Once upon a time...yeah, no. No; there were clashes and bangs; drops of blood and the ground burdened with corpses. This was their moment of glory; their moment of failure and heartlessness. Each side was a brilliant flash of gold or blue as they seemingly vanished into thin air after attacking so violently. Yes; these warriors knew what they were doing; they were masters at the art of killing.

The ground had been covered in mud, the sun veiled with shadows. The sky was releasing its' own tears, shattering the dry heat. Nonetheless they marched on to their destination. That...that putrid king had gone too far this time; had pulled the very last straw. He had strained them free of their money, robbed them of their dignity. He, the King, had ignited a fire in the villagers' hearts that could not be quenched.

"Mother! Mother, save me! They're hurting me, they won't let go! Please Mom save..." Abigail woke with a sweat, fear gripping her heart. Those were the last words sweet, sweet Mary had spoken, spoken and yelled with anxiety and pain. To watch her very own daughter die; her blood staining the soldiers' course hands. Oh, it was unthinkable..yet Abigail lay there, penetrating the darkness with her tear-stained eyes, feeling revenge slowly weave itself around every vein within her body.

As they neared the Royal Hall, Abigail clutched her husband's hand; their sweat mingling together. She lifted her pale green eyes and looked around at the people marching with them. Tears were prohibiting her right to see but through their heavy veil she saw she wasn't the only one in anguish. Mothers wept for their lost children, fathers cursing the man who took away their ability to provide life's simple provisions it demands. This was it; this was their time to revenge the fallen's innocence.


Lacy ran out of her room shrieking, “Father! They’ve come!” The King slumbery got up and looked out the window. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, snapped open at the sight of the villagers. Their voices were seeping through the walls; curses thrown at him, revenge-filled threats, and cries for their lost ones. Ones tortured at the twitch of his eye, murdered at the flick of his hand. He should’ve known that this was to come. He stood there transfixed as Lacy ran out into the midst of the crowd; but his thoughts were no longer for his daughter’s safety...He must hide.

He was a coward, that man. Abigail saw it in his eyes as his daughter, Lacy, attached herself to Abigail’s waist. He had the guts, the bravery to kill off his subjects, yet when he was the one being hunted he ran and hid. How pitiful of a man to care less about his daughter than himself. She knew now that this was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the right thing to do. No; it was what they must do.

The collision of the King’s soldiers and the villagers was a terrific one; the craftsmanship of swords and the scrawny handmade daggers mixed together. The soldiers attempted to surge forward; the villagers’ eyes widening in anger, in resentment. Little did the soldiers know that they, the villagers, had been training for weeks now. The soldiers had nothing to fight for but their lives. The villagers had anger, fear, pain, injustice. They fought for not only their lives, but their murdered children’s, husbands’, wives’, father and mothers’, siblings’, and their friends’ lives.

The fallen soldiers and villagers lay soaked in their own blood. Yet still some villagers stood, they had won the fight of injustice. Lacy was strewn across Abigail, Abigail doing all in her power to take the girl’s pain away. Lacy; such a pure, innocent child, was struggling for her very life now, a soldiers’ knife tip stuck in her chest. Where was the King now? Was he still cowering inside the house as Lacy’s life was being ripped away? A surge of anger built up, exploding in Abigail’s body. She let out a scream of agony and ran toward the Hall; gathering torches and people along the way. They set that accursed house aflame; listening as the minutes went by and the King’s lone scream filled the night air.

They knew not that he, the King, was the Creator of them. He had conjured them to life with his thoughts, raised up a nation. They were not aware that without him they could not exist. They slipped away, one by one, leaving behind only blood and ashes. They had lost their live fighting for peace, for justice. The only thing left to remind us of this great and noble war is the blood; known so well to people today as the Great Red Spot of Jupiter.