecessors had sown the seeds of disaster with careless aplomb. He had been left to reap the storm. He had fought, of course. He had thrown himself into battle after battle and yet the armies had come, inexhaustible, like the reaching tendrils of some dread hand. He had spent days locked in his study, reading missives and records and penning decrees. He had bluffed, threatened, and killed until even his foes called him the Lion of Mercia. It was futile. All greatness could do in such dire circumstances was forestall the inevitable.

Even a lion may not stand in front of an avalanche and claim victory. But there had been a time- when the lion was yet a cub- when things had not been so dire. Before the Reign of Blood and the incessant civil wars it had spawned, there had been a king who ruled the Mercia of old. Not the shattered remnants that the lion called his own. 

Then, the schemes that would catalyze Mercia's downfall were yet in their infancy. Other causes, though unassuming and illusive, had not yet taken on the strength of history. All was in flux, but the lion had been an impetuous and hotheaded youth, a slave of his underlying nature. And even had he the wisdom and temperance of age, the court had always been a pack of vipers even in prosperous times.

Harold stroked his beard, running his fingers through the coarse black hairs.

But I could've done it.

It was a strange thought, but not unfamiliar. He had been a young man once. But in this case, was it still hubris? With the right words to the right people, he could outmaneuver even veteran courtiers. Better yet, he could scoop up overlooked talent, building a stable of merit to buck destiny. He could become a hero of the Mercian people. A king that they would remember. 

Yeah right. His shoulders slumped. A king? He couldn’t even find a job. If he couldn’t be successful in his own mundane life, what hope did he have of ruling over others? Of leading armies? Of gaining the allegiance of talented ministers and extraordinary literati? It was all idle fantasy.

And yet, he couldn’t deny that he wanted it. Didn’t all men? He wanted to eat the finest delicacies, bed the most beautiful women, and earn the love of the people. He wanted to drive out his foes with sword in hand and laughter on his lips. He wanted to matter.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

With that final thought, Harold got up and changed into his pajamas. He reached for the string that turned off his light, pulled it, and then settled into his lumpy cot. As Harold sunk into sleep, he missed his unfinished manuscript glowing a dull, deep green.

-

Harold woke. Consciousness came in fit and spurts, and with it the realization that something had gone completely and utterly wrong.

He noticed the foot-board first, a sleek slab of polished mahogany wood he had only ever seen in the movies. It stood beyond the reach of his toes, framed by thick creamy drapes decorated with little embroidered figures. The mattress under his hands was soft and covered in downy furs, unlike his lumpy cot. Even his pillow was gone; in its place were several odd cylindrical-shaped objects.

Was I kidnapped? Or am I dreaming? He scrambled to his knees, almost slipping on the bedding as he fought to reach the edge of the spacious bed. Beyond the drapes, he could make out what seemed to be a bearskin rug. Then there was only darkness.

He had almost come off the bed when he heard a strange female voice call out.  He froze, heart pounding as his mind raced. Was it one of the kidnappers? Another part of the dream? Could a dream be so realistic?

The sound of soft footsteps settled the matter. If it was a dream, then it didn’t matter what he did. But if it was a kidnapper…he didn’t know what they wanted from him – organs? trafficking? – but they weren’t going to get it. He crouched, sucked in a deep breath. Waited. He could hear his old football coach cursing into his ear, yelling at him to put everything into his tackles.

The kidnapper came closer.

Then closer still.

Harold charged forward. The voice shrieked. Harold’s eyes widened before he bowled her over, sending them both skidding along the soft fur of the rug. He landed on her with a dull thump. He had scarce made his mind to apologize when the door flew open. A black-haired youth in armor stormed in, followed by guards armed with torches and spears.

They trooped in. The armored youth alternated between staring at Harold and at the maid (whose garments had come partially undone in the scuffle) with a growing bright red flush, mouth opening and failing to form words. The men behind him were struggling to keep a straight face; one baldy had given up and was chuckling merrily into his fist. And Harold? Harold caught himself staring into frightened brown eyes, all too aware of her lips. Lush pink lips mere inches from his own.

She was warm, too. He could feel her breasts press against his chest as she exhaled and through them the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart, a few beats off from his. Good god, thought Harold dimly. He hadn’t had one of these dreams in ages.

“Umm, s-sorry for intruding, your Highness,” the stuttering youth choked out, red to the tips of his ears. “We will return to, uh, safeguarding your person. Outside. Yes, most definitely-”

“What, you never seen a girl before, Castell?” Baldy interjected, drawing out the name until it sounded insulting. “Wonder o’ wonders.” He folded his arms, ignoring the pleading looks from his fellow guardsmen.

“It is Sir Castell to you,” the knight snapped, his face darkening into an unhealthy puce. “Uncouth bastard.”

Harold would have interjected, but a shred of blue caught his eye. Curious, he turned. The guardsmen's torches had stripped the room of its darkness and Harold could now see its walls in their entirety. 

There, on the far wall, hung a very familiar blue banner. And with a sickening sort of dread, one Harold Grimes finally realized that no, this was no dream.