The King's Test

'Twas not a fairytale.

'Twas the kind of tale only to be penned in dark ink, ink that spoils the snow-white pages of a raven-black notebook.

Once upon a time, there was a country with a dazzling center and ragged, torn edges. The fringes of the country were rough and oh-so-hard. One could barely walk out of some districts without reeking with the stench of the poor. But it was said that one step into the glittering center would cleanse you of everything from your skin to your soul. The center was beautiful and shimmering and gleaming—only the best and richest lived inside its pearly walls.

Each of the thirteen districts in the country's fraying edges had their own small, unimportant duke and perhaps a duchess. But in the center, the brilliantly sparkling center, there was the ruler of them all—the king. He had no queen, but he did have a boy, a prince, a successor to his throne. This king was not a bad king. He knew how to rule, certainly, and how to do it well. But you could not quite say he was a good king, either. He had an indifference to his country, to his land. He did not care for them beyond what was necessary for him to keep his crown. And so he brought his son up the same way, treasuring not much more than his power and crown and perhaps the glimmering center of the country.

The balance between the center and the edges was thin but steady. It was not the best of times for those in the poor districts but it wasn't the worst, either. The king didn't care for them but he didn't torture them or mistreat them either. It was a weak bond, but still an existent one. The ones who lived within the center were spoiled by the king, however. They had the best food, the best care, the best dwellings. The ones within the center's walls were within the king's unloving heart, and he splashed upon them luxury after luxury. They center-dwellers were closest to the king, and they had complete and utter loyalty to the throne and the man who rested upon it.

The king had become ruler when he was a young, young man. As he aged, he became bored with the dull, everyday life he'd grown accustomed to. As a lad, he'd imagined being a monarch to be a regal, never-tiring role to play. But here he was, the most powerful in his country, and he lusted for something to bring new pleasure into his life. His country was lush, bountiful, and he had more than he needed. What he wanted, however, was entertainment. And one day, a rather crafty idea flowered in his mind. What better way to entertain him and his center-dweller people than to use the raggedy, district people?

At his palace inside the glittering center, he gathered passionate, convincing speakers from his sparkling center-dwellers. The king handpicked thirteen, one for each district, and decked them in regal attire, sending them off with an entourage of servants and handmaidens. He was rather enjoying this charade. He felt young again, reveling in the wonderful power he could upon with a snap of his fingers.

In each district, a speaker mounted the stage in a mandatory gathering. The town flocked to one stage in the center of their district to view the almost ceremonious message each speaker was to deliver. Through the thirteen districts, variation of the same speech was given.

"How many of you struggle to feed your families, to feed yourselves? How many of you would do nearly anything to secure a stable life, a home? How many? How many?" The speaker's voice rings and is compelling, adrenaline-inducing, driving. His face is flushed, and he is animated.

A roar rises from the crowd. Chorused shouts and yells of assent rise from the square and the duke flicks his gaze away nervously. He squirms in his chair, behind the speaker. The duchess, if there is one, is pale-faced.

"Too many people!" the speaker cries. "The king, our king, has proclaimed a test! A grand test, a test that could feed you and bring you wealth, insurmountable wealth! What do you think? Will you take it? The king's test?"

A swell of men's and women's voices crests. "We will! We will!"

A wide grin spreads on the speaker's face. "Then I only have one more question for you, loyal subjects of Panem! Just how hungry are you?! Tell it us, prove it to us! Pass the king's test!"

The crowd clamors and screams their approval. The speaker is charismatic, and he has cast his own spell across the crowd. While they are caught up in the sweeping upwards wave, he vaguely paints the image and rules of the test. And then, with one more promise of wealth, he exits the stage.

The crowd buzzes excitedly to themselves, their blood shooting scathingly through their veins. They are willing to fight to be fed. Anyone from the ages twelve to eighteen is eligible. Whoever wins the fight will come home with, but more importantly, food. Food, homes, wealth! It's a dream. And even better, the elder children are allowed more slips than the younger. It's a shame only two from each district will be sent in, male and female. More contestants, test-takers, mean higher chances of passing. Of winning.

And they will win. There is only one victor, and it shall be them.

The king laughed. Oh, how foolish his subjects were! How easily they had bought into his whole charade. Did they know they would be fighting to the death? He doubted that they would be thinking about that. He reminded himself to lavish more gifts upon his speakers—they had done such an excellent job. The test hadn't even started and the king already felt more alive than he ever had before.

His son, the prince, watched his father from the shadows. His young blue eyes were still wide on his face, his golden hair growing long. He was only eleven years of age. But he didn't like the dark laughter seeping from his father. It scared him, made him wonder about the lessons his regal, perfect father taught him. But he stayed in the shadows. He was only a boy of eleven.

And so the first twenty-six tributes were reaped. A boy and a girl, from each filthy district, were brought to the shimmering center, the Capitol of their country. They were fattened, spoiled, trained. After a week of this, they were polished and made pretty and put on show for the entire country to see. Look, the king pointed to the dolled up district-dwellers, look how I've made your children sparkle. Look how their eyes gleam, with the wonders of my Capitol and the rich foods. I have given them a taste of what their life will be like if they win, if they pass my test. Can your children do it?

After this, they were sent into an arena. Much like in their country, the arena bore plenty of wilderness and a shining center, a center with weapons and food. When the gong sounded for them to begin, most children ran for the center. The fastest got to the weapons first, and then it began. The bloodbath.

At home, suddenly the test was no longer fun and games. It was bloody,gruesome, and utterly horrifying. Mothers screamed and wailed as their children were sliced and killed. Brothers wept at the confused light in their sisters' eyes as they stood over a lifeless body with a bloody knife in their hands. Sisters fainted as their younger brothers perished. And the king, on his throne, laughed. His beautiful test had finally come to play. The prince shrank further into the shadows.

After the first night, the terrifying bloodbath, there were only ten tributes left. In went twenty six, and already sixteen were dead. They would be sent home for burial after the test was finished. They had already failed.

Some children broke down. The younger ones, especially. They couldn't live with the blood staining their fingers, and they were in no state to survive. The second day passed without much action, merely children staggering through the arena, lost and helpless. The king frowned. That would not do. It would not do at all.

There was one. A boy, seventeen, whose eyes glittered with something the king liked. He promised the boy a fulfillment of a wish, any wish, if he won. Make it interesting, fascinating, he whispered in the boy's ear. Give me a show worthy of saving your sick mother.

And so he did. His black eyes blazing fire, he stormed the test. It came down to him and a girl who couldn't grip a knife, much less kill anyone. When he slashed her throat and the life left her green eyes, he thought fleetingly that he would be haunted for the rest of his life. And he was right. The image of her eyes never left him, even long after the king granted his wish.

The king smiled on his throne. How clever he was. His special little test for his subjects had finished grandly. His mind twisted. His soul blackened. He had enjoyed his test, found it entertaining. Twenty five children dead, but it mattered not to the sickening king.

A year passed. The boy with black eyes, the one who'd passed the king's test, vanished. His home, wealth, and food was split and distributed between his district. They were not surprised when the king no longer sent food to them, once he'd realized his victor had disappeared. They were not surprised when the king sent workers to tear down the black-eyed boy's house. No one ever heard of that young man again.

The prince was now twelve. He had not even begun to grow properly, but he did know things he had not before. His father was no longer empty beneath the shell of the king. His father was cracked and murky black underneath his mask. Broken. His country was as broken as he, divided between who was loyal to the king and who not. And the bored light was beginning to shine ominously in his father's eyes once more.

It was the prince, his golden hair now cropped in a neat haircut and his blue eyes not so wide or young, who finally could not stand his father as king. He was too young to take the throne, however. He was only a boy of twelve. But he realized he was no longer a child. He could not wait for himself to be eighteen; there was no time. His father would come up with something worse, more elaborate, more entertaining this year. How could he allow it to happen? How?

The prince was only a boy of twelve. He had no power. The boy had a servant, however. A servant whose only loyalty was to the prince. And the servant understood the king's spiral downwards into madness. He understood that the prince could not do anything to change it. And so when the young prince came to him, helpless and hopeless, the servant took matters into his own hands.

Before the anniversary of the king's test, the king fell ill. Not a week later, he was already cold and dead. There were whispers, accusations, of conspiracy. The prince, the young king, was coroneted a day after. The subjects were not sure what to think. Would he be a younger version of his father? Had he murdered his own blood? Did they want such a young child on the throne?

The servant realized his doing could endanger the once-prince. He confessed to his crime. The young king had no choice but to execute him, to do what was right in the country's eyes and avenge his father. The servant was already condemned, and the once-prince would not have it be in vain, would not condemn himself to the same fate as the servant by refusing to punish him. When the servant was slain, tears shone in the king's narrowing blue eyes. Half a month later, he clumsily began his rule. He was not experienced. He was still a boy. But he was a king.

The once-prince never held another test. He sent food to each district, enough so that a time of more prosperity began. But he was still his father's son, and though he was a good king, they never quite trusted him. The golden-haired king was haunted by his father. And so he wrote it all down. The test, his father's cracked soul, the servant's secret. It was all penned in a black notebook, then sealed. He buried it deep down, underneath his castle. When his generation passed, there would never be another king's test. No one would ever commit the sins his father had.

And so the once-prince's reign came and passed. He found a queen, who gave birth to a princess and then another prince. The country continued on, the test slowly becoming forgotten. Decades later, not a single person remembered the cruel king and once-prince. Not a single person remembered the blood-soaked test, the cruel king's games and follies.

They all lived on. Not all happily, not all merrily. But they lived on. And that is the end to this not-fairytale, this story about a blackened test and a cold king and his golden-haired prince-son.

/fin/