King's Orders - A short story

King’s Orders

“King Jonathan, I really do advise you go to the royal ceremony, it would be a great help to your army’s morale, especially since you were the one that got them into this war, young sir.” King Jonathan, or Jon, was unfortunately king. To most people in the medieval  times being king would be amazing, but young Jon thought otherwise. Jon had always been a bit of a rebel when he was still just a prince, always going off on fancy adventures, trying to save princesses in towers, only find out that it was all a myth, and that there was no princess in a tower - an ugly ass - wait, I can’t say that, can I? Oh I can? Ass is allowed? Okay, thanks, ahem - man dressed like a woman, who was then thrown in a dungeon by Jon’s parents he found plenty, but not the lady of his dreams. Jon’s parents were very strict and did not at all like Jon’s little mischiefs, mainly because he often stole real heavy artillery and weapons from the royal armoury, and being king and queen, that’s not the best for your army. When they eventually died of ah, let’s say “not being liked by deadly assassins” and it was time for a thirteen year old Jon to take the throne he was none too pleased about it. Now, not to be rude to Jon, but he wasn’t exactly the best king, he very often made very bad decisions for his new-found kingdom, went partying a lot, and got into wars because he’s a bit stupid. Having governed at this point for a whole year, Jon was now fourteen, and more annoyed at being king than ever.

“But I don’t wanna go to a stupid ceremony and give my stupid army a stupid speech so the can stupid win a stupid war!” Jon yelled at his Royal Supervisor, Ronald, as he lay spread eagled on his back atop his newly made, beautiful mahogany bed.
“Jonathan, that does not even make grammatical sense, it would be stupidly, not stupid, and besides, you got them into this gruesome war, the least you could do is help them get out of it.”
“Pfft, it’s the third war this reign, I’m sure they can get out of it themselves, I mean, they won fifty percent of the wars I made, that’s a preeeetty good win rate if you ask me…” he said, smirking at his apparently amazing thought process.
“Ugh, Jonathan, honestly, what would your parents think of you if they saw you now?” Ronald asked.
“Think I was perfect in every way because I am.” Jon retorted happily.
“I give up on you Jonathan…” Ron muttered as he left the room to go do some boring taxes or something.
“And call me Jon next time!” he called out as he threw an oversized pillow toward the closing door.

There was silence in the room for a minute or so, until a voice piped up from under the massive bed. “You gonna pick that up?” it said.
“Heh, no, I’ve got plenty up here. Oh, you can come out now by the way.” the young king replied.
“Finally, under there it is really flipping dusty, and how long does that old coot take to leave?” Helga, Jon’s best Viking friend inquired as she got up from beneath his bed, dusting herself off. Jon chuckled and said “Heh, if you, if you add an ‘er’ to that word, than it definitely would be dusty… hehe, I’m so funny…” Helga sat on the titanic bed, confused for a moment, until she realised the dirty mindedness of her friend’s terrible joke. She put her head in hand and sighed, her red hair drooping down as she did, and she muttered
“Jon, please die. Just please.”
“Oh you know you find it funny,” he said, chuckling “and you know that you knew what I meant instantly when I said it, because you’re a Viking.” he continued, chuckling as he did. She turned to him slowly, with an odd expression on her face, and slowly stated
“Is that racism, in my house? Get that crap - wait can we say that? Is crap allowed? That’s good, crap’s good? Okay cool, thanks - outta here boy, I will not have this disgusting human behaviour in my house.” she said it very firmly, more firm then usual. They then sat in awkward silence for a few seconds until the two of them burst into hysterics, Jon almost joking on air.

They made small talk for a while until there was a loud shout of pain, and the sound of thundering feet from somewhere, which raised the pair’s suspicion. Helga quickly turned to Jon and indicated to keep quiet, then slowly walked over to a mantle piece that held a traditional Viking battle axe on it, and, pulling it from place, made for the side of the door. They were stood there, tense for a minute or so, until a shout of “Clear! Aldridcht! You take this room!” Suddenly there was a thundering of feet and the door slammed open, to which in response, Helga furiously swung the axe to try to at least stun the invader. Unfortunately, said invader had proper armour, and, to both Helga and Jon’s surprise, the mantle piece weapons weren’t actually real, and the axe head flew across the room when met with hard steel (or something that is used in olden-timey armour, I don’t know). Helga gasped at the happening, and Jon had to duck out the way of a boomeranging axe-head that went in his direction. It landed in the hard wood of his bed frame and surprisingly stayed in place. The rowdy pair looked at the face of their invader, and as Helga did she dropped the handle to the axe and yelled
 “Father!?” as it was - funnily enough - her father, Aldrecht, who despised the royal family. He too yelled in surprise
“Helga!? What are you doing here with this filth!?”
“I, uh, I was going to kill him, uh, yeah! Definitely! I just need a real weapon to do it because this axe is uh, broken!” she was scrambling for excuses, so surprised, and too right, her father had just burst in on her pretty much being a traitor and consorting with the enemy. Aldrecht stood for a minute, scanning the situation until he finally smiled, hugged his daughter, handed her a small off-hand axe and yelled out
“Haha! That’s my girl, now go slaughter him!”

Helga walked over to him, and shakily raised the axe above her head, ready to bring it down. Jon looked up at her, eyes widened with sadness. But to his surprise, she winked at Jon and brought the axe down just to the side of him, turned to her father and shouted
“I can’t, Father! I just can’t do it, because, because I-” she turned to her friend, who was spazzing out on his bed, supposedly pretending to die. “Jon, what are you…?” he sat up, looking confused and said
“Ohhhhhh, are we not gonna pretend I’m dead? I thought that’s what we were doing… man, now I feel stupid.”
“I wonder why…” Aldrecht piped in.
“Look, father I a can’t kill Jon, because he’s my friend and I-”
“YOUR FRIEND!?” Aldrecht roared, “YOU ARE NO CHILD OF MINE!” he gripped at his broadsword, pulsing with anger. As he grabbed at his weapon, he saw Helga flinch her arm in front of Jon in a protective manner, and hesitated.

Sliding his sword back in place, he glared at the two and slammed the door shut. There was a shout of “clear” from outside, followed by the once again thundering of footsteps. Helga turned to Jon, but then held her head low, and walked over to a window that was closed in his room. Pushing open the shutters, she turned to Jon and whispered “I’m sorry…” and as she was about to leave Jon grabbed her arm, and said
“Helga I… are we still gonna be friends…?” She looked away from him, unable to make eye contact.
“We can’t…”
“I-” she turned to him and pecked him on the forehead, and, smiling at him, she turned and jumped from the ledge she was perched on. Leaning out the window, he called to her “W-wait! What about the axe!?”
“Keep it as a souvenir!” He, smiled, and sat on his bed.


Fin