Random stories

Philosophy is a strange art. Some would call it a science, most would call it daydreaming - at least most of *my* people. Which by the account of my own mind, I still am. Would that the world might see it that way.

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*And each king should step out from palace and heave grain with the workers. Shoulder their physical burden, in hopes that one day - when they most need it, those working men would understand and assist with the invisible but staggering weight of the crown.*

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Those were the words. The words from the great text of *Monarchai-Arul,* some outdated tomb left by some outdated man who sought to bring his flavor of wisdom to the rest of the world. He sat on top of a single piece of paper, then claimed to all of us they he had an clear view of the horizon born aloft from an impossibly high vantage point. I sometimes wonder if he knew that he sat so barely above the common man. Then again, after dealing with these people for so long I can safely assume it was not so much that he found himself with an elevated perspective, rather that he figured the rest of us were deep within a trench of ignorance.

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I travel now. From valley to valley. From port to port. My coming is celebrated with the smell of roses and the soft wafting scents of feast being prepared from on high. The thoroughfares lay decorated with rich colors of too expensive dye, and the people wear smiles stretched like dried leather.

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I had a home once. It was a small village, not so far outside the territories claimed some three centuries ago by the Reshri officiate. Life was hard. Life was simple. I worked, feeling the coarseness of dried grain as it dug softly into the skin of my calloused hands. I loved deeply, knowing comfort in the warm embrace of my wife and the radiant heat of our son's youth. I slept, taken for reprieve by the cool darkness which allowed the next day to make ready. So I was, and so it seems I might never be again.

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At each stop, the royalty bows to me. They feign resignation to an authority each of us knows I do not possess. I am treated to foods that I might never have even read about. I listen their polished laughs, like the jingle of bells whipped aloft in a summer gust. Then, when the proceedings are done, I am escorted to a lavish room with a bed so soft I sleep on the stone floor. For a night I will rest in my golden cage, and dream of an old and dirty freedom.

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My beloved still writes me from time to time. Her and my son are comfortable. They live a life of contentment, wanting for some things but enjoying the certainty of having all which they need. Her words seem different now. Like when you talk to your former supervisor. Pleasant in the front, but with a sense of uncertainty dancing in the background. Her letters now are perfumed with deep scents of lavender.

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My son writes too, sometimes. He is now seven. I had not learned to write until my appointment a year ago, and find that his words and mastery of tongue outweigh my own. He grows up in a world which I live in, but have no fatherly advice to distribute about. He is guided by their appointed tutor - one Jean Beauxic. My son says that study is a delightful place, full of inventions and miniatures that the mind recoils at when trying to comprehend in full. He is assured by Jean that one day, with enough time and dedication, he will find mastery and create his own pieces. The room is always perfectly clean. It smells of perfumes. Lavender.

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I close my eyes at night now, and feel the cool metal of the crown in my hands. I feel myself sinking in a salt-water sea, dragged down by its weight. I release my grip, but as soon as one drops into those dark and cold depths, another replaces it. A different shape, a different name, but a crown all the same. I awake in those nights with a start only to find myself still walking between a dream and my life which grow like vines around my feet, snaring me.

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Heavy lays the crown upon the head. Heavy lays the heart which lie below. And pity to the feet which trod on into some half measure of eternity, ensuring that burden find its keeper.

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*Aside: The quoted section in this piece is from Brandon Sanderson's 'The Way of Kings.'*

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Submitted by Dbootloot on Mon, Oct 17, 2022 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

The new king was not crowned by a holy man, nor by another monarch. Instead, he asked you, a commoner, to crown him. This was to represent his dedication to his people. But now everyone calls you"King-maker", to the extent that other nations call upon you for your service.