The Weight of Office
King Alexian XXXVII retired to his chambers in the early evening of one cool autumn day. With a nearly inaudible grunt of discomfort, he shrugged out of the outermost layers of his kingly finery. The heavy royal war crown left his brow and was placed on its stand near the door, the metal itself seeming to slip into slumber. With a louder sigh, Alexian eyed one of the very few creature comforts he allowed himself in this burgeoning age of strife….a battered old reclining chair, its style decades out of date, its upholstery worn thin, its brassy accents dull with the tarnish of age. With a smile Alexian would have fought back had he been aware of its forming, he lowered himself into the chair.
A long moment passed…and then another…and then with the finality of a music box tinkling to a halt, or a grandfather clock winding down, Alexian leaned back into the chair's soft embrace, his eyes drifting half closed.
Alexian…the Thirty-Seventh. The number rolled around in the great king's head, like a steel bearing…never stopping never coming to rest or catching on any errant thought. Thirty-seven…..nearly two score generations of monarchs, all taking the ancestral name, all ruling Jeffreys, all siring an heir to carry on the same unbroken line. Alexian's shoulders slumped a fraction…who was he to stand in the shadow of such great men? His own father and grandfather were one thing…there were still those in the palace who personally knew them and would occasionally remark on some chance moment they had shared with his immediate predecessors…but what of King Alexian XXV? King Alexian XIX? The near-mythical King Alexian the First? What business did he have claiming lineage with those lauded heroes?
Grunting uncomfortably, Alexian hefted himself back to his feet. He knew he needed to take rest and relaxation when it came…but every time his body came to rest he was left alone with his thoughts. He paced the room for long minutes, trying to fill his head with less dire matters. Eventually he passed near the room's sole window overlooking a small courtyard. He paused, something unconsciously snagging his attention. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the windowsill, peering down into the neatly groomed topiaries of the courtyard.
After a moment, he saw his young daughter, Merjoram, sitting at a bench with one of her caretakers. It was hard to believe that she was already ten years old. It seemed like just yesterday she was a newborn; small enough to be carried in just one of Alexian's massive hands. Another inadvertent smile crossed Alexian's face, as he watched his daughter and her companion play some manner of game involving flicking little wood discs across the tabletop. The one Merjoram flicked sent another tumbling to the ground; Alexian's grin broadened as Merjoram leapt to her feet and gave a surprisingly leonine cheer.
This…this is why he stood easy in the company of giants. Tugging on a casual tunic, Alexian strode easily to the door, ready to descend to the small garden and join in the game.