He looked down at the object sticking out of his throat. It was strong cedar with swan feathers for the fletching. No blood fell from the source of the wound. Breathing out, slow and strong, he ripped the shaft of the arrow from his chest. The crowd gasped in awe. He dropped the arrow to his feet.

"No silver spear will tear the soul from I, the King Immortal!" His voice vibrated with each syllable, reverberating throughout the hall. Hawk Nose and the rest of the table were all leaning away from him now, his "mistress of honor" now trembling.

Several heavy steps pounded in quick succession behind him, and then a long silver spear slid through the center of his ribs. Fear and awe mingled across the faces of the crowd, even those who had seen the ceremony before. Cowards. He could kill every man and woman in here and still have time for a moonlit swim.

The King placed both hands on the head of the spear, snapped the head off with a single twist, and pulled himself from the spear's shattered shaft. The fury was on him now. Wild, afire. He felt his fingers tighten around the base of the spearhead, not letting it drop.

The soldier behind him did not have the chance to be surprised as the King twisted around and buried its point into his guts. Screams rang out inside the hall as blood showered the dais. Hawk Nose took several seconds to realize the red dots mottling her dress were not spilled from her glass, and then she too began to crow.

He turned towards them, mad grin gleaming upon his ancient visage. Aye, this is what he needed. This is what he desired. After all these years of peace. All these years of boredom. Alone, surrounded by a kingdom.

Mayhaps he did not want to be King. It had been Margery's stupid dream anyway.

All he had ever wanted was the war.

Balznov's face turned a shade of goat's milk. He teetered backwards, slipping past the edge of the dais, and crashed into a table below.

Spit flecked the corners of the King's mouth as he let loose a carnal shout, battle-joy racking his trembling body. His audience fled towards the back of the hall, away from their ruler.

Away from their King.

The boy's blade. He snatched it from the table and held it towards the crowd. It looked faintly familiar to him, but he had seen many knives in his time. They were all good for one thing. And only one thing.

He sucked in air—a tempest in his lungs—and let loose. "No man alive with sword or knife can fell the King Immortal!" The words fell slow, twisted. He plunged the knife deep into his weathered heart.

Shivering with fury, he stared out into the crowd, wanting—begging—for someone to challenge him. Pleading for some semblance of a fight. Praying for blood.

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A strange sensation pulsed where the blade had struck. An old sensation, almost forgotten.

Pain.

He raised his arm and winced, feeling the flesh tear around his wound. Blood like rivulets formed a carmine trail down his knuckles and dripped from his fingers.

His own.

"Aye, that's not supposed to happen," he muttered, feeling the battle-joy suddenly leave him. His legs felt suddenly weak and he stumbled backwards into the table, knocking over his goblet, feeling the strength of his fury extinguished like the hushed wick of a candle.

"Well, shit."

His hand, slick with fresh blood, slipped off the smooth wood and he crashed into the floor. The goblet he'd knocked over had leaked its warm contents and the King now lay in a puddle formed of ale and ichor. The crowd beyond him continued to thrash about—rushing towards any available exit, trampling each other to escape—though some paused long enough to watch the strange sight of their immortal King bleeding out.

"It's your own damned fault, you know."

Dizzily, as if drunk, the King turned his head. Black spots clouded his vision for a moment. When they cleared he was able to discern a painted figure kneeled beside him, fool's hat flopping atop his head. "Wadhju do?" His tongue was dry and clumsy inside his mouth.

"What did I do?" asked the Jester. "What did you do? You know I may be a few stars short of a sunrise, but even I don't go sticking pointy weapons inside my body." He giggled then, and stole a quick glance at the murder weapon jutting out of the King's chest.

The King's vision blurred once again from the bloodloss, and then, strangely, it blurred as he tried to look upon the knife's hilt. Then the blur faded. "This blade...this is...our blade. Margery and I...we made—"

"Shhh, shhh. Don't speak, my lord. You'll just hurry this whole thing and I'd prefer it if you took this slow. No sense in hearing all the gritty details, anyhow. You'll be dead quite soon and at your own doing, mind you."

The world went dark suddenly, but the King fought against it with everything he had left, which was not much. When his eyes opened again the fool had seated himself in front of him just inches from his face.

"Okay fine," the Jester said. "Since you're being so stubborn about this, I'll tell you this: stealing magic through murder is a vile act of inconsiderable treachery. The fact that you did it to the woman you loved just makes it all the more wretched. You locked your very soul inside this blade when you stole hers away from her. But now you have it back." The fool smiled then, and winked. "'No man alive with sword or knife can fell the King Immortal.'"

Then, the painted man wrenched the dagger from the King's chest and leaned in close to his ear. "But you've been dead for centuries, you rancid piece of snail shit."

The King did not know when the Jester had left him, only that he were gone. As he stared at the lifeblood that continued to flow from his body he found that in the end he did not care about what had happened or who had done it. He did not think about what would happen to his Kingdom once he was gone. He could not even bring himself to mourn his own death. His only worry—his only fear—was that of Margery, and what the bitch would do to him once she had discovered him in hell.

He soon found out.