The King

The King

By E. M. Areson

It had all been determined long ago they had told me. They said it was my destiny to overthrow him and start a peaceful empire. What they had never told me I’m a monster. The very things that made me a hero also make me a terror… at least it’s what I think now. The monks never meant for to find out; it was all my fault. Everything’s my fault.
        After a lifetime of training, I had finally earned the right to wear the red vest, the same my father and his father had worn. Looking back now I wonder why the thought never occurred to me that if my father and grandfather had lived just like I had, without ever meeting a woman before their twentieth birthday, which they both died on, how I had been born. I just excepted it was truth… and murdered accordingly.
        The night I did it was a blur, so much fighting. I was careful not to kill anyone or harm any civilians, just like I’d been taught. After less than ten minutes I found him, being waited on by dozens of slaves, I challenged him for the kingdom. Like every king must, he excepted and we fought. He was stronger than I expected and had no problem with accidentally hurting the servants. I was careful to ensure nothing I did would touch them.
        The fight was over in minutes, he’d put up a good fight, but I was king now. They took his body away and I ordered he be buried like he would have if not defeated. I lead the kingdom in a month of mourning. No one seemed to wonder who I was and that should have made me think. I was an idiot. Only after I visited the monks again did I learned the truth. Sitting in a room of prayer I heard some of the brothers talking.
“…so, when do we start training his replacement?”
“As soon as we find a promising orphan, we’ll tell this one the king killed his parents.”
“Didn’t we use that with the one who wore a purple vest?”
“Yes, but it works out the same. I doubt they’d notice if we told them all the same story about why they should kill the king. A king should only rain for twenty years. Best if we just keep getting orphans to do it, they’ll believe anything …”
        They’ve only just gone down the hall, yet I feel like I’ve gained the knowledge of an elder. The vest is a joke, using orphans they challenge and kill the king every twenty years, orphans like me. I’ve not received vengeance; I’ve killed the rightful king. Or was he an orphan too? Maybe we haven’t had a real king in hundreds of years, and maybe we never will. The only thing I can do is try and be the best king while I have the throne and ask God’s forgiveness for seeking vengeance on the innocent. 

 Photo by Zoltan Tasi

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