Punishment.

 

“Sssssssh!” whispers the slime in her bubbling voice, feeling the sensation of my quickly beating heart, as we hide down inside of a giant, empty pot in the potted plant room. It’s a bit cramped in here for me, the slime and her and I won’t be able to keep them apart from each other, but thankfully the slime is behaving, perhaps sensing my discomfort. The monk is flailing and smashing dents into my armor, but there isn’t much room in here for her to lash out.

 

Looking down, I raise a finger to my mouth.

 

“Sssh.”

 

This obviously doesn’t make her feel better, as she just hits me harder.

 

She has to be quiet though. He’s coming. He’s going to find us if she isn’t quiet. We’re going to get the belt if he finds us. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me. I clutch my skull, listening to the sound ringing out. The sound that isn’t the beating of fists against my metal armor.

 

It’s the sound of footsteps.

 

Heavy, deep, footsteps.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

  Slowly, one after the other as if with every single step he takes, he stops for a moment to look around before following with another pair in an unnatural gait. He stops to see what the ruckus is all about. The giant earthenware pot we’re hiding in stops shaking, as she hears him too, as she stops striking me. As she senses that the king with no name is near.

 

In fear, I grab my cape and pull it over us, hiding us both under the blanket so he can’t see us. So he can’t see us.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

  Heavy steps from a giant, towering body made up of everything that is wrong, come closer and closer to the door of the room as he comes to stand outside of it. As he likely observes the damage to his home. He’s probably seen the smashed marble. He’s probably seen her blood. He’s probably seen my wet footprints and tracks of sand.

 

  Leather creaks, as something is pulled taut. The silence, broken by the groan of a hungry witch outside of the window at midnight. The strain of the belt being pulled taut between his fists. He can’t find us. He can’t find us. We’re going to get in so much trouble if he finds us. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me! I was good, I did everything I was told.

 

The quivering slime retreats down into my armor, hiding low in my boots, filling up my entire leg with her goo, as she sinks down as far as she can.

 

Punishment. This is punishment. Punishment for my transgressions against the dungeon-master, punishment for my laziness, punishment for not saving them all.

 

  My hands go up to my wide eyes that never close, as I look around the dark pot, staring at the empty faces that I see in the shadows of the earthenware material. Faces. Faces. They’re laughing at me. They’re laughing because he’s going to find us. He’s going to find me and there will be punishment.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

Punishment.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

There’s no way out. There’s no way out. He’s going to find us… it wasn’t me, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it! It was her! It was her! She was chasing me! She broke the floor! She bled on it! It wasn’t me!

 

The faces in the shadows that only I can see laugh. They laugh at my excuse that they know he won’t accept. They laugh at my desperation that they know he won’t accept.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

  Leather creaks as it's pulled harder and harder, as his fists clench, ready to bloody themselves on my body. As the king with no name walks around the room, shuffling with that heavy, oppressing gestalt of his as he moves closer, as he searches. I’m not strong enough. I’m not strong enough to stop him. All I can do is run. All I can do is run. That’s all I can do. I’ve never saved anyone.

 

I feel the shaking against my bones of the slime in my boots and I can’t help but feel…

 

I can’t help but feel like this is familiar. Like I’ve been here before.

 

Dook.

 

My head lifts up and I look into the eyes of the monk, staring my way. Even she is afraid, even she feels the presence of the king with no name. He’s going to find us. He’s going to find us. This is punishment, because they didn’t do it right. They didn’t clear the floor like they should have.

 

It’s punishment. We were bad. So we deserve it. We’re going to get the belt. It’s going to hurt. It’s our fault. It’s our fault. But we deserve it. We were bad. So we deserve it. Bad things happen to bad children, so it’s our fault.

 

It’s all our fault.

 

And why is she staring at me like that?! With those eyes?! What do you want me to do? We’re already hiding under the blanket, what more do you want me to do?!

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

The steps approach, coming closer and closer to the pot, as he first takes one step and then two quick ones after in rapid succession.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

He’s going to find us… he’s going to hurt us all. Where’s the hero? Why isn’t he here yet? Shouldn’t he be running amok, chasing me?! Shouldn’t he be making noise that will distract the king with no name?! Why is the hero never here when he’s needed?!

 

I look at the shaking eyes of the monk, as her strained neck turns to look at the wall of the pot behind herself, as if she could see through it. As if she could feel him standing right there on the other side.

 

But then I remember why the hero isn’t here.

 

  Because the hero can never be there when he’s needed. There has to be a great evil for a hero to fight, in order for there to be something worthy of being proclaimed heroic for having battled. For there to be a great evil in the world to battle, that means it already has to have harmed someone for it to be considered such.

 

So the hero can’t save everyone. So I’m not on the list. We’re not on the list.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

The hero is just a clean-up crew, sent to fix a mess after it's already been created. Sent to erase the scars and the bodies, as if none of them had ever happened.

 

Well they did.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

The leather groans and I narrow my eyes.

 

If he’s not going to do it, if he’s not going to save us. Then I’m just going to have to do it myself.

 

Standing up, I lift my head up to look towards the rim of the giant pot that we’re hiding in, pulling the blanket up off of us and I leap, ready to face the king with no name.

 

Not out of principles of protection and sanctuary. Not because of the monk’s scared eyes. Not because of the shaking slime in my boots.

 

But because I’m sick of it. I’m sick of hiding in the dark and I want to fight and claw and howl.

 

I want to tear out his eyes and pop them with my teeth.

 

Dook. Dook-dook.

 

It will be his punishment.

 

 

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