From above, the wicked shall receive their just reward
Kronk had always assumed he’d be good with children. He didn’t have much of a basis for this opinion, but he held it none the less. He liked them, he wasn’t dreadfully old, he had a childlike enthusiasm, what else did you really need?
A nurturing instinct?
Kronk shook his head, no that was dumb. He never said he’d make a good mother just that he would be good with kids. He wasn’t even claiming to be a good father, just that he could be around them without doing something dreadful.
Clearly, that was not the case.
Kronk’s mystified eyes went round with surprise and he took a step back, looking around for what he possibly could have crushed. Was it his foot? An animal? A younger sibling? All those possibilities left Kronk feeling a little ill.
“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t mean —“ He trailed off. All that he could see was a sad little flower. It was rather squashed, but that didn’t seem to be any cause for alarm. He looked at the little boy skeptically.
“Do you mean that? That little flower?” Now, Kronk wasn’t that old, but when he was a yearling the colts didn’t particularly care much about flowers. Was he that out of touch with today’s youth? Kronk had the horrible realization that he could be both fat and old. One or the other of those things was bad enough, the combination was particularly dreadful. He eyed the boy with something akin to skepticism.
“Would you like me to get you a new one? A better one maybe? I think there are some roses in the garden.” After this was over, Kronk would have to take a long hard look at his life and his choices thus far. He had hoped to be the greatest warrior who ever lived, or failing in that, at least a good solider. Now, instead, he was offering to pick a rather feisty little boy some roses.
Where had he gone wrong?
Photograph by Vivacqua