I know, this is pretty insane. However, I am posting two brand new Flash Fiction pieces in one day. This piece I am taking advantage of. See, as some of you know, I’m writing a modern day story involving a few biblical characters. As such, I’ve been writing some backstory, and this FF piece helps me flesh some of that out. So there, purely selfish reasons. The prompt is KING, 400 words or less, and comes to you from this awesome person.

(Original art work by Melinda Cavazos — Jesus, Slayer of the Undead)

A King’s Prayer 

A throne would never be his. The only crown that would ever grace his brow was the one tattooed into his skin on his thirteenth birthday. For a scepter, a broken, jagged sword.

Jesus, Warden of the North, stared out over the green, frozen hills of Sarmatia. Smoke rose from fires on one of the farthest hills, where Shira and her legion gathered for a final push. She had vowed to send her undead horde as far south as Jerusalem, where she would then turn his entire country against him and his companions. He could not let that happen.

The sound of drums in the distance reverberated in his bones. DadumDadumDadum.

Beside him, Magdalene toyed with one of her many daggers. It was her only sign of nervousness.

“We will stop them here,” he said, not for the first time.

Magda snorted, but shoved the dagger into its sheath on her thigh. She tossed her dark braid over a shoulder and folded her arms across her chest. Though the air was bitter, she chose to wear only the thin battle armor of her clan.

“The Taken do not trouble me,” she said, voice low and throaty. “It is their whore of a mistress. She is up to something, I know it.”

The drums grew louder as the sun rose over far off mountains.

“We will find out soon enough,” Jesus said, nodding.

Men and women began pouring over the cold, frosted hills in the distance. Their clothes were little more than rags—some ran on bare feet as black as twilight. They no longer felt pain, or any other emotion save what Shira forced them to feel. Few carried weapons, but would hardly be capable of using them. They were called Taken, for that’s what they were.

“Kill them quickly,” Jesus commanded, softly. He lifted his arm high into the air, the broken sword of his legacy reflecting the burning, rising sun.

Warriors from the thirteen clans began running past them, to join battle with the crazed horde loping toward their hill. It was only a moment before the two armies met with a sickening crunch as bared steel met frozen flesh.

No, though they would sing of him as such, Jesus would never be a king. Any crown of this world would bend and break under the weight of blood shed by his word.

May the Gods have mercy.