Woobly is the head that wears the crown

marie-jay (61)in #freewrite • 6 years ago (edited)

The man in front of him was trying so hard not to shake large beads of sweat were coursing down his sunken cheeks, resting a bit on the jawline before splattering on the shoulders of his worn-out jacket. The king watched him with an intent look of his face - just a trick he'd developed over the many years he'd sat in his gilded chair. Starting a conversation with these petitioners was too time-consuming and it got too hot and stuffy in the marble hall and the servants started to fret when it got past lunch hour. The king himself was very fastidious about his lunch, one of the few things he still enjoyed. Staring his humble subjects in the face made them feel the king was paying attention to their problems, although some went away with the impression the sovereign was probably deaf, while others grumbled he was just dim-witted.

The trouble was the king didn't know what to say most of the time. Look at the man pleading his case - the poor fool won't stop blabbering about a lake on his land and some cattle trampling his wheat as they tried to get to the water - all fault of the baron Stormhausen, owner of said cows. The king forces himself not to smile as he hears the name of the baron, as really there's nothing he can do even if the cattle trampled to death the petitioner and all his miserable family. Stormhausen is one of them, one of the circle. He casts a glance to his trusted secretary, Augustus, a raised eyebrow signalling his opinion is needed. Surprisingly, Augustus gives the slightest of nods which means something will be done in this case.
Disturbing news, thinks the king. They must be fighting each other again and Stormhausen is on his way out. He'd never liked the pig-faced old bastard, but any change in the inner circle dynamics makes him uneasy. A careless word and he might find himself on the losing side, an unfortunate event which might force him to part with the crown and the head that has worn it for twenty years. Ever since his father's untimely death. He had tried to warn his old man to mind his own business, but the stubborn king had got it into his head that he ruled the country -literally a fatal mistake in this line of business. The new king had sworn he'd never forget who put him on the throne and he was good at this game. It wasn't that hard after all, sign where they tell you to sign, nod when they tell you to nod. He knows he cannot trust Augustus, he might be out of the loop after all and come to think of it he's heard rumors that young Prince Rupert was now best pals with the bloody baron. Suddenly, the crown feels so much heavier.
At lunch, the prince is again late, as always. When he finally sits himself at the other end of the table, his sickly blue eyes linger a bit too long over the crown, now rested on a red pillow. He's tried to talk some sense into the boy and explain a crown doesn't make you king. 'We're only pawns, my boy. Only pawns.'
The king weighs the cup of red wine in his hand. Should he or shouldn't he? At least it's his favorite wine and, if his fate is sealed, it doesn't make any difference. He drinks.