The King
Dark clouds swirled in the sky, threatening rain on the land below. A great city spanned across the golden plains, sundered by a flowing river. An ancient forest bordered the west side of the city, dark greens and browns gnarled and twisted.
The streets were bustling with activity. Like ants going about their business, people moved about with purpose, working on their daily tasks and activities. The buildings were mostly stone, with some wooden planks, blocky and rigid. Smoke rose out of chimneys, and lanterns lit the cobblestone streets with yellow glows.
The wind picked up and a chill swept through the city. Civilians hurried their pacing, and city guards shivered in place, staying vigilant.
The chill and wind flowed into the centre, where a great stone castle stood. Four great towers rose above the regular buildings, and the keep towered above even higher. It was a structure of grandeur, meant to remind all who lived there their place in society, above the rest.
The wind rose up and cut through some window curtains, high up in the keep. It shook the room for a moment, then stilled.
An elderly man was lying down on the magnificent bed, made with the finest woods and laid with the softest sheets. Everything in the room was crafted to perfection. The tables and chairs were masterfully carved by the most skilled woodsman. The painting on the wall, one of a regal looking man, woman, and child, was made with vivid colours and shading.
The man was wearing fine silk, deep blue in colour. His skin was wrinkled. His hair was long and white. There was an inner strength to him, but it seemed to fight with his age. He coughed and sputtered, then breathed slowly. It wouldn’t be long now. King Berron Adric’s life was coming to a close.
A second man stood near the window, having just closed it to the elements.
“Blasted wind,” he said. “I tell you my lord, the seasons are getting colder and colder as the years go by.”
Councilor Kyman Dreil was also wearing fine silks, but his were scarlet. Simple embroiders flashed gold as he moved towards the bed. He was younger than the king, but silver stands began to colour his hair.
“You really should try to get some sleep, sire,” he said. “You need to keep up your strength and staying up all night won’t replenish any.”
“Was I a good king, Kyman?”
King Berron’s voice was barely above a whisper, air barely spilling from his lips. He turned his head with great effort towards the Councilor, his eyes heavy and sad.
Kyman’s eyes widened for a split second, then he regained his composure.
“My lord, you still are our king. No need to think about anything right now,” he said.
“Kyman, look at me. You know as well as I do I won’t last through the night, tomorrow night at best.”
Kyman sighed. He knew it was true. King Berron was one of the strongest people he knew, both in body and spirit. But in the end, not even the strongest person can escape the ultimate fate that comes with time.
Kyman pulled a chair over to the side of the bed, and King Berron slowly moved his hand across the silks towards him. Kyman held it softly.
“I’ve always done what I believed was right,” Berron said. “I tried to rule fairly and assertively. I wanted to always be kind, but strong. Tell me, did I succeed?”
“My lord … Berron … you were the best kind I could have ever hoped for. And I know many feel the same way.”
“But still, I made mistakes.”
“Of course, but everyone does. And unlike most, you did everything in your power to correct them. To amend wrongs. That takes strength and courage of another kind entirely.”
Berron lips curved upward just a touch, then his face turned even more dark. “Some never accepted me, not after my father's rule. They see his sins as mine.”
Kyman squeezed his hand a little more forcefully than intended, a reaction to his emotion. “You are not your father. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.”
“Still the same blood.”
“But not the same heart.”
Berron closed his eyes and sighed.
“You have done more for this kingdom than your father ever did,” Kyman said. “You put your heart and soul into helping the people. Anyone who can’t see that is blind.”
Berron opened his eyes and leaned towards Kyman slightly. His eyes shone with conviction, his old strength shining through.
“You will ensure she’s safe, yes?”
Kyman leaned closer and gripped Berron’s other hand. “Of course. She could be nowhere safer. And besides, who would wish her harmed?”
Berron’s eyes lowered. “Those who believe the royal line is no longer necessary. Those who would reorganize violently.”
“I will never let that happen to her. She’s innocent.”
“That she is, Kyman. That she is. But some people don’t care. They allow hatred into their hearts and turn them cold.”
Berron sputtered again, and Kyman rubbed his shoulders. The two men held each other in silence. No more words passed between them.
The gaspes became more frequent and erratic, and Kyman gripped him tighter. He knew there was nothing more to be done. The time was near.
“You were a good friend, Kyman.”
Those simple words pierced Kyman’s heart. A tear fell from his eye and down his check.
“Keep being that good person, Kyman. You wear it well.”
With that, one final breath, King Berron Aldric’s life ended. His body slumped into the bed; his eyes glazed.
Kyman stared. No matter how long he had spent preparing himself for this day, the weight of its reality hit him like a boulder.
He broke down, and let it all out, his sorrow manifesting in a river of tears. But he knew he must be strong. For the kingdom, for the people.
For her.