[ WP ] A king and a thief have one last conversation during while under siege .

The chandelier above the hall shook violently and the heat from the burning city began to seep through the walls. Gregor sat on his high throne, looming above the banquet feast uneaten; twirling his crown on his finger. Stannard was not so calm. 
 
 `` There's got to be a way,'' Stannard said brushing his hand against the stone walls. He had traced and pressed every scrap of masonry in the entire hall, but had found nothing. 
 
 `` Long live the King,'' Gregor stammered and gulped another healthy swallow from his goblet. The flowing red cape he wore had been the jewel of his finery yet was now wrinkled and bunched behind him in the seat. The velvety blue doublet, handcrafted across the sea, had been overtaken by splotches of red wine and his wiry beard was caked with bile. Gregor shifted in the seat which made the cloak crackle, choked back another gout of vomit with a hardy cough and downed the last of the wine. He appeared almost regal. 
 
 Stannard sighed as another explosion rocked the keep shaking dust from every crevice. He slouched, brushed through his mop of blond hair and slid his back down the wall. `` What do we do now?'' 
 
 Gregor held up his empty goblet and cracked a smile. 
 
 What was there to smile about, Stannard thought. They were going to die. He looked over at the thick mahogany doors. Those doors had stood in this hall for ten generations and now this, he looked over at Gregor who was trying to stand, *king* had lost it all. Stannard thought of the pitchforks piling up behind that door. Gangly farmers and half-starved milliners clamoring for the kings head, and who would they find sharing in the opulence? Stannard palmed his face cursing his luck. 
 
 `` You think me a fool do n't you?'' Gregor teetered on edge jabbing a finger to a spot just left of where Stannard was sitting. What a stupid question, Stannard thought. Only a fool could lose the greatest kingdom in the Lower Veil. And what of him, he was stuck with the idiot king as the city burned to ashes. What did that make him? 
 
 `` Do you regret them?'' Stannard said. Gregor scanned the room with a wild gaze, his eyes glossed over like the melting glass of the ornate stained windows that began to drip down the walls, `` your choices as king.'' 
 
 `` I regret nothing,'' Gregor said with a ridiculous confidence that defied his current situation. Of course not, Stannard thought. What would a king have to regret. Not wearing the right shirt to banquet? Not drinking another glass of Brevaldi? Not bedding the new serving girl? Stannard would have killed for this kind of wealth and power; had killed for a fraction of it. 
 
 `` And everything,'' Gregor said as he finally righted himself. He shuffled down the few steps that lead up to the throne and fell into a side chair at the feasting table. The spread stretched nearly the length of the room and had more variety than Stannard had ever seen. He joined the man, sitting across from him and began sampling the delicacies. Gregor did not object to a commoner at his table and so Stannard took his chance, after all, it would be his last meal. 
 
 `` What regrets?'' Stannard said, `` what weighs on a Kings mind besides the weight of his crown?'' 
 
 `` What does n't?'' Gregor said with unusual clarity. 
 
 Stannard paused and twisted the chicken bone in his mouth. `` Go on?'' 
 
 `` Balancing the fine line of love and hate is difficult young thief.'' Gregor tore a piece of bread from the loaf and plunged it into a vat of brown gravy. `` There will be people who love you and there will be people who hate you, this you can not avoid.'' 
 
 Obviously, Stannard thought, as he scanned the door again. The room was hot now. He could feel the sweat bead on his brow. 
 
 `` Ruling,'' Gregor continued, `` is about survival more than it is about choices. Sometimes you make the right choice,'' he held up a succulent piece of roasted pork, `` sometimes you make the wrong choice,'' he waved his hand out in the direction of the balcony. The city beyond was fully engulfed in flame. Dotted lines of torches and muffled shouts could be heard in the streets below. `` No matter what the choice, survival is key.'' 
 
 Stannard thought of his own exploits. His choices, to some, would have seemed wrong. Whether right or wrong, the choice still had to be made. In his mind, he stole to survive. He nodded at the King and bit into a steaming potato. 
 
 `` This thing,'' Gregor picked up his crown, `` this does n't make you King.'' He twirled it on his finger again. It was a shapely fixture of gold and jewels twinkling as it spun. `` Try it on. I've always found it a bit uncomfortable. Digs into the tops of your ears.'' 
 
 Stannard hesitated at first, but the allure of it overwhelmed him. What a lie! He felt the difference as soon as he slipped it on his head. A smile played at the edges of his mouth. He took a deep drink of the fruity Brevaldi. 
 
 `` Neither this,'' Gregor waved his hand again to encompass the entire room, `` the wealth, the castle, the women. They do n't make you king.'' 
 
 Stannard had dreamed of wealth like this his entire life. The draw overpowered him. He thought about what he was doing there tonight, hours before the rebellion. One golden fob from a candelabra in this great hall who have fed him for a month. The fob seemed trivial now. Now that he had the crown. The allure was even more powerful now that he had tasted the finer things. 
 
 `` Here,'' Gregor said, and he took off his cape, `` I see no harm in letting you have the full experience.'' He stood, walked over and latched the cape onto Stannard's back. He took Stannard's hooded cloak and wrapped it around himself. The cape felt soft under Stannard's fingers, the material almost purred as he stroked it. He took another deep drink. 
 
 A pound came at the door. Both looked over and back at one another. 
 
 `` Come,'' Gregor said, pointing to the throne, `` we must hurry.'' 
 
 Gregor rushed Stannard from his spot and sat him in the throne. The feeling was exhilarating. He looked over the banquet hall and the surge of power felt like lightening through his bones. 
 
 `` Quite the experience is n't it,'' Gregor smiled and backed away from the steps. 
 
 `` Quite,'' Stannard said feeling the Brevaldi numb his senses. 
 
 Another pound jolted the door. Gregor jumped but then smiled as he looked at Stannard. `` One more thing.'' He knelt down in front of the throne and Stannard beamed. How could he say this does n't make you King. Stannard felt almost regal. 
 
 The door cracked and splintered. A drowning flood of torches and spears bled into the great hall. Gregor looked up, Stannard's hood pulled tight around his head and smiled. Stannard's smile disappeared as he watched the grasping hands move passed Gregor and towards the throne. 
 
 `` Wait!'' Stannard tried to scream as they overtook him. 
 
 `` This,'' Gregor pointed to his head yelling over the din, `` your mind, your wit. That is what makes you King.'' 
 
 `` I'm not the...'' Stannard fought as they stuffed his head into a dark bag. The yells of victory and death echoed in the great hall. 
 
 Gregor pulled the cloak around a little tighter as he made his way through the crowd. `` Survival is key,'' he looked back at Stannard's body, stripped naked, beaten and being carried out through the doors, `` Long live the King.'' 
 
 **** 
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