Long Live the King!
— PROLOGUE —
The small fire danced and crackled under the endless night sky, sending a soft orange glow across the face of the old man. He sighed, leaning against the broken and discarded television he had set up and pretended that it was still working. Next to him was his bag of foodstuffs, supplies, and other miscellaneous items discovered in the travels through the broken land. He glanced over at the sleeping bag that was set up for his traveling buddy—a sweet yet strong seven year-old half demon girl—and heard her snoring lightly in her sleep. He smiled, relieved that she seemed to be doing okay. Earlier that day she had started to show signs of what could have been a cold or a fever, some kind of illness, so Simon was worried that something bad would develop if it hadn't already. When you live in a post-apocalyptic world, if you were to fall ill, it seemed obvious that there was little chance that you could find medicine or anything else that would be able to help a good deal.
Simon walked over and threw another piece of scrap into the fire to keep it going a little more then walked back to the busted television. They had enough that they were carrying to spare, and there was enough flammable junk that wasn't dangerous to burn lying around as well. He promised himself that he wasn't going to go to sleep that night. He needed to make sure that Marceline was healthy and doing well, Glob forbid she was actually sick with something.
"You should get some rest, Simon."
Simon huffed. He knew that taunting, evil, lovely voice better than his own changing one. "I don't need it, and I especially don't need to tell you to tell me what I need," he retorted, grumbling under his breath.
He wasn't going to give in this time. Just ignore It, Simon. It'll be quiet and leave you alone eventually. Of course, deep down he knew that wasn't true. The Crown never gave up. It loved to toy with him. It knew his every thought, every weakness, and It would use these and more to gain control over him.
"You must be exhausted, looking after a little brat like her and trying to support yourself at the same time."
He turned sharply to The Crown, which sat on the ground near his bags. "Don't talk about little Marcy like that," he snapped, trying not to immediately turn the conversation into a one-way shouting match. "She could be ill and all you do is just sit there and poke fun at her!"
The Crown continued ignoring the anger and resistance the old man was throwing around within his sentences, knowing that he didn't really mean them. He never did. "This is the first time in a long while that you have separated yourself from me, my king. It's so cold on the ground. Let me sit with you and we can be warm by the fire together."
"You don't mind the cold; you control it. Don't try to make me feel guilty."
"Even so, it isn't very nice to leave me down here, Simon. I'm so cold and alone down here... You know what that is like, don't you?"
Simon glanced over at The Crown hesitantly and started to reach for It before realizing what he was doing and swatting his hand away. No. He couldn't give in this time. He was going to put an end to this. But...It—no, It's a She—is all alone...cold...I can't just...no...
The Crown recognized this resistance and quickly fought back. She cried for him, She repeated his name, She wished for his company, and She was determined to gain control over him through any means necessary. She knew he would try to resist Her control, to forget Her, but no, no, that wouldn't be good.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" he shouted angrily at Her, picking Her up and shaking Her violently before throwing Her back on the ground and kicking Her away. He turned to Marceline to see her softly rustle in her sleep. Thankfully, she hadn't woken up and heard him fighting with the voice only he could hear.
It was then he heard a sniffling in the darkness that sounded like someone crying. It wasn't from the campsite itself. It was from the darkness that surrounded it. Immediately, he got up and walked over to The Crown, picking Her up, walking Her back over to the warm fire, and settling Her into his lap. He didn't say anything. He only felt that sharp pang of guilt in his chest that he got whenever he acted up like this and abandoned The Crown—his beautiful, icy, powerful Crown—even if it was for only a small moment. The damned thing was annoying, but he needed it. The Crown was his only sense of protection, of security, of power. Without Her, him and little Marcy surely would have died by then. He couldn't lose this Crown. Never.
If The Crown had an actual face, She would have been smirking in total victory, and Simon knew that. It made him furious and sad all at the same time. "That's right, my king," She said in that sickeningly soft voice She spoke in whenever a fight was won. "We need each other. I'll forgive you for that little episode, just promise me you won't do it again."
Simon nodded, succumbing to The Crown's hurtful yet somehow gentle understanding. "Yes, my dear," he agreed softly.
...
After another hour or two, the fire started to die out and left little hot orange cinders in the pile of wood and junk. It didn't matter too much that there was no more fire though because Simon had fallen asleep with his dear Crown clipped to his side like always.
When she was sure that he had fallen asleep, Marcy rolled over and stared at Simon sleeping on top of the television he had set up for her, holding her stomach with one hand and her stuffed animal Hambo with the other. She wasn't feeling all that well in the first place and a growing stomachache was partially what had woken her up, but the other part was hearing the shouting argument that was happening only a few feet away from her sleeping bag. She listened in on Simon's argument with The Crown which sent a stinging pain of worry through her. She could only hear one side of the argument. That's all she could ever hear when Simon was talking with that evil...thing. She could never even try to comprehend what exactly The Crown was saying to him. The only thing she was absolutely and completely positive of, was that The Crown was certainly not saying anything that good or encouraging.
"Simon," she whispered, silently hoping for Simon to hear her wish in his sleep, "you have to keep fighting. Don't listen to that stupid crown...please..."
He moved, mumbling something inaudibly in his sleep. She sighed and curled up into a little ball in the warm sleeping bag. He had used the Crown earlier, and he almost couldn't get back to his normal self after taking off the Crown. He was getting worse. There was only so much time left before he would never go back to the funny, caring friend known as Simon Petrikov that she knew. She wanted to do something, she had to do something before it was too late.
...
I love you, Simon.
I love you too...Gunter.
That was his response to what she told him. She loved him. She loved him for his funniness. She loved him for his kindness. For his optimism and bravery when times looked like they were going to take a terrible turn, for caring for her when the rest of the world was dead, for being her friend. He didn't have to stop and help her when she was left there crying Glob-knows-how-long ago. He wanted to. He wanted to help her and travel with her and be friends with her. And she loved him for all of that and more.
But that man was dying.
He couldn't even remember her name now.
Surrounded by these strange dirt-colored blobs that oozed out a stranger green ooze from huge pores in their body—monsters, they were hideous, terrifying monsters—Simon had put on The Crown to protect them. He started singing the silly song he sang when he built the pretend cardboard television and then...
Ice. Everywhere. Snow and ice.
"Taking a break from all your worries," sang Simon, "sure would help a lot! Wouldn't you like to go to where everybody knows your name?"
With the monsters covered in snow and no longer moving, the lyrics slowed to a stop. He knocked The Crown off his head and left it in the snow where his glasses were now lying. Even though they were broken, he still needed them, but for some reason at that moment he felt perfectly fine. He could see everything, including the chicken noodle soup that was dangling from the strange pink substance all over the opposite wall. Simon ran over and grabbed it along with the can opener that stuck next to it. Perhaps it was simply another wild hallucination from Her, but he could have sworn that the substance smiled. It confused and startled him, making him wonder even more about the pink blob that had given him assistance more than once that day. More worried about little Marcy who was alone in the old car that sat along the dead end of the large alleyway, he grabbed the items and ran over, feeding her the soup and hugging her tightly.
She was going to be alright. Yes, little...what's-her-name...Mary? Maggie? No, no...Gunter. That's the only name that comes to mind... That's her name, right? Yes, little Gunter. She'll be okay. Though...was something wrong in the first place? I can't remember... It's probably nothing.
Gunter. I love you too, Gunter.
