Dust King

There once was a mote of dust who declared himself King. This striving was not for his own glory, but rather, a matter of conviction, a moral mission.

The Dust King sought justice in an unjust world.

To this end, he waged a one-speck war against his brethren, against the Great Colonies of the book shelves, floors, and counter tops. And he was, for a time, successful.

The broken bodies of smote motes lay scattered on his long and winding path of conquest, but never once did he savor the killing.

Instead, after each battle, the Dust King did what none had done before—he honored the dead with song, for even dust deserved dignity.

Above all else, he knew this to be true.

The wounded of the battlefield, those fortunate to survive, heard the King’s song and clung to one another, weeping in astonishment.

What a marvel it was to matter, even in death. Surely, there is no greater gift.

The Leaders of the Colonies, sensing the danger to their order, fought back with a weapon greater than any sword or spear—they fought with reporters, with PSAs, with patriotic jingles and paeans to noble sacrifice.

They fought with the power of Public Relations.

The Dust King then found himself on a battlefield greater than any he had ever known—the number of his enemy matched that of the stars, and each believed, with all their heart, that the great meaning of their short life was to die for their Colony, for their homeland.

For minutes, the battle raged.

The Dust King pleaded with his fellow motes, even as he slew them, but his words were not half as sharp as his blade.

With each and every swing, the bitter realization of his true weakness set in.

As the air grew cloudy with the freshly dead, as it became apparent that no good end would come, the Dust King sang.

He sang for the dead and dying, for the Leaders and the Colonies, for all the unborn, yet to draw breath.

He sang for himself and the world, since no one else would.

And he thought, with a queer sort of smile, that the world didn’t need a King at all—that he could have been a singer this whole time.

Oh well.

Then the song stopped and there was a silence, long and terrible, followed by a jubilant roar.

The cloud of rolling dust celebrated the death of the King. Then a broom came down and swept the dust away. Ω