A bit of a spontaneous story that I decided to throw together one evening. I had been reading Asimov's Foundation Trilogy at the time, so some of its themes kinda seeped in. Still, I think it's a neat little scene, with characters that kinda popped out as I wrote it.
King Olsus sat on his decadent throne, trimmed with gold and embedded with various rubies and sapphires. Unfortunately, such jewels were not comfortable, especially for his old bones, so he sat on an embroidered pillow, featuring an abstract pattern like those found in the east, and it helped a little. Still, he was not at ease, largely due to the chaos happening outside the throne room.
According to his captain of the guard, rebels had been causing trouble in his kingdom, and they had finally reached the castle gates, overwhelming the guards posted there. Many of his other soldiers had joined the fray to hold the rebels back, resulting in numerous cries and shouts and clangs and pows to emanate from the courtyard and foyer through the throne room’s doors to the walls where they reverberated into the king’s ears. By what he heard, it sounded like a terrific battle, in all senses of the word. And yet it had continued for nearly an hour, and it made Olsus wonder, Is it my time?
In an effort to not be so lost in his thoughts, he turned to see a young man standing guard next to him, and he didn’t recognize him. He wore the standard uniform for a guard, and didn’t bear the surcoat of one of his knights or captains. However, he was young, with blond hair and blue eyes, and completely focused on his surroundings.
“Young man,” the king’s voice called lightly, and he hated how old it sounded.
“Yes, sire!” the young man responded instantly.
“What is your name?”
The young man hesitated a little at the question, but responded quick enough. “Nikos, son of Nitolius, sir!” He added quite the impressive salute. The king waved a hand to let him stand at ease.
“How long have you served the kingdom?”
“Three years, sir.”
“And why would you do that?”
“. . . Sir?” The young man was definitely confused, and Olsus saw the concern in his eyes, as if he was afraid something had happened to his precious king, which made him smile.
“It’s nothing serious, just a thread of thought while we wait for the outcome,” he responded assuringly, gesturing toward the doors where the sounds of battle continued.
“Well, sir, it’s an honor to serve you,” Nikos responded, still a little baffled by the king’s intentions.
“An honor, you say?” the king repeated, and he chuckled a little to himself. He covered his mouth with a hand, deep in thought, as he considered the many years of his reign. He felt his age, now reaching 70, knowing that his physical stature had shrunk a little in recent years. Now all he felt was frailty beneath his kingly robes, and he felt small sitting in his magnificent throne.
He had seen many things as the King of Vion, experienced his share of victories and defeats, as well as made many sacrifices. For most of his reign, he felt proud of what he had accomplished and there was a small part of him that was frustrated at these rebels and their actions. But at the same time, he wondered if he wasn’t romanticizing his own history. If he had been such a great king, why would there be rebels at the door? And why would they be succeeding?
Suddenly, the throne room doors opened a little and the captain of the guard came through, quickly shutting the doors behind him and nodding to the guards that stood by. This was the same captain who had been updating the king on the rebels actions. He was tall, had dark brown hair, and was dressed in full armor, down to his captain’s surcoat. He made his way up the red carpet to the bottom of the stairs below the throne. He knelt down briefly before standing again to give his report.
“My king, the rebels are numbered more than we imagined. They must have five or six hundred men fighting against us, with who knows how many in reserve outside the castle walls,” he said, still trying to catch his breath a little.
“All soldiers?” King Olsus asked.
“No, many of them look like civilians. Farmers and peasants and such. I’ve never seen such lower class people fight so ferociously! I don’t know if we can hold them back!” The captain looked up to the king, as if seeking some brilliant advice from him that would save them.
However, the king said nothing right away as he continued to ponder his situation.
“Sire?” the captain asked, hoping to catch the king’s attention.
“Is there their leader among them?” the king then asked.
“Uh, yes,” the captain responded, a little confused. “I’ve seen the man who wears the greens of a forestman. We’ve tried to take him down with arrows, but he is surrounded by his men, so we can’t get a good shot. He’s clever.”
King Olsus thought some more before muttering to himself, “Then perhaps it is time I faced him.” He finally shifted his weight forward and began to stand up. It took longer than he wanted, but didn’t stumble, which he felt was acceptable.
“Page!” he shouted, and a young man dressed in a red tunic came forward. “Bring me my sword,” he ordered, and the page ran off.
“Just your sword, sire?” the captain asked, nervous.
“It will be sufficient,” the king assured, and he waited for the page to come back. Once again, he turned toward Nikos and pondered him for a moment.
“Sire?” Nikos asked, as if to draw out the king’s command.
“It seems the rebels are gaining ground, and yet you stand here with me,” the king stated, sounding mysterious.
“Of course, sir!” Nikos responded. “Why would I be anywhere else?”
Olsus smiled in a fatherly manner. “You could have switched sides and may be seeking an opportunity to stab me in the back.”
Nikos looked offended, gripping his spear a little tighter to restrain himself. “No, sire! My father Nitolius served you in defending our kingdom against the Pettan hordes! He gave up his life to keep me and my mother safe from their rampage, and you ensured that safety with your command. I owe both you and my father my life!”
“You see me as quite the hero,” the king mused out loud.
“Y-yes, sire!” Nikos responded, as if it were quite obvious. “These rebels have taken you and your efforts to keep us safe and secure for granted. They need to be shown their arrogance and . . “ Then he stopped, realizing that he was speaking out of turn. “My apologies, sire,” he added, bowing his head in shame.
“You’re not to blame. I have been needling you with odd questions,” Olsus responded, smiling again. Nikos glanced up, and smiled a little in return, before returning his eyes to the throne room doors. So diligent, Olsus thought, as he also turned his gaze to the ruckus.
The page came back with the king’s sword, scabbard and all, and the king turned and pulled the sword out. He looked it over, seeing even more history etched into its many scars and scratches. It had been sharpened recently, but the rest were nearly as old as he was. It wasn’t a special sword necessarily, but one made for him when he was crowned king, and one that he took with him and used well during his campaigns against the Pettans. Then he noticed that the others were still watching him, waiting on his word. He smiled at them.
“You hang on to that, and keep out of the way,” the king said to the page, referring to the scabbard. The page nodded and quickly retreated through an arch to other parts of the castle.
The king then turned to Nikos. “Come with me,” he ordered, and the soldier complied. They walked together, away from the throne, and down the steps to where the captain stood.
“Captain, stand by the doors,” the king ordered, and the captain nodded and made his way to the throne room doors.
“I am concerned for your safety, sire,” Nikos muttered. “At least let us get you some armor or a shie-” but he was cut off by the king, who made a soft scolding sound behind his pursed lips and silencing gesture with his hand.
“Keep your eyes open, Nikos, son of Nitolius. Today may be an auspicious day, one that will be remembered for years to come.” Nikos sent another confused glance at the king before returning his attention to the doors, especially now that the noise of battle had gotten quite a bit louder. Even as the captain approached the doors, he could hear the various pounding of bodies and fists into the wood, make it shake and rattle.
“Captain, open the doors!” the king ordered. The captain spun around in shock, but King Olsus nodded to him, his face now grim with determination. The captain sucked in a deep breath, then he turned to the guards standing by the doors and nodded to them. The guards then made their way to the doors and opened them.
Like a torrent of water, bodies fighting each other spilled into the room and fell to the ground, their momentum spent. Arms and legs and weapons flailed about for a few moments as they all had to reorient themselves from the sudden tumble.
“Announce me,” the king said softly to Nikos, who smiled at the duty.
“Attention! You are in the presence of Olsus! The King of Vion! Stand down and drop your weapons!” Nikos shouted over the throng, and Olsus was jealous of the volume of his young voice. When was the last time I was able to shout like that?, he wondered.
The battlers tried to get to their feet in response as various inflections of “the king!” murmured through them all. The guards knelt appropriately in the presence of their lord, but kept their eyes about them to make sure none of the rebels tried to attack. The rebels, however, were more awed by being in the throne room, distracted by all the finery of the tapestries and furnishings, and the king himself. More importantly, however, they all were much quieter, making it easier for the king to speak to them.
“I understand you rebels have a leader. Where is he?” the king ordered, raising his sword toward the group. He could feel the old muscles in his arm strain to keep it up, and he lamented how weak he had become in these recent years. He hoped no one looked too closely at how the sword wavered in the air.
“He is here!” a voice from the foyer called through the throne room doors, and out stepped a young man with brown hair, green forestman clothes and leggings, and very bright eyes. He walked confidently, a broadsword in his hand, making his way around those who had fallen or were kneeling and stood before the king, showing no interest in bowing or revering him.
“And what is your name?” the king asked, smiling wryly to himself.
“I am Terrimor, of the Crystalline Woods. Some call me the champion of the people,” the newcomer responded, meeting the king’s eyes with ease.
“He’s Terrirmor the Brave!” one of the rebels added on his own, the rest of his kind shouted twice in cheer.
“And what is your purpose in attacking my castle? This is high treason!” the king asked when the clamor died down. He had lowered the sword, placing it on in the red carpet before him and resting a hand on the ball of the hilt. He ignored how his arm still ached from holding it up.
“Surely you jest!” Terrimor responded. “Have you not heard the cries of the people? Their demands for freedom against your tyranny?”
King Olsus chuckled. “Tyranny?! I keep your lands and your people safe from invaders. Is that not enough?” He hoped he still sounded authoritative.
“The people demand to have a greater say in how they are ruled, and I am here to champion their cause, to provide proper justice to these lands and to this people!” Terrimor replied, raising his own sword beside him as a show of strength.
“‘Justice,’ you say?” the king mused. Then he started to laugh out loud. At this, many of his guards started to worry.
“Th-this just shows how ungrateful they are, sire!” Nikos jumped in, addressing the king directly. “Don’t listen to them!”
However, the king kept laughing. His arms were wrapped around his stomach, his sword forgotten as it dropped to the carpet and clanged against the stone floor beneath. His laughter eventually caused him to lose his balance, and he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground himself if Nikos hadn’t caught his back. Everyone, guards and rebels included, was shocked at this behavior, some glancing at each other in astonishment. It took Olsus a full minute before he could regain control of himself, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Ungrateful? Perhaps,” the king stated, then he looked back at Terrimor, looking him over. At once, jealousy rose in the old man’s heart as he saw his opponent’s broad chest, strong arms, and athletic legs. Was I ever so young, once? Was I ever so full of energy and fire? His mind went back over to the beginning of his reign, and the irony of it all became too much. Suddenly, the king chuckled again, having to cover his mouth with his hands.
“Do you mock our efforts?!” Terrimor shouted, clearly enraged and pointing his sword at the king. However, Olsus raised a hand in front of him in apology. He drew in a deep breath, then smiled at the forestman.
“No, I am laughing at myself,” the king explained, and soon found that everyone was listening to him now. “Nearly fifty years ago, I was standing in your bright boots once. I made myself king by usurping the previous king. I was upset with how he wasn’t driving out the Pettans, but instead was selling out his kingdom to fill his own coffers with coin and his stomach with rich foods. In my own fury, I led a group of rebels myself and drove him out, also in the name of ‘justice.’
“However, it seems that my brand of ‘justice’ is no longer relevant. The Pettans haven’t threatened our borders for at least a decade, by my reckoning, and it seems that I have become old and out of touch. I admit that I have neglected the cries of the people, perhaps because I have taken my own kingship for granted. Perhaps I am the one who is ungrateful.”
The silence that followed was a strange one. While no one in the throne room spoke, the sounds of battle elsewhere around the castle could still be heard as they lightly clanged and raged in the distance.
“Nikos,” the king then spoke, “Please pick up my sword. I seem to have dropped it.”
Stunned, but obedient, Nikos bent down and grabbed the sword, returning it to the king’s hands. The king then looked the sword over one last time, reminiscing a little, before turning the sword around and holding out the hilt to Terrimor.
“I have heard of your successes at Bitlam Bridge and Neresk. Not only were they great military successes, but you also made efforts to reduce casualties and minimize the suffering of the citizens. It seems clear that you have a better handle of what is going on with the kingdom and its people. I surrender.”
At first, no one responded. However, after a moment of realization, the rebels began to stand and cheer in response to their sudden victory. Meanwhile, the guards found all their energy drained, their efforts to keep the rebels held back seemingly wasted, and some of them began crying a little.
Terrimor stepped forward, much calmer than before. “I appreciate your willingness to submit to our struggle. I know it may seem arrogant, but it is the will of the people that I lead them. I accept your surrender.” He reached out to take the sword the king was holding out to him.
“Wait!” the king said, and Terrimor hesitated. This also caused the victory cries of the rebels to stop for a moment, as they turned to see what was going on. Again, the king chuckled a little.
“When I usurped the previous king, he gave me a curse, one which I will now give you. I curse you with the burdens of kingship, with all the decisions and stresses that come with it. You now hold the lives of every citizen of this kingdom in your hands. All of its resources and wealth and military power as well. To be a king is to hold all of these in balance. One slip, one failure and it will all come crashing down around you, just as it has for me today. The moment you take this sword, you are no longer a free man, but one that is cursed in a way only a king can be.”
Suddenly, the air in the throne room became tense. Terrimor looked at the sword now with trepidation, while all the rest of the room watched him. He took in a deep breath, then slowly he reached for the hilt and grabbed it.
“I accept this curse and this burden,” Terrimor stated, not loudly, but all in the room heard it well enough. Olsus smiled, and he let go of the blade, letting Terrimor hold it up high for all to see.
“Go. You have much to do, now,” the old man said. Terrimor nodded in response, then rallied his men together to go share the news of their victory. Soon, all that remained were the handful of guards, distraught and defeated. Olsus turned to Nikos and saw that he was crying as well.
“My king,” he said, sobbing, but Olsus gave him a scolding noise.
“I am no longer the king. If you wish to serve the King of Vion, then follow Terrimor,” he stated, pointing with a hand toward the open throne room doors.
“Just like that?!” the former captain shouted. He finally stood, his face a mix of anger and sorrow. He walked across the throne room and faced the old man. “Just . . . like that?”
“Would you have rather seen these men throw their lives away for what was an inevitable loss?” the king responded, gesturing to the other guards. “I probably should have surrendered sooner, but was too lost in my thoughts and purposes to do so. I am the one who has failed, not you.” The king spoke softly, and he placed a comforting hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“But what about defending the kingdom from the Pettans?” he asked.
“If that’s still important to you, then keep doing it. If this new form of justice wants to give power to the people, then they will need the kingdom’s borders protected so that they can use that power.”
The captain sobbed, bowing his head down, but eventually he nodded. He raised his head up, gave an impressive salute, and stated, “It has been an honor to serve you!” The king smiled, then noticed that a few of the other guards had joined in the salute.
“My last order, if you don’t mind me giving it, is to do as you will. Protect what is important to you, and don’t let me hold you back,” the former king said, and he returned the salute. The guards then bowed, and gathered themselves together to head out the throne room doors. After seeing them go, Olsus then decided he should probably gather his own things and start thinking of where to go, only to then discover that Nikos was still there, standing by his side.
“You’re welcome to go as well,” Olsus stated, but Nikos shook his head.
“If I must choose between serving my kingdom and serving you, I choose to serve you,” he said, his voice now dry from crying.
“I am just an old man, now. Not much glory in serving me. Surely, you have family that you can return to.” But again, Nikos shook his head.
“My mother died a few years back of a sickness, and my father was an only child, just like me. I don’t have a family of my own,” Nikos said, finally turning to Olsus.
“You could certainly start one if you wanted,” he suggested.
“I wouldn’t even know how. I dedicated myself so much to your service that other interests fell away,” Nikos admitted.
At this, the king put a hand to his mouth in thought. He turned his head to the side, his eyes lost in various possibilities. “Then, perhaps as a reward for your diligence, maybe I should help you find a wife. I’m certain my sister has a daughter you could consider,” he said.
Nikos was exasperated. “M-my king!” he started, but Olsus cut him off again with a scolding sound.
“I told you, I am no longer the king,” he scorned.
“Then . . . what should I call you,” Nikos asked.
The old man took another moment to think about it, then stated with a soft smile, “Well, my mother named me Olsus, and it might be nice to be called that once again.”
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