The view of the sunset was blurry, almost as if seen underwater. In the park, children played—laughing and running. Others climbed the metal jungle, slid down the slide, or simply sat together chatting.
In the cool shade beneath a dome—its shadow thrown by the nearly hidden sun—a child was playing alone on the ground. Despite the somewhat somber scene, the little one actually seemed to be having a fantastic time.
He was bashing a knight's toy against a king's.
Sir Ballista had betrayed a corrupt king, and now, in search of justice, he was ready to assassinate him in order to claim the throne and rule with the most just and chivalrous laws possible.
For the boy, this was the greatest and most thrilling spectacle he could ever have imagined or even devised with his own toys. It was the climax of an epic battle between two brothers—first united as family, then as squire and knight, and now as knight and king.
The toys clashed fiercely, each strike and collision accompanied by the clatter of plastic, always full of excitement.
"Take that, take that! Today I will defeat you, King Kingris—my sword will pierce your heart and your reign will fall with you," he declared while vigorously waving the knight's toy.
"No one will take my power away!" shouted the King's figure as he waved his doll. "Not now that I've grasped it, not now that I finally savor it. I will never be miserable again!"
The toys resumed their swordfight. The King was already growing weary from his deep wounds, while Sir Ballista hesitated with each passing moment, doubting whether he could really do it—kill his own brother.
But there was no time for second thoughts. The king and the knight fought for their ideals: one for justice, the other determined never to feel miserable again. It was a personal battle for their very selves. At last, Sir Ballista sharpened his resolve as he looked into the wild eyes of his elder brother, and with a firm thrust, he drove his sword through his King's chest as blood began to seep slowly, staining the top-quality garments and fine fabrics the king wore.
Sir Ballista then caressed his brother's hair—a familiar gesture that evoked precious memories of the past. King Kingris gently closed his eyes as he fell into the cold embrace of death.
The knight kissed his king's forehead and tenderly laid him on the floor in his arms, gazing into his brother's vibrant eyes one final time.
Sir Ballista knew full well that all power and responsibility would now fall on his shoulders—he could build a fairer kingdom for his people. Yet, something deep inside left him feeling hollow—the thought that, from now on, he would be alone in the world.
The child finished playing with his toys and looked ahead. His long, light brown hair swayed with the movements of his head and the breeze, while his blue eyes remained tearful and glistening, yet tinged with melancholy.
Little Arthur identified so strongly with Sir Ballista; after all, he sometimes felt lonely himself. But that did nothing to ease the sorrow in his chest—it only deepened it. For most of the time, he had kept his true feelings repressed. Still, he knew that letting his emotions out wouldn't solve anything. Besides, there was no one there for him to even listen when he cried.
Undoubtedly, he was a strong boy from an early age.
Little Arthur reached out his hand toward the sky, filled with a certain longing. A spark of hope grew within him each time he made that gesture—even though he knew deep down it wouldn't really change anything.
Arthur got to his feet, shook his knees, and left the park, walking along the long streets of his neighborhood. He admired the sunset—which seemed reluctant to give way to the rising moon. Either time was moving more slowly, or it had stopped altogether, rendering this scene an eternal twilight.
The boy let out a joyful little giggle; he loved to imagine such fantastical things—it was his delight and one of his few methods of entertainment.
He then walked a few more blocks until he reached his house's door. He took the keys from his pocket, opened the front door, and then stepped through the entrance.
"I'm home now," he said as he closed the door behind him and proceeded down the hallway.
Next, he looked at a picture affixed to the wall. It featured three people—a young man hugging a cheerful child and, beside him, a woman with blonde, almost golden hair, embracing both the man and the boy.
"Mom, Dad," Arthur murmured as he looked at the photo, trying not to glance at the table beneath it. There was something on that table he didn't want to see, yet he lacked the courage to get rid of it.
Quickly, he tore his eyes away from the photo and hurried toward the kitchen. He began rummaging through the fridge for some ingredients.
He took out an onion, a bell pepper, and some eggs. Then, he grabbed one of the chairs surrounding the table and placed it in front of the refrigerator. Climbing atop it, he opened the freezer and retrieved a piece of frozen meat.
The boy set the meat to thaw, chopped the onion and the bell pepper with a certain clumsiness, and cracked the eggs—separating the yolks and the whites—though he also dropped some eggshells into the bowl.
Little Arthur didn't mind at all. He stirred the eggs, shells and all, then poured them into a pan and sprinkled in a bit of salt.
Slowly and patiently, he prepared a rough stew of meat with scrambled eggs. That was going to be his meal for the day; after all, he didn't have much of a choice.
Aunt and uncle were busy with work all day, and Dad and Mom… Dad and Mom—on the table right beneath the frame of their family photo—had two mournful altars dedicated to them.