The King giving up his kingdom for a life
Since your troops conquered Baeresey, I am at your service, Your Majesty. I am Sercey, Mystic to the Monarch.
Baeresey was a cruel empire, ruled by a tyrant. But when a land is conquered, the innocent suffer as well.
“When you conquer a country,” the king said, “there are spoils. But you look unwell.”
“I am,” I replied. “I suffer from a degenerative disease. I am only twenty-five, and I should be in my prime.”
“I have heard you possess great power,” he said.
“I do not think of it as power,” I answered. “I use equilibrium. Everything balances—equal and opposite.”
“I do not care how your powers work,” the king said. “I want you to cure me and give me strength beyond the strongest knight in my kingdom.”
“To receive,” I said, “you must give.”
“I can give gold. I can give land. What do you want?”
“I want nothing,” I said. “You must give up all your power and all your wealth.”
The king smiled faintly. “With renewed strength, I will simply take it back.”
“You will not take,” I said. “You will give. Your life will be in service to the people. You will have health and strength, but no dominion. If you gain power again, your sickness will return.”
“I do not want to give up my power,” the king said. “Nor my wealth.”
“Then you cannot have health.”
“What if I send you to the gallows?” he asked.
“You may,” I said. “But equilibrium cannot be broken.”
That night, the king dined well and drank too much wine. Pain came swiftly—headache, nausea, weakness. Sleep brought dreams of rabid dogs tearing at his flesh. He woke wheezing, coughing blood, barely able to breathe.
At dawn, he summoned me.
“I do not want to die,” he said. “I want my health.”
“You must abdicate the throne,” I said. “And give your wealth to the people.”
“I need time,” he whispered.
“You may not have it.”
“No incantation?” he asked.
“No. Only choice.”
That morning, he ordered the court assembled.
“My people,” he said, “I abdicate the throne.”
The pain left him at once. His neck loosened. His breath cleared.
“All my wealth,” he continued, “will be distributed evenly among you.”
Strength returned to his legs. He stood, trembling, as the court erupted in cheers.
His viceroy cried out, “What are you doing, my lord?”
“I am choosing life.”
He left the kingdom with a sword, a bow, food, and a handful of coins. In the forest, his strength grew daily. He bought a small piece of land and learned to grow food. He lived simply and well.
Years later, he entered a tavern and saw three men attacking a woman. He stopped them with speed and strength. When one lay defenseless beneath him, the urge to dominate returned—and with it, weakness.
He lowered his sword.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man said.
“Then remember this.”
The years passed. They were hard, and they were good.
On the day of his grandson’s birth, the boy said, “I wish to be king.”
“Why?” the old man asked.
“So people will serve me.”
“As king,” the old man said, “you carry the sickness of responsibility.”
He smiled gently.
“Wish instead for a good life. That is something you can achieve.”