Was Once the King: Chapter 20: The Crown Rises Again
The invitation had come wrapped in gold and velvet,
embossed with a seal from the National Arts Guild: a commemorative gala for the
most impactful dramas of the past two decades. Neither Hector nor Benjamin had
expected it to be more than a formality.
But from the moment they stepped onto the crimson carpet,
hand in hand, it was clear—this wasn’t just a celebration. It was a reckoning.
A rewriting.
Reporters didn’t yell. They nodded. Photographers didn’t
shout. They clicked, quietly.
And the whispers? They weren’t about scandal. They were
about survival.
“That's them.” Someone murmured. “From the special. From
Was Once the King.”
Inside, the lights dimmed. A montage began to play across
a massive stage screen.
It wasn’t about Was Once the King.
It was about Crown Fall.
A voiceover rolled gently over grainy footage: a young
Hector Brandon, eyes sharp, crown slightly askew, standing atop marble stairs
that cracked beneath the weight of war and pride. His voice, back then, was
thunder. Fire. Youth wrapped in steel.
The narrator’s voice said:
“Before the world knew him as Oran, he was the king.
Before the headlines, there was Crown Fall—a story that shaped an era, and a
performance that shook the stage.”
Clips of Hector’s performance played to a breathless
crowd.
Benjamin looked sideways. Hector didn’t blink. He watched
himself—fifteen years younger, fists clenched, voice shattering silence. And
yet, behind his steady gaze, something flickered.
A memory. A boy who had not yet been broken.
Then came the voice of a man none of them had seen in
years:
“Some stories deserve one more telling.” Said the
original director of Crown Fall, stepping onto the stage to stunned applause.
“Tonight, I’m honored to announce its return.”
Gasps.
“A revival. A new cast. A new vision. But with one soul
returning to guide it all—”
The spotlight fell.
“—Hector Brandon will return. Not as the crown-wearer.
But as the keeper of the flame.”
The room rose to its feet.
Hector froze. Then stood.
Not because he planned to. But because the weight of
legacy was no longer something he feared.
Back at the table, Benjamin smiled and reached over to
squeeze his hand beneath the tablecloth.
“You okay?” He whispered.
“I think so.” Hector whispered back. “It feels like the
full circle.”
“Maybe it’s not a circle.” Benjamin said. “Maybe it’s a
crown passed on. A story you no longer have to carry alone.”
The week after the gala, Hector and Benjamin began a
quieter transition of their own.
They moved into a new place—one that didn’t carry echoes
of loneliness, but the soft hum of new beginnings. Boxes cluttered the hallway,
laughter echoed from unpacked rooms, and takeout containers made their way into
the fridge beside fresh beginnings.
Their shared space wasn’t large, but it was filled with
light. The kitchen window looked out at the skyline, and Benjamin had insisted
on putting plants on every sill. Hector didn’t argue. Not once.
One quiet morning, they visited the old set of Crown Fall.
The studio was being refurbished for the revival. Walls
were patched, lights rewired, but some corners remained untouched—sacred.
Hector guided Benjamin to a small hallway behind the
throne room set, where faded paint peeled away from history.
“This,” Hector said, brushing his fingers across a
shadowed portion of the wall, “was where I used to wait before every big scene.
Heart racing. Palms sweating.”
He pointed to a carved set of initials, barely visible
now: HB 2006.
Benjamin traced them with a smile. “You were just a kid.”
“A kid who thought his whole world lived or died in that
spotlight.”
Then, from his pocket, Hector pulled out a small
penknife.
He crouched and carefully etched beneath the faded mark:
2025, Still Here.
Benjamin watched in silence, reverence in his eyes.
“That one,” Hector whispered, “is for everything I
survived.”
Benjamin didn’t reply. He just wrapped his arms around
Hector from behind and pressed a kiss to his temple.
“I’m proud of you.” He said.
Later that week, the director of Crown fall reached out
in person.
The revival was real. Scripts were already being
adjusted. A new cast was in final negotiations.
Hector hesitated at first, unsure if returning would
reopen wounds or bring closure. But Benjamin, with a simple hand on his
shoulder, said:
“He could use a you. Back then, I know I would've.”
And so Hector agreed.
On the first day of rehearsal, he sat quietly in the
wings, watching as the cast read lines and the new actor playing the
king—nervous, bright-eyed, voice wavering—tried to carry the weight of a legacy
without collapsing.
There was something fragile in the way he held the
script. Something that reminded Hector of himself.
That afternoon, Sam arrived.
He strolled into the rehearsal room like it was still his
kingdom, shaking hands, making jokes, pretending not to notice the tension that
followed him like a shadow.
The crew fell silent. The director looked surprised. The
young cast shifted uncomfortably.
No one said anything at first. But after everything—the
interview, the documentary, the behind-the-scenes truth—the cast didn’t welcome
him.
The crew averted their eyes. The makeup lead whispered
something under her breath.
And the director, with visible discomfort, finally
approached Sam.
“I appreciate the passion.” He said politely, “but this
isn’t your project anymore. We’ve moved on.”
Sam's smile froze. “I was a part of Crown Fall. I have a
right to see how they treat my role.”
He tried to laugh it off, but no one joined him.
Hector stood up.
He walked forward and placed himself gently, but firmly,
between Sam and the rest of the cast.
“If the director wanted you here,” Hector said, voice
calm and clear, “he would’ve invited you.”
Sam’s jaw clenched. “I built this role. You think I don’t
deserve to see what they do with it?”
“This isn’t about the role anymore.” Hector said evenly.
“It’s about what kind of legacy you leave behind. And you left yours the day
you walked away from everything that mattered.”
Sam faltered.
“This project doesn’t need a reminder of what we lost.”
Hector continued. “It needs the space to build something new. You’ve had your
spotlight. Let them find theirs.”
Sam didn’t argue. Didn’t defend.
Because there was nothing left to say.
He just nodded once. And turned around.
The doors closed behind him.
And the new actor—still holding the script with both
hands—looked at Hector with wide, grateful eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, Hector felt like
he had protected something worth saving.
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