BY DR. AGONSON
The prince stood like a statue, his eyes fallen upon the usurper’s corpse. His red tipped sword dripped upon the stones while under the lifeless body a spreading pool of the same crimson blood welled. At times, the prince was heard to utter a groan, but he did not move.
I touched his shoulder, and his head slowly rose to meet my eyes. He smiled his pearly teeth a second at the sight of my face.
“He’s dead,” he mumbled as a dreamer speaks from slumber.
“He’s dead,” I repeated.
“I killed him.”
“Yes.”
“Me.”
“It was your duty, sir.”
“Duty,” he sighed, his gaze drifting downward. “Why?”
“He took the throne; killed your father. He tried to kill you.”
“Why?”
“Power, greed,” I surmised. “The usual companions of man.”
“What was his reason? He played with me as a kid, you know? bounced me upon his knee.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He may have had some justification.”
“When I was a child, the harvests were good, the people were fed. We were at peace. He brought on war and famine and poverty. He has made us odious to our neighbors.”
“Then it’s time, prince, to take the throne.”
The prince gazed upon that fallen villain many hours more, the blood drying upon his blade. It was reported he spoke to the dead man, though no one heard any answer coming up from off the floor. When I came to him again, however, he was seated there upon his father’s chair, and his eyes were now enwrapped by the sword which he held.
“I must choose an emblem? A signet?” he asked.
“A seal,” I replied. “Something unique, hard to copy.”
“I must speak to an artisan, for I have an idea of what it should be,” he said.
“Let not this gloomy place or dark deed color your future, my prince. This chamber can once again become gay. His banners can be taken down and some light let in,” I said, laying hold of one of the mauve curtains. I pulled it back and let the sun into the musty room. The prince seemed dazed as the light struck his eyes, and he gazed out the window in breathless silence. “It’s a new day,” I added. “You have been in here long, but a king may not mourn his enemies; his joys and sorrows belong to his people.”
I am not sure how well my prince took my counsel. He has been called the mourning king, after all, a pun, I am sure, off of his chosen emblem. I fear the origins of that image were born in that gloomy chamber, for in its center is a bleeding heart pierced by the sword. Yet, my words must have had some effect, for behind this sorrowful center, the rays of a rising sun spread. The Morning King, he is more rightly called. Let his dawn bring forth new joy from the bitter night, and a long and happy day.
Tale Told 