[story] pretenders to the throne
Nov. 27th, 2010 09:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: untrainedviolin (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
untrainedviolin)
Once there was a king who was not a king.
How is this so? you may ask. And indeed, you would have reason to. He was, in almost all the ways that mattered, a king. He had the riches, the clothes, and the food of a king. He had servants and subjects who bowed and scraped to him, did his bidding, called him “Your Majesty”. He had ministers and courtiers in his court, all of whom acknowledged him as king. He had the loveliest of queens, who looked up to him, and bowed to him, and called him her lord. Everyone knew him as the king. So why then, was he not the king?
Simple. He was not the king.
Once in a while, the king who was not a king allowed himself to remember how he came to this. How he came to be clothed in rich, perfumed leather and ermine fur, with more gold and jewels on his fingers than any peasant family was likely to see in three generations, while all around him half the palace plotted his downfall.
It had been a summer day.
It had been a summer day, with the grain freshly cut, ready to be taken to the town where the baker would grind it into flour for fresh bread. The farmer had just bundled up the last stalks when hoofbeats sounded through the field.
He straightened. Riders through the fields were uncommon; usually it meant they were lost. Squinting, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the noonday sun, trying to see the rider at the other end of the field. He could see the horse: large, powerful, clearly bred for war. The rider was a blur in purple and rich, lavish black spilling over his shoulders. Which meant he was rich as rich could be - who else but the wealthy could have the coin to pay for such things?
As the farmer got closer, he saw the gold circlet on the rider’s brow, threading through the black hair, and his stomach dropped to the ground. He could not see the rider’s face, but the gold identified him as surely as if his name was tacked to his back. The king himself was lost in his fields.
As he got closer, everything he saw confirmed his suspicions: the silver bit in the horse’s mouth. The cloak lined with silk. As the farmer approached, he took off his hat and prepared to go down on his knees.
The king noticed him, dismounted his horse and approached as well. The farmer dropped down, murmuring, “Your Majesty” and everything you say when you’re a peasant and you meet the king.
“Get up,” said the king, pulling at the farmer’s shoulders. He rose in astonishment, still not lifting his eyes from the ground.
“Look at me,” said the king, and the farmer looked at him, and his world turned upside down.
He was the king’s exact twin.
He opened his mouth, intending to form words, but the king beat him to it.
“Good God,” he said, “how?”
The farmer could only stare at the king, at a face that looked exactly like his own, yet born of royal blood.
“This is perfect,” said the king abruptly. “Perfect! More than I ever asked for! Ha!” and here he began to laugh, loudly, exultantly. Triumphantly. “Quick, switch clothes with me, will you?”
The farmer remained speechless, and grew ever more baffled. Switch what with the king?
But you did not deny someone of royal blood, and soon the farmer found himself donning heavy silks and brocaded shirts he’d never thought he’d see in his life, let alone touch. Let alone wear. And to make things even more surreal, there was the king, still with the gold circlet around his brow, fastening a buckle here, pulling a cuff into place there.
“My lord,” he finally managed to say. “Why?”
The king fixed him with a stare exactly like his own. “Why? Because I am tired of it, that is why. If we are not at war, there is drought, or there is pestilence, or we lack coin in our coffers, or there is yet another plot to kill me. I have had enough. If I stay, I will go mad, and nobody wants a mad king on the throne.”
The king looked out at the fields. Dressed in a peasant's trousers and worn-out shirt, he no more looked like one of royal descent than the farmer had mere hours ago. The hot afternoon sun beat down on them, and the farmer felt sweat pool in his arms. Why had no one ever told him being a king was so hot?
Perhaps because very few people had switched roles with a king.
“What are you going to do?” asked the farmer.
“Live your life,” answered the king.
“But my lord, it is a hard life.”
The king grinned. “It cannot possibly be as hard a life as I’ve ever led. Now go, and may you someday be as lucky as I have been.”
Something in his voice made the farmer mount the king’s warhorse, turn him in the general direction of the palace, and leave the former king to his new life. The last he saw of this strange monarch was of him hoisting the bundle of grain over his shoulder, whistling as cheerfully as could be.
At the palace, he pretended to have hit his head and lost his way when he discovered they’d lost the king while hunting. In the back of his mind, he always suspected that the king had intentionally veered off, fully intending to disappear forever.
No one asked questions. But even now, two years later, he was terrified that they would find the real king in his old cottage by the edge of the forest.
The king who was not a king jumped when a soft hand touched his shoulder. But it was only his queen, her lovely storm-blue eyes looking up at him filled with concern.
“My king, do you fare well?” she asked. “Is anything the matter?”
He forced a smile. “No. No... there is nothing wrong.”
the end
untrainedviolin)Once there was a king who was not a king.
How is this so? you may ask. And indeed, you would have reason to. He was, in almost all the ways that mattered, a king. He had the riches, the clothes, and the food of a king. He had servants and subjects who bowed and scraped to him, did his bidding, called him “Your Majesty”. He had ministers and courtiers in his court, all of whom acknowledged him as king. He had the loveliest of queens, who looked up to him, and bowed to him, and called him her lord. Everyone knew him as the king. So why then, was he not the king?
Simple. He was not the king.
Once in a while, the king who was not a king allowed himself to remember how he came to this. How he came to be clothed in rich, perfumed leather and ermine fur, with more gold and jewels on his fingers than any peasant family was likely to see in three generations, while all around him half the palace plotted his downfall.
It had been a summer day.
It had been a summer day, with the grain freshly cut, ready to be taken to the town where the baker would grind it into flour for fresh bread. The farmer had just bundled up the last stalks when hoofbeats sounded through the field.
He straightened. Riders through the fields were uncommon; usually it meant they were lost. Squinting, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the noonday sun, trying to see the rider at the other end of the field. He could see the horse: large, powerful, clearly bred for war. The rider was a blur in purple and rich, lavish black spilling over his shoulders. Which meant he was rich as rich could be - who else but the wealthy could have the coin to pay for such things?
As the farmer got closer, he saw the gold circlet on the rider’s brow, threading through the black hair, and his stomach dropped to the ground. He could not see the rider’s face, but the gold identified him as surely as if his name was tacked to his back. The king himself was lost in his fields.
As he got closer, everything he saw confirmed his suspicions: the silver bit in the horse’s mouth. The cloak lined with silk. As the farmer approached, he took off his hat and prepared to go down on his knees.
The king noticed him, dismounted his horse and approached as well. The farmer dropped down, murmuring, “Your Majesty” and everything you say when you’re a peasant and you meet the king.
“Get up,” said the king, pulling at the farmer’s shoulders. He rose in astonishment, still not lifting his eyes from the ground.
“Look at me,” said the king, and the farmer looked at him, and his world turned upside down.
He was the king’s exact twin.
He opened his mouth, intending to form words, but the king beat him to it.
“Good God,” he said, “how?”
The farmer could only stare at the king, at a face that looked exactly like his own, yet born of royal blood.
“This is perfect,” said the king abruptly. “Perfect! More than I ever asked for! Ha!” and here he began to laugh, loudly, exultantly. Triumphantly. “Quick, switch clothes with me, will you?”
The farmer remained speechless, and grew ever more baffled. Switch what with the king?
But you did not deny someone of royal blood, and soon the farmer found himself donning heavy silks and brocaded shirts he’d never thought he’d see in his life, let alone touch. Let alone wear. And to make things even more surreal, there was the king, still with the gold circlet around his brow, fastening a buckle here, pulling a cuff into place there.
“My lord,” he finally managed to say. “Why?”
The king fixed him with a stare exactly like his own. “Why? Because I am tired of it, that is why. If we are not at war, there is drought, or there is pestilence, or we lack coin in our coffers, or there is yet another plot to kill me. I have had enough. If I stay, I will go mad, and nobody wants a mad king on the throne.”
The king looked out at the fields. Dressed in a peasant's trousers and worn-out shirt, he no more looked like one of royal descent than the farmer had mere hours ago. The hot afternoon sun beat down on them, and the farmer felt sweat pool in his arms. Why had no one ever told him being a king was so hot?
Perhaps because very few people had switched roles with a king.
“What are you going to do?” asked the farmer.
“Live your life,” answered the king.
“But my lord, it is a hard life.”
The king grinned. “It cannot possibly be as hard a life as I’ve ever led. Now go, and may you someday be as lucky as I have been.”
Something in his voice made the farmer mount the king’s warhorse, turn him in the general direction of the palace, and leave the former king to his new life. The last he saw of this strange monarch was of him hoisting the bundle of grain over his shoulder, whistling as cheerfully as could be.
At the palace, he pretended to have hit his head and lost his way when he discovered they’d lost the king while hunting. In the back of his mind, he always suspected that the king had intentionally veered off, fully intending to disappear forever.
No one asked questions. But even now, two years later, he was terrified that they would find the real king in his old cottage by the edge of the forest.
The king who was not a king jumped when a soft hand touched his shoulder. But it was only his queen, her lovely storm-blue eyes looking up at him filled with concern.
“My king, do you fare well?” she asked. “Is anything the matter?”
He forced a smile. “No. No... there is nothing wrong.”
the end
