#50 Short Story

Long Live the King

The child of wonder held his breath, not out of fear, but of surprise.

One by one, all the toys he had gathered, taken care of, and—soon after—found homes for, stood and knelt, as if in great unison.

He was—is, and always will be—their king.

“Long live the king,” said the teddy bear.

The child remembered it. It was his favorite.

And like a choir of angels singing hymns and praises, they echoed:

“Long live the king.”

First one, then the second—the unison faltered. By the third and so forth, the voices of the many synced into one.

“Long live the king.”

“What…”

As if searching for the right words to fit through his tiny mouth, “I—I’m no king.”

The choir broke. Rhythm turned to murmurs, murmurs to silence.

“You’re all no more than toys to me,” the child said, honestly. “Merely my childish things. Nothing more—”

“Remember this, your grace?” The teddy bear interrupted.

He showed the king—and the crowd—a crudely patched scar on his side.

The child’s eyes widened.

“That’s a mistake,” the child said softly. “I should’ve done better.”

“On the contrary,” said the bear. “I lived, my grace. You saved me.

“I am aware you were still unlearned in the art of stitches, and yet you fixed me.

“I remember clearly—your shrieks of ouch, ow, oh boy, and the many apologies you gave an undeserving bear.

“My grace, I cannot unremember the tear you shed for me.”

“So do I,” another toy cut in.

A toy soldier stepped forward, showing a stitch along his face—neater this time, more confident.

“I remember you,” the child said. “You’re Mr. General.”

“I’m glad you remember me,” Mr. General replied.

“Do you remember me as well?”

The voice came from behind the crowd, quiet, almost a whisper.

A toy soldier emerged—not stuffed, but carved from wood. A cavalryman.

He carried a crudely made gun, a strange mesh of paper and glue, a needle fixed at its tip.

With eyes too bright and trembling hands, the child bowed his head.

“General Cross… I’m sorry I couldn’t find your musket.”

“Oh, but my king,” the soldier smiled, “you gave me far more.

“You gave me a bayonet.”

“Hardly a weapon.”

“Yes,” the general said gently, “because it was a gift.

“You even got hurt for my sake. I was conscious of it all while you fought and saved me from the thieves who tried to take me away.”

“They were bullies—”

“Matters not, my king,” the soldier said. “You saved me.”

“You saved all of us, my grace,” the teddy bear spoke.

And in the quiet that followed, the child said nothing—only held his breath, once more.

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