The Toy Maker's Song

In the middle of the town, there was a humble house. Which, with the state of things, was surprising.

It wasn't anything extravagant, just a standard tile roof with some shingles missing, white bricks that'd been repaired a good many times, and an old, oaken door that creaked upon entry. In the window, toys lingered, with price tags sat beside their feet. Dolls made with the highest of praise, play swords to teach the young, but made to never draw blood. Rocking horses for the small, cradles for the even smaller. And one, very particular doll, that didn't usually get to see the window.

"We can only expect people to remember so far."

An older, patient man, with wrinkles from head to toe, painted a child sized doll with intricate practice. Despite his age, his hands didn't tremble, and his gaze never faltered. He was finishing the paint of the lips, a dark burgundy sitting atop fair skin, highlighting the brown eyes and bright red pigtails. It was so lifelike that he expected it to talk at any second.

"So, let's make something to remember this horrible cycle together."

Those words carried in his thoughts. With the final stroke and a heavy sigh, the Toy Maker sat back. Once upon a time, he watched his great grandfather take a long puff of his pipe, blowing smoke rings into the air as he said that.

"What cycle?" He was just a boy at that time, unable to properly understand the bitterness behind his great grandfather's eyes.

"You'll understand, sooner or later," his great grandfather had grumbled, coughing. "While I hope you never do, I know you will."

Not long after that, the King had taxed the town to all high hell, leading to the townsfolk rallying at the gates. His grandfather didn't go. At the time, the fledgling Toy Maker was confused.

"Why aren't you out there with them?" he'd asked. "Aren't those taxes affecting us too? Won't we go under?"

His grandfather only hummed, delicately putting in strands of red hair to a lifelike doll, the size of a ten year old girl. His father had pulled him out of the room, but made no attempt at a conversation.

The Toy Maker sighed, pulling his glasses from his old nose and cleaning them with a ragged piece of cloth. "Well, my dear," he croaked to the doll. "You are the work of several men's worth. You've lived through three cycles, and you'll live through even more. I'm sorry we had to put you up to this task. Perhaps... this deed cannot be done by human hands. But you? Dear Francheska, you might have a chance."

He leaned down in his chair, listening to the clicking of clocks. Many clocks. He pointed at her with a gnarled finger. "Remember, for us careless humans. There's always a greedy king. There's always a queen. She will always die in child birth. There will always be a prince. That prince will always seem righteous. And he will always. Replace. The King."

With a heavy sigh, he leaned back again, staring up at the ceiling.

"...And he will always be the spitting image of his father."

A heavy knock rang at his door.

"King's Guards, open up!"

The Toy Maker did not reply. Instead, he looked around at the desolate state of his family home. He no longer had the money to afford this here. The greedy king had taken it all through taxes and fines. Yet he refused to move. As did his father, his father's father, and his great grandfather before him.

But this time, it seemed the current King wanted to take action.

The knocking increased to pounding as the Toy Maker observed. Once, this floor was full of the laugh of children that could be heard through the rest of the house. It was full of warm light from the sun, always hitting the house perfectly. Now, this humble house was gray and dull, an eyesore in comparison to the extravagant mansions around it.

How horrible it was, that the dreaded cycle continued. He could still remember the decaying face of his best friend, ran through by the guards and left to rot in the streets. The bar went soon after, shut down, demolished, and made into another lavish homestead.

Tick, tick, tick, went the room around him.

With a loud crash!, the front door flung open, and in poured in a good twenty men. Each pointed a long rifled gun at him, in a circle around the Toy Maker and his doll. One sneered at him, looking at the state of his home.

"And to think, I used to come in here for the latest toys. Never would'a thought the Toy Maker would be a traitor to the crown."

The Toy Maker only hummed.

"We're sorry to do this to ya," the Guard said with a barely hidden chuckled. "We gave you a chance."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize," the Toy Maker sighed.

"Oh?" The Guard raised his brow. "Finally decided to repent, eh? Managed to get all the coin ya need?"

The Toy Maker scoffed. "The King has enough coin. No, you misunderstand, my good men."

He stood, kneeling down in front of the doll. "I am apologizing to my dearest Francheska. No child should have to see such horrors about to unfold. But..." He looked up, and smiled warmly at the doll as he took its hand. "As the closest thing I'll ever have to an heir, I'm afraid I must burden you. Forgive me, my love. I shall give greetings to your original maker for you."

From his sleeve, the Toy Maker slid down a button. The Guards had no time to react as the house, the town square, and every gorgeous house made of gold exploded. The Toy Shope, for the time, was quiet. The dynamite beneath its grounds, and planted around every murderer's grand gardens, finally stopped ticking.

-----

Down by the slums, in the dead of night, a child skipped down the street.

She had the fairest of skin, never blighted by the filth of the Slums. Her eyes were warm hazel, her lips a dark red, and dress a vibrant, sky blue. Her voice was sweet and melodic, and she traveled with not a care in the world. She hummed a song, passing by a line of people at the nearby Guards Post.

At the back of a line, and older woman saw her skip and smiled. "Oh hello there sweetie. Are you here for food as well? Here, go in front of me."

"Oh, no worries! I ate a bit earlier! Please, after you!"

The woman laughed, a precious, old lady laugh that brightened the hardest of days. "Well aren't you just the sweetest thing. Thank you, my dear. What would your name be?"

"Francheska!" she exclaimed with a big smile, one of her front teeth missing. Her bright red shoes clacked together, her hands moving behind her back.

"Oho! What a pretty name! Now, it's getting quite late. Where are your parents, pray tell?"

"Right here!"

Francheska held up her right hand, showing her most prized possession to the nice lady. But, she wasn't given the response she wanted. Again. The woman gasped and stumbled back, into the person in line in front of her. The gruff looking man looked back with a scowl.

"Oi! The hell you tryn'a pull, grandma?!"

"O-Oh, my apologies, you see--"

"Wait, what the?! Are you seriously talking to that thing?!" He gestured to Francheska. "Do you not know what she is?! That's the Toy Maker's damn ghost!"

Francheska frowned, pulling her hand behind her back again. "No, I'm Francheska!"

"Like hell you are!" he shouted, pulling the older woman back. "Get away from her! She might look like a normal lil' girl, but that's a damn doll!"

The commotion caught the attention of a few passersby. Even in the night, the Slums always moved.

"She hasn't done anything!" the old woman protested.

"Yeah! What she said!" Francheska said, puffing out her cheeks and crossing her arms. "My Daddy is right here with me, and he wanted me to warn nice people like her!"

"Your 'Daddy'--" the man bit back with air quotes. "--Took out the entire Jeweled district!"

Francheska tilted her head. "Why do you care? You don't seem like you'd get there anytime soon."

The man grit his jaw. "Shut up, you snot nosed brat! You'll see! This time?! It's different. The Prince, he's declared war on his pops after he exiled him! He's a good man, I tell ya, talked to him myself! He'll turn this decaying Kingdom around, you'll see!"

In that moment, Francheska began to sing. Her voice was beautiful, but the melody was haunting. The words, even moreso. It echoed, and it pierced through the minds of all around, as it was designed to do. Before she was even a quarter of a way through her song, Francheska stopped, dodging a beer bottle that was thrown at her head.

"Stop it, stop! You and your witch craft won't work on me! Get out of here you... you... demon!"

Another bottle from a nearby table was thrown at her head, to which Francheska easily dodged. She simply hummed and shrugged, beginning to skip away again. It was a reaction she was used to, but as her Daddy always said: you can't force the truth onto someone. All they'll do is deny it. Your song is not for them. It's for the people who wish to live.

A fierce fight broke out at the castle that night. In the streets, void of any people, Francheska turned her head to the grand gates. She could hear the cries, even from the farthest part of town. Rage, desperation, the feeling of not having any other choice. She could almost see the clash of weapons, Guards against civilians, as the Prince faced down his father. It was over as soon as it started.

Francheska could visualize it all vividly, because it'd happened the same way, the past six times. The King's head rolling away from the body, the Prince picking up the crown. Him staring at it, enthralled by all of the gold and gems that were now his. He would then sit down on the still warm throne, and place that tyrannous crown atop his head. The people would rejoice, those cries turning into shouts of victory.

Francheska sighed, and continued on her way.

Three days later, she found herself at that old guard post. There was no line, only dust, and the body of a gruff man hanging from a spear. She stared at it, hands behind her back, clutching her most favorite possession. She sighed, pull it in front of her, and frowned.

"You were right, Daddy," she said to the skeletal hand that clutched hers. "Some people will never listen."

A paper fluttered underneath a discarded cup, catching Francheska's eye. She tilted her head, climbed up onto one of the abandoned tables, and pulled it out. It was a letter that held elegant script, addressed to her.

"Dearest Francheska,

I don't know if you'll ever find this, but I am old enough to heed a sign when I see it. Doll or girl, I care not, for you helped me realize that the Cycle was soon to begin again. I have left to live with my children and their grandchildren. I know not if I will survive the journey, but I would rather die out there, than suffer eternity in this Kingdom.

Farewell. I hope, even in the darkest of times, you continue to sing. For without you, I would never have left. Thank you.

Granny Merdle"

Francheska read it over once, twice, then thrice. Each time, her smile got bigger. Soon enough, she found herself skipping through the Slums, through the Residential, through the Jewel, effortlessly dodging every bullet, spear or sword that came her way. She found herself singing the same song. A warning, from a legacy long worn:

Run for the walls, and leave before dawn,

Run! Before the Prince wanders the halls,

For the King, with greed for teeth,

Sees naught but golden fleece,

The Prince sees our flock,

And thus begins to talk,

But greed hides in his teeth,

And he speaks only lies and deceit!

So run! Run now you must!

For the cycle leads to nothing!

Nothing... but rust.