On occasion I like to “doodle,” writing something as more of an exercise than anything else. Sometimes, those doodled get collected and become part of a book of short vignettes or short stories (see my book Falling Leaves for such stories). At others, they’re just exercises—something that caught my eye or captured my mind—and I write about it. This is one such instance. I was thinking of a King—one well past his prime—and more enlightened than others in a very specific way. This is what I came up with.
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The King
He loved the quiet.
The gathering room, so large as to allow four or five hunting parties, was empty. An occasional creak of settling columns or an undiscovered drip of water the only echoes.
This was the time he liked best. Alone with his thoughts, in a room as large as his ambitions once were.
The old king was tired. Scarred, battered, and beaten down by wars within and without—they had taken their toll.
In his most private moments, when no one could see him, he breathed deep, the concerns of the moment slipping away, like scales shed by a dying fish. His legs grew weak. His mind emptied — the only way he could find peace. A peace that had eluded him most of his life.
It was in these moments he was most vulnerable. And that is why the great king, the man who through force of will and unmatched skill in battle wrested the kingdom from those who sought to exploit it — now, in the quiet far from the slick of the bloodied battlefield, allowed himself a moment’s rest.
Unseen, but vulnerable.
Long ago, when he was strong of mind and stronger of body, he would have cast aside such trivial concerns as his well-being, either physical or spiritual.
Now, the aging monarch grew weary. His slumping shoulders, his bowed head — markers of such weariness.
Once he had lived for bloodsport. The crashing of swords. The screams of his enemies as he cut them down with the ease of a man slicing cake.
He had worshipped the sting, the pain, the adrenaline of conflict — once considering such a condition the natural state of man.
His father, a great warrior in his own right, once said: “The battlefield is as much in your head as on the back of a horse with your enemy splayed open.” Advice he had taken to heart.
In youth, he enjoyed every battle—fit, strong, and bold to the point of recklessness.
But now, in these later days, long past the flower of his youth, with the road of life’s distance much shorter, he came to see his folly.
Yes, he ruled. And like most who sought power, he had been relentless in its pursuit, convinced of his worthiness — and even more convinced of the worthlessness of his enemies.
He spared nothing to achieve his goal.
Now, older — a bit wiser — the gift of time and the loss of much of what he once was — he understood life and death better.
The great king looked up at the vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of his greatest victories. Horses and men clashing, dressed in colors bright enough to make flowers blush. But always the great king in the foreground — his silver armor, black beard, and flowing black hair as grand as a horse’s mane.
He spied one scene: two mounted enemies converging on him. His great steed reared up, and he — the hero — sword raised high above his head, ready to cut them both down with little effort.
The king laughed to himself. It was not that easy. He knew it. Those two swordsmen had once been kinfolk, choosing to fight for another house and thereby becoming his enemies. He did kill them both that day — after being knocked from his horse, cutting the forelegs from his enemies’ mounts. One was crushed by the weight of his dead animal, the other cut down while both clashed on the ground.
Hardly the hero depicted. But as he well understood, tales of might — no matter how outlandish — have their place in securing one’s legend.
Such tales were useful. The people believed what they saw more than what they heard.
Ruling was made easier the grander the tale.
He understood the people — while wishing for what was right — were often guided to wrong, driven by emotion and false claims. He had tried to stop that. But the jackals — those who lusted for his position — forced him down another path.
Another deep breath.
Here, he was free from it all. Free to be simply a man.
Just then, his master of horse entered, walking with alacrity, disturbing the king’s silence. He bowed, asked forgiveness, and proceeded to inform the monarch of a matter most pressing.
“Your Grace, he who once was your godson now is at the gates, demanding entry.”
The king, disturbed by both the sudden entry of his servant as well as being yanked from his thoughts, shifted on his throne, clenching both fists as he did so, his face remaining stoic.
“He is of little concern,” the king growled.
“But he brings with him a dozen men, sworn to his side.” The exasperated face on the king’s Master of Horse told him all he needed to know.
He smiled.
“Ethendril—come. Sit with me.”
The Master of Horse stood still, unmoved and unbelieving what he’d heard.
“Your Grace?”
The great king motioned with his hand to approach and take the seat next to him, the one reserved for the Queen. Without saying a word, Ethendril did what he was requested to do.
“You have been my servant for…”
“Twelve years, Your Grace,” he said, taking his seat.
The king nodded in agreement.
“Twelve years. That is a fair slice of life.”
“It is, Your Grace.”
“Oh, let us dispense with all of the ‘Your Grace’ nonsense. We have known each other for too long.”
“You are the king. I would not presume to allow our youth to color our…”
The king glowered at Ethendril.
“As you wish,” Ethendril said.
“Tell me,” the king continued, “what is your assessment of my Godson?”
Ethendril pursed his lips and scanned the area with his eyes, searching for the right words.
“Oh, come now, Ethendril. Do you not think I can bear the truth? Am I so soft as to avoid what I know to be reality?”
Ethendril spied his king, the man he’d devoted much of his life to serving. Folding his hands onto his lap. He took a healthy breath and said:
“Charles…your Godson is a motivated young man. He is strong, of your same blood and spirit, and would not hesitate to take what he truly believes is his. He is merciless and merciful. He is also a young man of great faith—one who truly believes what he is doing is the right thing. It is difficult to contend with a man who believes in what he is doing. They tend to have backs of steel, and a will of iron. It takes much to dislodge them from their position.”
The great king nodded in agreement. He looked around his gathering room once again, taking it all in as a man might who is seeing his home for the last time.
“I remember when we built this room,” he said. “What a grand day that was. Do you recall it?”
Ethendril smiled and nodded in the affirmative.
“We had such grand dreams. Dreams we dared not say to anyone but ourselves, even in our youth.”
“I remember,” Ethendril said.
“Do you also remember what we had to do to make all of this happen? Blood and horses and steel set against those who refused to let go—men who saw for themselves little more than their own gain. Men, who, cared little for this land—for the people they served. Men, who, would rather have destroyed it all if only to remain.”
Softly, Ethendril said, “I remember. They were grand days, made grander by your leadership, your iron will.”
“The day I drove my sword into that usurper’s chest was the best day of my life,” the king boasted. “I knew I was doing the right thing.”
“And now?”
The king glanced over at his Master of Horse.
“And now, the right thing to do is to let go,” he said. “I am no longer the man that took this throne—no longer the man who should remain. My time has passed and I know it. I am now one for the ages, I think.
“Ethendril—I am—tired. I’m tired of it all and just wish to retire to some land where no one will bother me and I can tend sheep and grow grass for them to eat. Is that too much to ask?”
Ethendril stood.
“And the people will always remember,” he said. “They will always remember your selflessness in this act. They will remember what you did for them—always.”
The king laughed.
“Of this, you are naïve, old friend. Oh, they’ll have a celebration. Some will curse me, others will cheer my departure. And some, well, some will not care either way. There will be commemorations for a time, but after that time has passed, I will sink into memory for all time. A few words written here and there, and a few stories circulating, some made as grand as the paintings above us—mostly lies.
But in the end, the only thing that will live on of me is reputation—and even that will fade with time. No, Ethenril—what we do here is of little consequence to the future for time will wash our memory away, as the sea washes the shore.”
Then, the king stood along side Ethendril—clapping him on the shoulder.
“Tell my Godson to enter, leaving his men outside. Tell him his king wishes to see him to make arrangements for his desires.”
Ethendril stood silently, unmoving.
“It is the right thing to do, Ethendril. It is not ordinary, but it is right.”
Bowing his head in agreement, Ethendril silently left the gathering room to deliver the king’s message.
The king — knees and hands aching, belly larger, and temper calmed — laughed. A big, full-throated, bawdy laugh. The echo filled the chamber to capacity.
As suddenly as it began, the laugh died.
The once mighty king sat on his throne, in silence once more, enveloped by the quiet.