Chapter 4: A Black Knight's Fate

James opened his eyes to the sound of the church bell. The world around him was real, and was not so saturated as the black knight's abode. Even though it was a bloodbath when he last closed his eyes, James missed the vibrant hue. The pain was gone, and the shade was gone, scuttling back to the shadows. James almost felt a laugh dawn in him, now that the pain the figure had brought was gone, but then he saw the world around him. The bleak brown of his desk, the greys of the building outside unsaturated and singularly boring. He straightened his neck, and understood the 'bell' was his phone, ringing to announce the call of his agent and publisher, Michael, liking to be called Mike. James ignored the first call, and went into the toilet to take a piss. When he came out, he changed his clothes, and after this was done, he finally paid attention to the phone. He called Michael, waiting as the 'church bell' rang. When the ringing was done, Mike didn't wait a second to tear into James, "Kid, why have you been ignoring my calls?" "Sleeping, pissing and writing." "I'm the one pissed off." "What happened, boss?" "Did you not see anything in the way of literature news?" "That's a thing?" "It is, and it is buzzing at the arrival of a new contender for your throne. Name's Edward Sherman. He wrote a new book series, about a dragon who is the protagonist." "And this concerns me why?" "It concerns you because most of your fans have switched to his series, being more timely." "That's it? Send me a link to this guy's sh*t. I'll give it a read." "A read won't be enough. Join me in the office at three in the afternoon. Three, not seven in the night." "Okay, boss." Just like that, Mike put down his phone.

"What's the big deal, Michael?" "Mike, the big deal is that people buying your sh*t have dropped of the face of the earth. And this new bastard just inherited your share of the market, you dimwit." "Good enough, this guy's stuff might be subpar. But who would be dumb enough to believe he can stand up to me." "You are past your prime, kid. This boy seems to be better than your wrinkled arse." "Says the guy with hair colour on." "And my grey hair has seen game other than you. Yet I persist, hoping that your arse might deliver something. But I have waited three years." "What the hell does that mean, Mike? You got the hots for this boy, ya damn dimwit. I'm the only guy getting you your money." "My publishers will still get their pay check, with or without your untimely arse." "So, that's it. Five years of working together, and that's the end of our friendship." "Friendship, that's what you call it! You know what I call you. A goddamn parasite. You take advantage of my goodwill, and spend your days sitting on your ass. But my goodwill has not ended. I'll give you an ultimatum. Write a reputable story, in three months, and I might not get Edward on my team. But fail that, and I'll get him in our humble family before you can scream 'paladin'. Friend, pfh." "Good enough. I'll write something to blow your pants off." "I like the passion, kid. Get me something, and I won't cut off life support on our still-profitable relationship. Bye now, I have a Edward to let down." "You have him in the building?" "Came grovelling at my heels, saying he wants my respectable reputation backing his arse." "Send him back. Let him continue nipping my heels." "Bye, ya dimwit." Michael laughed a hearty and happy laugh, and waved James off, while picking up his telephone, "Let him in, Martha."

James walked out the room, and waved at Martha as he left. The building was a brick and mortar, two storeys high, small but famous for its writers. Why, when you have people like James Thomson on your payroll, even a sh*theap can seem like its made of gold. James looked behind, through the glass door, into the office, and saw a black haired youth, seeming like a young adult, enter through the birch door, into Mike's office. James smiled, but was sorry that the boy would be quickly disappointed. Idiot he was, to come after James, but no one deserved to be shat on by the dog eat dog world that is writing. Yet, the teen with misplaced notions would get another chance in the world, and he might make a name for himself in some other artistic occupation, unlike James, who was past his prime to make life path changing decisions now. James had seen thirty-four birthdays, and his thirty-fifth was soon to dawn, three months away. At that age, if you tried to abandon your sliver of fame, another morsel would be a stranger to you for the rest of your life. Opportunity knocks once, and it doesn't resort to kicking the door down when you don't respond, it just begins knocking at someone else's door. But even if you let opportunity in, anyone could kick down your door, and pull opportunity out, kicking and screaming. Thankfully, at least for James, Edward had been unsuccessful in pulling opportunity back to his own house, and opportunity lives on, whether by choice or force, in James' piss-stained house.

James felt the cold wind kiss his skin, and he shivered. He walked on the road's side, on the tiled footpath, all the way back to Arthur's dilapidated house. A dog sprinted to James, slobbering with a upright tail. The dog barked at James, but James feinted a kick towards the canine, and the terrified beast whimpered and crawled back to the alley he had emerged from, tail not as upright. A boy sat at the entry of the alley, and stroked the dog's fur. "What's the big deal, man? Ned did nothing wrong." "That thing's name's Ned? Ha" "What's your problem, dude?" "A black knight, with a dragon on his helm." "You're drunk. I have better sh*t to do than talk to a high bastard. Ned, come." The boy walked away, back to the alley he came from, his beast bounding behind him, slobbering and wagging his dirty white tail. James almost wanted to smile, but kept the frown that had decorated his countenance for the whole time the dog had graced his line of sight. James walked on the road, barely peeking at the alley the boy had retreated to. Back to his own little corner of hell.

James sometimes wondered what the afterlife was. He had always hoped that it would be less pathetically bland than earth, which had lost it's savour for him the second he was born. The world humans resided in was boring, built on the dust of unrecognized, on the ashes of older leaders, on the remains of shattered conquests. The past was as clear as day, yet was still a mystery. And modern life was a lightbulb to the sun of the past, the sun of great dreams, great leaders, and great conquests. History was filled with the interesting and intriguing, where current life was merely speckled with them. James wondered how it would feel like, to leave these blighted lands, and ride amongst the horses of the greats of the pasts, instead of the donkey-riding peasants that made the world population. The fires of hell, he blaze of heaven, all in front of him, a shining beacon compared to the bleak earth that spanned the horizon behind him. Where earth had made no mistake, the continuous 'modernization' of humans had. It had made the mundane the ordinary, displacing the colourful world of the past for a vast, bland, grey future. The colour of the world had been devoured by the humans, and all they left was their ugly, muddy peasant's footprint, for giants like James to dirty their feet in.

James opened the door, and walked into his house. Arthur was still out at work, or whatever he did at four. James walked to his desk, and sat down on his leather chair. Leather was kind of like a children's author's reputation, it can't be stained by a single mistake, but it tears slowly through the strain. His armrests were the parts that were torn, and the white cotton below the leather skin of the chair was showing, black now for the dust and hair accumulated in the unwanted crevice found in the comfortable seat. James felt the tear bore into the flesh of his arm, and he opened his spiral bound notebook. His pen was black ink, and its body read an inscription, stating, 'The light of the paladin shines bright.' Ironically, the light dispensed by the writer of the paladin was dim as the black knight's own. James laughed for a second, and his eyes lit up for Edward's unfortunate fate.

His story was stunted, malformed by now. With oversight of the meta level, James' already surface-level story seemed completely like a surface-level jab at his new competition. A black knight with a dragon for the head of his outward appearance? That's hardly subtle, and would be called defamation by any lawyer with some brains. He scrapped the story, and went back to trying his level best, which was hardly anything, to create his next masterpiece, which would be subpar at best. 'What a shame', said his conscience, and 'What a shame, said his imagined family and friends. He was sure Arthur would have said it, in real life too, the petty arsehole that he was, and maybe his old girlfriend too. A shame it was, that an intellectual above the swaggering, barbaric majority was to be shunned for the rest of his life, just if a figurative god could not write a 'reputable' story in three months. What cruel jokes the gods play, to the wise mortals who fly too close to their sun. And what shamelessness do the masses display, when then berate their betters. Michael was nothing, but an ant compared to the giant James was, yet he felt himself great enough to set an ultimatum for his better. A shame it was.

For nothing, James shall make something, a beacon of glory, for the masses require some respite from their boring lives, and even giants require food and board.