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by CBH
Rated: E · Fiction · Mystery · #2314959
Second bedtime story, from the same memory
         There once was kingdom in the middle of the desert that was long lost to time. Ruled by a cruel bloodline of conquerors and warriors, who got wealth and fame off war and conquests. That wealth was shown in the sandy golden walls of its cities and villages, with palace centering their territory as high as modern skyscrapers and as wide as some of the other kingdoms of the region. Their pockets only ran deeper, credit to the cunning and cruelest king and queen so far. And into this world was born a young prince, that grew up in the stability and prosperity this kingdom has yet to offer. The young prince inherited his father's ruse and his mother's looks and silver tongue, all wrapped up in a sense of his ancestors craving for conquest and curiosity, for he spent his youth wondering and exploring other places and cities, gathering even more wealth and fame wherever he went.
         One if his adventures led him into an old tomb in the southwest continent, through "the jungle that never stopped weeping" as he once described it in his logs. As his party was camping near it, resting, and feasting unaware of the looming tomb nearby, the young prince stayed in his tent resting alone, exhausted from all the walking in an unfamiliar setting. A storm was imminent, as everyone went to sleep, but the prince was struggling to fully get his shut eye, rolling around and sweating in his bed, getting chills for he was having a nightmare, of a shadowy figure that was weirdly familiar. The young prince was startled and awaken by the intensity of the dream only to find himself inside an eerie tomb, faced by a dead man holding a small shiny chest. Beside the fact that this chest was made of gold, nothing else was especially catchy, looking just like a light box, as if nothing seemed to be inside it. Naturally, the prince checked inside, and the same shadowy figure's hand reached out pulling the prince in the chest, only for him to wake up in his bed the next morning in his party's camping site. It led the prince to think that the nightmare was a bad omen, but the next few travels faded away that omen, and brushing it off as a "normal nightmare following a relentless day" as his logs sited.
         Years went by, and many conquests later, the prince finally returned to his kingdom reclaiming his throne after the demise of his father, and with it his brutish reign. The newly crowned king made a place of himself unlike the rest of his bloodline, with his kindness and generosity, no matter the dire situation, he always faced it with tenderness and a smile, and not cruelty and deceit. Always holding a peculiar chest in is side that, his people noticed, grew bigger and darker, from a sandy gold to an obscure black. He seemed to have gotten it in one of his latest adventures. The king never took a wife, nor had offspring, for he took all his people as sons and daughters that he held dearly close o heart, despite the attempts on his head, and the coup d'etat he certainly outlived, and his chest only grew bigger and bigger, as did his empire and its wealth and prosperity.
         After many years, the king's reign, as did his life, ran its course faster than anyone in the kingdom ever hoped for, but his health declined as if it has been sucked out, but at the same time the achievement he held under him, made his people acknowledge him as their only people's king the kingdom ever seen, winning them over with his kind heart and merciful soul. Monuments were built to his name that only whispers of it can be heard in the modern times. His funeral was said to have shaken the earth; his burial was the event of the century. Buried inside a tomb as big as the mansions of the wealthy. A few days after his funeral, the tomb was raided by some pillagers, and during this raid, they found the king's chest next him, that was rumored at that point, held all his wealth and power, so naturally it was opened to see if the rumors held any bit of truth, however the pillagers were startled at the sight of what was inside: A thunderstorm, that got let loose and quenched the desert she cocooned in black. In the eye of the storm lied a shadowy figure. he was the late king. Or at least resembled him. He was nothing like him, for he was angry, savage, with the world's hate pent up in his non-existing heart. He chased down the pillagers, giving them a treat off his brutal death. Not one soul survived. That wasn't enough for the disturbed mad king. And he unleashed his icy pitiful death towards the kingdom, engulfing it in all his darkness that lied within, and reducing it to the golden dust surrounding. The once glorious kingdom never saw the brink of dawn ever again, by the cruel hands of the reaper that was once known as the kindest soul of the east. Not even a whisper was echoed through history of this place, not even a grain of sand left to remember its tale, only a golden box, the mad king's chest that later became a rumor, a bedtime story, to warn people of the calamities of letting dark emotions pent up in a man's mind; a mad man.

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