King Harold slowly picked himself up from the gravel and wiped the blood from his mouth. He had the unshakeable feeling that the wheel of fortune had not only thrown him down, but was now rolling over his bones, crushing any remaining hope for normalcy like the dried seedpods scattered at his feet.
His enemies had won the day, once again. His ego was tattered and bruised, his family would be distraught.
His mother, Dr. Anna Harold, professor of medieval history at Cambridge University had considered herself so very droll when she named her son King. He had suffered relentless punishment from his peers since toddlerhood.
He was absolutely certain that it was not, in fact, good to be King.
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