So Philip’s dead.
Like I said, diary, it was a terrible plan. Terrible! The only good thing about it all is that Robert and I didn’t get caught.
It started out okay. Robert picked a good night to go hunting, because the king suddenly mandated that everyone had to come to the throne room and watch his five-year-old daughter dance. The barbican was empty, and nobody noticed that the three of us were missing.
The elephant herd wasn’t too far away, maybe a half hour’s walk. We tried to keep quiet, as elephants can hear incredible distances, I’m told. Look at their ears and you’ll probably agree. We hid behind a small hill and started to crawl towards an adolescent when we got close enough.
Then we got to the top of the hill... and Robert dropped his peanut sack and ran, because we were staring at a big, angry-looking male, coming at us out of the darkness.
I didn’t bother to freeze. I ran. I’ve never run so hard. I guess I ran faster than Philip, ‘cause I’m alive and he isn’t. Apparently his flying head is faster than my legs, though - it knocked my helmet off a few seconds later when it came whizzing out of the darkness. Dunno where it landed. Elephants are excellent pitchers with those big trunks of theirs.
Robert and I ran back to the castle, sneaked into the barbican and went to watch Princess Celine dance – but not before I dunked my armour in water. Had to wash away the bloodstain on my shoulder from Philip’s decapitation and the, er, brown and yellow stains in my breeches. How humiliating.
Robert said he was sorry. He’s dropping the whole elephant hunting thing. I’m glad, because it would have been more traumatizing to see my brother get ripped apart. Not much, because at times I think he's just a big jerk who deserves a good dismemberment, but still.
Poor Philip. I rather liked him.
I need new clothes,
Dragomir the Guard
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