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I see him. He’s in jail, where he belongs. He knows it, even if he tries to claim otherwise. He’s a criminal, a traitor to the crown. But really, he was a prisoner from the start.
I go up to him, he notices me. He asks who I am. I say I’m End, I’m here to save him. He demands Hiss to save him. I dispatch of Hiss easily, probably by tying him up and throwing him away. He doesn’t need Hiss. Hiss took advantage of him. I won’t.
I go up to him. He’s afraid, in fear. I tell him I won’t hurt him, not anymore than he’s already been hurt. He cries for his mother. This is where I come in. My fingers caress his muzzle on the underside. And then I tell him I care for him. He’s in shock now. He doesn’t understand, why, how? How could he be loved? All his life people have told him he’s great, amazing, and yet he’s evil, horrible. Those aren’t really him.
I recognize him. I’m the only one who understands him. In his heart, he’s afraid. Ever since he was born, his mother always loved Richard more. How could he ever stack up. These insecurities, they ate at him. I tell him all this and more. I tell him that he was a slave to the nature of medieval Europe. That really, he was set up for failure. How could he not seize power, after Hiss convinced him to. It was in his nature, surely.
But I reassure him. I comfort him. He’s crying now, the weight of what he’s done finally hitting him. He cries out in anguish for what he’s done. He had it all. Money. Power. And now he has nothing. I hug him. I tell him that those never really mattered. What mattered was him.
He hugs me back. He’s in tears now, sobbing. I tell him there’s a better way. I tell him that Richard won’t really save the people, that the townsfolk are just pawns for greater oppressive forces at play. I point out that King Richard relies on outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society. I reassure him that the only truly equal system is an anarcho-syndicalist commune where they take it in turns to act as sort of executive officer for the week but all the decisions of that officer have to be ratified at a special bi-weekly meeting by a simple majority in the case of purely internal affairs but by a two thirds majority in the case of more-. He cuts me off, he asks what the hell I’m talking about. I say it’s a Monty Python reference, but that also Karl Marx isn’t alive yet so the fundamentals of socialism aren’t really there yet, but that early peasant revolts had similar characteristics and that really the ideals of economic and social equality are really nothing new and are present throughout human history but that as a man of royalty he would never be taught that.
He asks if he’s really superior to the peasants. I say that he is equal to them, but in my eyes there is no one better than him. This gets to his heart strings, and he goes back in for a hug, the first real compliment he’s received in his life. He breaks down crying again. I point out again that all his life he’s merely been a pawn, a sidenote. Never a person. But I, I recognize him as a person. He is a person to me. He hugs me tighter. I pull out of the hug to look him in the eyes. I see in them the eyes of someone who simply was never loved enough in life.
We go in to kiss. It’s a passionate kiss. Not one filled with lust, but simply with love.
And lo and behold, I have fixed King John.