The Broken King

“We’re in for a storm tonight” cackled the broken king. His chair creaked as he rocked it slowly back and forth. His head lay cocked to one side, a small puddle had formed in the crook of his arm, a result of the continuous stream of drool which trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The son paced back and forth, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor. One man walked, one rocked, the portraits of their ancestors gazed down on each with unfeeling eyes.

On the great wooden table rested two jewel encrusted golden goblets, each brimmed with a wine as dark and red as blood.

“The storm is come, our time is done” the broken king giggled.

“Sing another song” muttered the son as he withdrew a pouch from the folds of his cloak and emptied the powdered contents into a goblet. Three moons past the old man had visited an oracle and lost his mind. Now he spoke of nothing but storms and floods and doom.

The son tipped back his father head and raised the tainted goblet to the old mans lips. He held his father’s body tight in his arms as the broken king’s body began to convulse and his blue eyes threatened to burst from their sockets.

When the son finally rose to his feet the broken king was dead and a new king was born. He swore to the Gods that his would be a glorious reign of discovery and conquest. His name would echo through the ages. For thousands of years bards would tell of the mighty island kingdom of Atlantis

Beyond the palace walls the skies began to darken and the wind whipped at the salty grey waters. A storm was coming.