The king was born half dead. A sickly creature he was, small body weak and yellowed. The clergy held him very delicately, fingers placed along his flesh so as to make as little contact as possible. They suspended him in the air with their old, gnarled fingernails pressed into his back. He would have wailed if he had the strength, but his lungs could barely rise in that small chest of his. It was difficult to look at him, at his waxy skin, at his weak limbs and cries. Hymlacke now stands in front of mirrors very often, ones with ornate frames that extend from the ceiling to the floor and show the full height of his gangly body. He runs his hands across his wool robes and sometimes still feels the clergy’s nails along his back. They dig into his skin and remind him of each feeble bone in his body, each trembling finger. Every frail feature reminds him of the season’s promise of his birth: solid and heavy as stone.
The queen, upon seeing the child, had laughed at the promise. Indeed, she could lift the thing with her little finger. Not stone at all. So she stole away from the castle, hobbling through darkened corridors and halls, through thick woods and brambles, the docile creature in her arms. He did not object to how the cold air pinched him, although he did let out a single cry when a thorny branch caught his cheek. His mother placed a hand over his mouth and continued on. Night was approaching and there was little time left. Then, she came upon it. Spindly green stems stretched themselves towards the sky and over the ground. The white clusters had not yet bloomed and so the plant, in its nakedness, was stick-like and gangly. The queen bent down and placed the child underneath its branches. Perhaps he would think it a guardian of sorts and play along happily. Then she left and returned to the castle.
*****
Many seasons later, the king stalks the same tunnels his mother passed through. The castle is crumbling. A body shaking underneath the weight of a hundred wars and a blight, it is the soil’s next prey to be devoured. He touches the stone gently. He is polite, after all. It is rude to remind a weak thing of its struggle.
No one had inquired of his whereabouts for a whole day. And the queen thought: What luck I have! But then the nurse missed him and suddenly it all came undone. The clergy questioned both the queen and king ferociously, the latter of whom feigned ignorance. The queen, however, admitted to the crime and the clergymen exclaimed in outrage. The heir! they said. To the throne! they said.
Finally, after much weeping and begging, the queen was persuaded to retrieve the child. The king and the clergymen and the knights and their horses followed her as she led them along the route she had taken. Through darkened corridors and halls and thick woods and brambles they trekked. The queen could not fathom this frenzy, could not fathom tearing her dress and muddying her shoes to cross the woods and reclaim a forsaken child, but she continued on, leading the party to the edge of the trees where the spindly green plants sprouted from the ground.
*****
Years later he does not remember the plant, how its shade cradled him when his mother did not. It is memorialized in an old portrait, stalks sprouting about his pallid young face, red hair having darkened to black many years ago. The portrait painters jumped to mythologize him before he could fail, before he could die on someone else’s sword or his own.
Sometimes, when he lies awake at night, he tastes something bitter in the back of his mouth. It is a foul taste and yet there is something familiar, something unmistakably right about it. So he lets his tongue wander and chase that taste, following it along his teeth. When he does this, a new feeling emerges, a new want. He wishes to be crowned by this bitter taste, by this poison, that it could rest on his head and hold him better than his birthright or his mother ever did. And then it leaves, and he is alone.
He settles back down, but as he does so there is something reawakened, something that never quite left. All he can smell are the horses that boldly approached him when he lay in the soil. All he can hear are the quiet murmurs as he was lifted from the ground. And all he can see is the hemlock.
The queen, upon seeing the child, had laughed at the promise. Indeed, she could lift the thing with her little finger. Not stone at all. So she stole away from the castle, hobbling through darkened corridors and halls, through thick woods and brambles, the docile creature in her arms. He did not object to how the cold air pinched him, although he did let out a single cry when a thorny branch caught his cheek. His mother placed a hand over his mouth and continued on. Night was approaching and there was little time left. Then, she came upon it. Spindly green stems stretched themselves towards the sky and over the ground. The white clusters had not yet bloomed and so the plant, in its nakedness, was stick-like and gangly. The queen bent down and placed the child underneath its branches. Perhaps he would think it a guardian of sorts and play along happily. Then she left and returned to the castle.
*****
Many seasons later, the king stalks the same tunnels his mother passed through. The castle is crumbling. A body shaking underneath the weight of a hundred wars and a blight, it is the soil’s next prey to be devoured. He touches the stone gently. He is polite, after all. It is rude to remind a weak thing of its struggle.
No one had inquired of his whereabouts for a whole day. And the queen thought: What luck I have! But then the nurse missed him and suddenly it all came undone. The clergy questioned both the queen and king ferociously, the latter of whom feigned ignorance. The queen, however, admitted to the crime and the clergymen exclaimed in outrage. The heir! they said. To the throne! they said.
Finally, after much weeping and begging, the queen was persuaded to retrieve the child. The king and the clergymen and the knights and their horses followed her as she led them along the route she had taken. Through darkened corridors and halls and thick woods and brambles they trekked. The queen could not fathom this frenzy, could not fathom tearing her dress and muddying her shoes to cross the woods and reclaim a forsaken child, but she continued on, leading the party to the edge of the trees where the spindly green plants sprouted from the ground.
*****
Years later he does not remember the plant, how its shade cradled him when his mother did not. It is memorialized in an old portrait, stalks sprouting about his pallid young face, red hair having darkened to black many years ago. The portrait painters jumped to mythologize him before he could fail, before he could die on someone else’s sword or his own.
Sometimes, when he lies awake at night, he tastes something bitter in the back of his mouth. It is a foul taste and yet there is something familiar, something unmistakably right about it. So he lets his tongue wander and chase that taste, following it along his teeth. When he does this, a new feeling emerges, a new want. He wishes to be crowned by this bitter taste, by this poison, that it could rest on his head and hold him better than his birthright or his mother ever did. And then it leaves, and he is alone.
He settles back down, but as he does so there is something reawakened, something that never quite left. All he can smell are the horses that boldly approached him when he lay in the soil. All he can hear are the quiet murmurs as he was lifted from the ground. And all he can see is the hemlock.