“We did it!” I cried, sitting up, excited to see Dorthea without the cursed green in her eyes or her flaming hair.
Dorthea looked like I remembered her growing up, regular hazel eyes and silky, chestnut hair. Except those locks were splayed around her unmoving body. And a silver-and-sapphire-hilted sword pierced through her chest, pinning her to the ground.
“Rule #999: Happily Ever After begins after the villain is defeated, the prince and princess kiss, and the kingdom rejoices. The End.”
—Definitive Fairy-Tale Survival Guide, Volume 1
37
Once and Future King
My feet wouldn’t move. My brain refused to believe. My eyes could not block out the truth.
What had I done?
Dorthea lay on the rocky ground, skewered through the chest by a sword—like a flutterbye to a mat. After turning her head slightly, she looked me in the eye. Her mouth moved, but only a gurgling sound came out. Then a cough racked her body, staining her lips red.
The contrast of the blood against her pale skin made my actions real. I ran to her side.
“I’m sorry. Oh Grimm, forgive me. Hang on.” I held Dorthea’s hand and frantically looked around for Oz. “Help her!” I screamed. Oz stayed where he was, solemnly clasping his hands with a slight nod of his head.
I was about to hurl curses at him when a spark of green wafted in front of my face. Like a will-o’-the-wisp. Then another. I gazed back down at Dorthea, her body slowly breaking up into the green embers.
“Nonononono! You can’t leave me too. This is not what I wanted.”
Dorthea squeezed my hand, the madness no longer twisting the veins across her face as her lips formed two words before flaking off into green ash.
Thank. You.
And then she was gone. The sword still pierced the ground, but I was left holding empty air as the green embers spiraled upward and floated away.
Chaos still reigned around me on the battleground. The fleeing. The fighting. The fallen.
My hand was on the hilt of the sword before I could think through my actions. I ripped the sword from the shale and laid the blade flat against Oz’s bare throat.
“You knew that would happen.” It wasn’t a question.
“It was the only way. For the story to progress, she needed to—”
“Die?” I rotated the blade, scraping the skin under his chin. “Bring her back.”
“I don’t have that power. And even if I did, Dorthea is exactly where she needs to be. As are you.”
Our scene was drawing in some of the surviving villains and orderlies from the institute, but I didn’t care. The sword gleamed, bright with my fury and pain.
“You think you get to decide our fates? What…” I tried to catch my breath and stop the sobs from rising up my throat. “What…gives…you…the right? We are free…to choose.”
“Never has that been more true. I can’t wait to see how this story turns out.” Taking a step back, he put a hand to his chest, then kneeled.
As he kneeled before me, I could see the rest of the field around me. Like trees bending to the storm, the orderlies all fell to one knee. Some villains pointed while the most notorious of them glared, their stares sharp as any blade. A murmur of whispers grew into a dull roar. I spotted Hydra and Mordred, the only two who moved toward me.
“Excalibur has been reforged.” Mordred’s eyes flared as he glanced at the sword that should’ve been his by right.
I looked at the sword in my hand, which used to be a quill.
The pen is mightier than the sword indeed. I mentally cursed the Storymaker, who merely shrugged before vanishing in a puff of smoke and the scampering of rodent feet.
“The once and future king has appeared to lead us through these dark times,” Hydra said, her voice high and lofty. Regal. Gwenevere. As she and Mordred navigated their way through the crowd—villains, creatures, even Mic—fell to one knee in a motion like a wave. Crashing down on me. Threatening to drown me.
The sword in my hand grew heavy, its true weight and burden revealed.
“I’m not—”
Gwen cut me off. “All hail the return of the king!”
The crowd rose to their feet in one motion, crying, “Huzzah!”
I ignored them, rushing to Mordred. “Take it. Please take it. I don’t want it.”
He stared at me, considering all I offered. Reaching out, Mordred’s hand shook, but pulled back before touching Excalibur. “Which is exactly why the sword and its responsibility should be in your possession.”
“All I want is to bring back Dorthea and Kato! That’s it. I can’t lead these people.”
Gwenevere closed her eyes and shook her head fiercely. “Then the story ends here. Run and we all die.” When she opened her eyes again, they were each a different shade. “Fight and only most will.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Thanks for that.”
“You won’t be alone, Rex,” Mordred said. “But a ruler must always stand apart. It is a heavy burden, and only you can decide if you have the strength to bear it.” He looked at me, assessing. Weighing if I had what it took.
I wish I knew.
The cheering had died down while the crowd waited for me to say something. Rot if I knew what. But the expression on most of their faces shook me to my core: hope.
What do I do?
A lone green ember wafted on the breeze.
I raised the glowing sword to the sky and prayed to that single spark that I wouldn’t screw up too badly.
The crowd broke into wild cheers of “Long live the king!”
For my part, I only wanted to hurk.
Mordred took my hand and lowered to one knee. “I will stay by your side and ensure the weight of Excalibur does not overtake you as it did Arthur. Child of the trees, my life is yours. As long as you deserve it.” Looking up with a wry grin, he whispered amidst the other cheers, a message meant for only me: “Long live the queen.”
The End: th-uh ’end n. the cessation of a story’s narrative; a conclusion, which is really just a different sort of beginning.
—Charlotte Webster’s Dictionary of Fairy-Tale Terms
The long-term care wing of Kansas General was normally the quietest of the entire hospital.
Not today.
A veritable army dressed in white coats and orthopedic shoes rushed back and forth through the corridors, all thanks to the coma patient in 17E who had just woken up.
“Miss…miss. I need you to calm down,” the nurse explained, quickly glancing to the door, hoping that the med cart would arrive soon.
The girl in the bed ignored the caregiver and yanked the oxygen tubes from her nose. “Where am I? What’s going on?”
A knock sounded on the door. A doctor strolled into the room with a chart in one hand and his other hand behind his back. “Well, hello, Miss Gayle. So nice to see you finally awake.”
The girl gasped and put both hands on her chest. She looked down at her bare feet. “They’re gone.” She groaned.