The back of the king's hand found Hop Frog's forehead, and Hop Frog's body found the stones of the throne room,

none of which were previously unacquainted.

Hop frog willed himself to get up.

The longer he stayed down, the more likely the king would wave to one of his courtiers,

and they would struggle on over to kick hop frog until he complied.

Or he stopped moving. One time he woke up 12 hours later, covered in spit.

His leg popped in the joint as he rose. He had never been the same, not after that day.

The king might have conquered the village, but they didn't come for the village. They came for him.

The king's last fool had died under regrettable circumstances. He had drowned when the king made him swim in wine. He had never

learned how to swim. It was well-known hop frog, a young man of short stature, lived in his village, and his parents nearly had

enough time to warn him. The king's men caught him on the edge of the village, and they found

the young man's just poorly timed. With a sharp stomp from his boot, the man shattered

hot frog's hip, giving him two things, a permanent limp and his name.

The laughter still echoed around the chamber. Hop frog could hear it start to wane.

The king and his courtiers loved their jokes, but their humor burned hot and short.

They would explode, if not diffused.

Hop frog hopped to his feet, and grinning begged his king for another kiss. The king pointed, in the flex of wine from his guffaws, peppered hop frog's

face. Hop frog wasn't a strictly accurate name. He had heard the arguments before, as he limped through the room with the massive wine

jugs, he could climb quickly when need arose.

Like one of the king's seven privy counselors lighting the curtain behind him, that day as he

scrambled to keep his other leg away from the fire, they mused that he wasn't a frog,

closer to a squirrel or a small monkey. Of all the comparisons they made, though, they never compared

...