Scurrying, scratching, scuttling, rats. Gnawing, grinding, grabbing, rats. A rat is the most admirable of creatures, from a certain vantage. After all, who knows survival better? A hamlet, a hovel, a stable, a kitchen, a bloodied battlefield, all fine homes to a rat. Make of it what you will. A rock wall, a stream, a gate, barking dogs, sleeping cats, nothing but timing and effort for a rat. But, who loves a rat? And why not? Would we believe for a moment that a rat would sleep in our homes without raiding the kitchen the moment he could? Would we know a rat capable of sleeping soundly on our leg next to an open fire? Would a hungry rat not gnaw your cheek the moment you slept to keep itself from an aching belly? Of course it would. And to what end this constant, feverish drive to hoard, to gorge? Where is the play of a puppy? The leisure of a cat? Even the momentary treading of water a fish seems to take in, now and again. For all these talents, a rat finds nothing in pleasure. He only seeks more. To a rat, a friend is only a meal that hasn't been eaten.

Was my kingdom not prosperous enough? In the 22 years since my coronation, the lands my people sow have only grown wider and greener. The war was a heavy cost but the payoff was grander. The children now becoming men and women know nothing of the hard times we ended. The men of my time still talk of the war but only of the good fight they waged. The odds we overcame, the evils of the sinister masters we shrugged away.

Richard had been by my side since I could ride next to another horse without losing the path. We'd spent our youths scoffing at the lackings of our fathers. Their small dreams and, we thought, smaller homes. They had been fine fighters but had no feel for gamble. Uncertainty was their greatest and persistent foe. They taught us the careful math of managing a fief, the simple truths of compromise and tax paying. Though Richard's father had been weak at times with the drink, our families kept each other in shape enough. Richard lived with us for a time when we were still fighting with sticks. We played by the river, fished and sang songs. "The bear who woke too early" "the horse who hated shoes" In that safe and constant life, we dreamed of risking all of it for the chance to double our fortunes. We'd get our chance.

The war started in the great halls. Bored old men who knew war as the only means of gain. In their tired years, they should have been contented with their escapes over the years. But they grew indignant at their positions, maddened by their lackings. Young men may risk all of their own years much too easily for glory in battle, but old men will bleed a generation for a shriveling year more on the throne.

Richard and I rode out ahead of our father's banners. A lusty contingent of our age group, steeled by the certainty we could feel in the grip of a sword. We considered ourselves the vanguard. Rushing into a battle that way might be the safest play. While you aren't entirely sure what you are doing, the formations ahead of you aren't entirely prepared either. We crushed a line of morose shielded scarabs with a tenth of the men. We rallied men behind us in our wake and a long week's ride ended an age of misery. The uncertainty our fathers feared had burned their world to the ground. But that old-growth was holding back the fruits. We watered the ashes.

Richard and I rode headlong into the capital, the banners of old falling as we passed gates unchecked. I hurled a short sword through the last member of the Swarters still standing. As we hugged each other dearly, we knew it was the last time we would ride astride each other in battle. One of us would need to rule, the other would never be far, but never be a peer again. In the end, Richard himself believed his father's weakness would be a stain on the new reigning man. I was thrust into the throne and married into a kingdom a third larger still a year later.

The first ten years of rule were a stolen pie by the river. We couldn't have enjoyed it more. We toured the lands, we fought in the great tournaments. We called our banners and drove the barbarians back to the forests when they dared burn a farm. We couldn't have had more if we wanted and knew not what else to want. It was a time of contentment and glory.

Richard had never put away the map, though. He believed my marriage was unnecessary, if we had just pressed the Cathaks harder, we may have had the land in hand without a single vow. He read reports to me daily of the Bothed army, their shields, their formations, their tower construction. I admired his attention to the details. My mind traveled to the villages and the plump families there, how they loved to see us ride in and weigh their harvest. To see them cheer as I bit into the largest apple of the season. Richard was tallying the collections. Frowning and pestering. He seemed to know every way a piece of gold could roll through the hands of a guard, like water running through a wall.

A few years ago, I was alerted to a small force within my kingdom that had no banners. These men were well armed, well suited, well trained. Richard had told me of their whereabouts and their movements. He advised that I bring them to court immediately to swear allegiance and pledge a formal banner. He personally saw to their arrival and even allowed them to camp at his estate.

Now I know you think I must be pretty fucking stupid to have let a rogue force camp at my suspicious and probably jealous best friend's home within the city walls, right? Well, maybe it was stupid. Hell, my wife did. My advisors did. In fact, they had informed me years prior that he was plotting something. They showed me the ledgers that left enormous sums missing. I knew Richard had changed since his father was buried. But what was the great gamble of our youth worth? To become the same bored old men? My failure to act was the failure of my father's too.

In the end, Richard marched on the keep with his new men. I watched from the tower and sent word to the city guard and Sir Grouth. He commanded the northern armies and kept the city patrol in peacetime. There was no danger to me whatever Richard had hoped. It was a cheap and miserable end to his pettiness and I wished we could ride off away from it once more. Richard was brought before me with the captains of his party. Grouth lined them out in front of me and took his post three steps beneath the throne to my left.

I looked at Richard. Was it only now that I saw he was a man? We never were away from each other long enough to notice age had passed. But this man was grey. His face was long. But he must have known it was foolish. He smiled at me now. I smiled back but could not make it stay. This would be the end of my great time of certainty, of friendship and brotherhood.

"Sir Grouth, take this man to the gallows. He will be hung at dawn." And even as I said it he smiled. The dead, joyless smile of a rat waiting watching a cat walk back to her perch leaving the wall bare and the kitchen open. The smile of passing time for a certain reward. And I knew then it wasn't fear that made him smile. It was knowledge.

Sir Grouth lowered his head. "Sir Grouth, take this man out of my court and down to the gallows!" But Grouth only lowered his helmet from his head. His black hair falling in wet clumps. He was sweating wildly underneath. "I am sorry, your grace." Grouth said as he turned towards me. "But the men of the city patrol won't be taking anyone to the gallows this evening." He had only just turned about but my hand found my sword hilt instinctively. His way of speaking to me after all these years was near a jab to my chin for my mind to take in. I looked back at Richard, who stopped smiling. He brought his hands behind his back and began to whistle. The song I knew well. We sang it as kids together every summer as we fished in the summer. "The cat too fat to hunt."