Idlebones

Tiny Dancer 5

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The King awoke slowly, as he always did. He opened his tired eyes,
streaked with the dried tears that caressed his cheeks to sleep the
night before. For a moment, every morning, there was a brief moment of
happiness, and his mouth would crack into a smile of one who had
slept, quite literally, the sleep of kings. His memory awoke slowly,
pouring colour into the world and bringing with it remembrance, and
the smile that once was ever present on the old kings face, slowly
faded once more. He thought of his people, as he always did, and then
of his lost love, and how she would smooth his face with her soft palm
and kiss his cheek each morning with a lips that blossomed warmth into
his cool, old face.

The king rose, and slipped his feet into waiting slippers by his four
poster bedside. With creaking limbs he lifted himself from his warm
mattress and ambled to the window to gaze sadly over his once happy,
peaceful kingdom. Below him, from high in the castle walls he watched
the villagers tend there flocks for market in long woolly trains, and
watched the children help their fathers tend their cattle with thin
willow branches as they herded them into the little village square as
smoke began to drift with thick billows from the mud and straw huts
that surrounded it. With a familiar tear welling up in his eye, he
noticed how the group of small girls that stood in a circle at one
corner dug their hands in the pockets of their long scruffy dresses
and kicked their heels as the played catch. It wasn’t long ago since
they would have been happily skipping in circles, hands joined and
singing taunting songs to the boys who played at sticks close by to
them. A familiar ache traversed his heart, as he turned away from the
window. How could he explain to them? How must they despise him for
banning, banning! their natural, innocently young urge to dance? He
yearned to have someone to explain his situation to! To talk to in
confidence to one who would listen and nod appreciatively, and give
cool council if need be. But Midir had seen to that, taking his only
confidant, friend, his love from him in threat. But this is how it is
to be King, he thought sadly.

The King didn’t like all the fuss and foibles of others in his
position. He liked to dress himself, and bathe himself, and wouldn’t
appeal for his courtiers assistance until he absolutely required it,
allowing them to sleep unperturbed and revel in their own dreams as he
once loved to do. Barthol, his man servant, had become a father
yesterday for the first time, and the King had been insistent above
all protestations that he should be with his wife for at least two
weeks before the King would lift the bar on him returning to the
castle, such was the Kings love and respect for his loyal servant.
Upon opening the door to his chambers, Ranclid, his wife’s once
favoured Wolfhound was lying across the thresehold gazing up at him
with Mournful brown eyes. The king tussled the big dogs long hairy
brow and stepped over him into the hall and descended the stair into
his great hall.

By his throne, his courtiers had placed a fine breakfast of hard
boiled quails eggs and fresh salty ham. Vinegered beetroot and creamed
turnip with chives and butter sat in a silver salver side by side with
a goblet of warm sweet mead and a freshly baked loaf of thick brown
bread. The King broke the bread and dipped it into the creamed turnip
before placing it into his mouth as he gazed thoughtfully in the empty
room before him. His hand hovered for a moment over the stack of
decrees and petitions that sat awaiting his attention on a small table
by his throne as his eyes slowly registered, then followed the almost
invisible line of tiny footprints that led from beneath his feet into
flurry of small, delicate, almost disappeared swirling circles on the
flagstones before him. His bread still held mid-motion at his mouth,
the King stared at the even now fading footprints. He had not seen
such tiny footfalls since, since that fateful bargain had been struck
with his old friend Damione, the king of the Fairies. A deal struck,
under threat from Midir of 100 nights of darkness, unless the King
would order the plucking of the wings of the fairy folk, over whom she
had no power, that danced and played, mockingly, she had said, in her
forest.
The King had at first refused, calling on Midir the Witch to “do her
worst”, rather than see his friends lose their flight, their freedom.
For the first 10 nights, the village had survived with grim
determination as crops began to fail, whither and die, lacking the
warm, life giving rays of sunlight they needed. Cattle became
confused, their yields of milk beginning to falter as they spent every
waking hour huddled by the hedgerows waiting form the sun to finally
rise once more. The farmers grew agitated, and began blaming the
fairies for their plight, being far too afraid of the black witch too
even contemplate uttering her name. The King and Damione had struck
their sad bargain in desperation when the farmers began to turn
against the Fairies, running them from their forest with angry torches
of fire, consumed with rage as they saw their families suffer and
starve. Damione had come the king, alighting on his dresser, having
flown in through the kings window, as the king sat with head in hands
at his desk.
“My King”, Damione had said, as loudly as he could.
The King heard the Fairy whisper turned to greet his friend with a sad smile.
“I’ve been waiting for you of course, King Romaldan. I had been sure
you would come in this difficult hour.
Damiones wings flickered briefly as he moved in one quick flowing
movement to land on the desk by the King, taking a seat on the hilt of
the Kings silver letter opener. He folded his arms and looked
thoughtfully into the kind, tired, worry-rimmed eyes of the King.
The King opened a small drawer in his desk and took out a tiny velvet
box and placed it before the King of the Fairies. Damione had reached
forward and undid the small, intricately carved brass latch and opened
the box. He took out the tiny crystal goblet the king had had
fashioned especially for him, his Royal Crest etched into its side by
the kings finest glassblower with minute detail, and placed it on the
desktop beside him. The king dipped a pinhead into his the ruby wine
that stood in his own glass and dropped two small drops into the
goblet, filling it almost to the brim. In this way, the king liked to
think, the two Regents would drink of the same cup, and toast each
others health. They raised their respective glasses to each other, and
drunk deep before any more words were spoken.
It was the King of Men, that spoke first. Leaning back on his
high-backed chair and cupping his glass in one palm upon the desk, he
puffed out his cheeks and breathed out, as if ridding himself of an
unwanted thought.
“She means to divide us Damione” he said at length. “Midir wishes it
that we should be enemies, you and I. And I can’t, I will not have it
so”
He leaned forwards and rested his head against his steepled fingers
about the bridge of his nose, his thumbs supporting his jaw. It was as
if he were trying to stop the words from escaping his mouth.
“But she has the power to reduce my people to rags. What should I do?”
His eyes pleaded for answers, begged for resolution.
The Kings forefingers rubbed the tired corners of his eyes. He had not
slept in days.
Damione had supped the last from his glass and placed it before him
with a nod to the Kings own glass. The King smiled and replenished his
friends goblet for him.
“We will never be enemies, you and I, I promise you” Damione had said,
raising his glass in salutation once more. “But there are hard times
to come”
He paused, and seemed to look into the distance for some time. The
king regarded his admired friend and allowed him the time to gather
his thoughts before Damione spoke again.
“She is sure to continue her threat. She is sure to turn your people
against mine unless we relent and give her what she wants. We must,
though it pains me so, give her at least what she sees as a victory”
The Kings brow knitted and furrowed as he sat back in his chair once more.
“But to take the wings from your people is like plucking the heart
from their souls! We cannot permit it. We cannot!” he said, aghast. “I
will not here of it! I shall not permit it!”
Damione had smiled a sad smile and winked to his friend.
“You have no choice, Diarmud”
Damione was alone in having the honour in addressing the King by his
own name, having been his constant companion since before the King had
learned to even walk. Damione, the King of the Fairies liked to
respect the King by addressing him in his regal title, but the King
knew that when Damione addressed him by his birth name, he was not for
dissuading. The King, crestfallen, slumped back into his chair and
gazed at the minute figure of his friend with sad, moistening eyes.
“I will be banished from my own people for the enchantment I am to
impose on my peoples, but it is for the peace that I do it. For both
our peoples. By tomorrow, at noon, the Fairies shall fly no more,
until the power Midir holds over your Kingdom has been destroyed. I
will seek safe harbour, myself and my Queen, in your castle”
The King had inclined his head, almost unable to meet his friends
sorrowful gaze, nodded slowly, then closed his tired eyes and wept.