Leapfrog

The fool wept. Unhindered by the burden of shame, fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he wailed at the sky, knuckling at his skull with clenched fists. The world was ending. The sky was crashing. All was at an end. All would die. 

        The hand rubbed round on his back. To sooth. To quail. For naught. For naught, it was all at an end. The tears dropped into the dust. Plop. Plop. Plop. Small clouds kicked up, dusting the breeches of the prince. He hated to get dirty, yet was distracted greatly by the wailing. He patted. Pat. Pat. Plop. 

        —Fear not Jingel, the prince said, his voice a-hitch in his throat, not yet boned by manhood. —we shall meet again.

        —Nay, cried the fool. —we shall not, —this is the end. —The end.

        —Cliffsview is not so very far away. said the Prince, still circling his hand. —I shall be back for the harvest ball.

        The fool wailed harder still. Plop. Plop. Plop. Sob. Plop. He fisted his eyes to block out the world. The lad’s hand stopped. It rested warm against the patches. —Come, said he. —let us play a game.

        The fool peeked from between a fence of flesh and bone. —A game? he asked. —Pray, what game?

        The prince smiled, a cavern in the white shone black. Still room to grow. No doubt. A lad to be man. —Leapfrog said he, with a look of triumph washing across his visage. 

        The fool dropped his hands to the dust, hot broken tears now forgotten. —Leapfrog? he asked. —Yet that shall lead to soiled breeches.

        The prince nodded. —A price which must be paid. he said. —A last game of leapfrog before I sail.

        The wailing began anew.