The Painted King

The entire court was there for the grand unveiling — lords and ladies gathered from their country estates all for this moment.

The King had had many portraits done across the years, but he knew somehow that this would be the last.

He was aged fifty-seven, but had the weariness of a much older man. He slept until noon most days, and woke up in a foggy haze that never seemed to pass. His hands were always stiff and pained, like he’d spent hours out in the cold.

It was too hard for him even to hold a pen these days, and his letters had to be dictated to his scribe. His voice was raspy with dryness and his body always ached somewhere new each morning.

None of his physicians had dared to tell him to lose weight; he knew it to be true, but found he didn’t care. There was no greater joy in his day than devouring venison or veal or steak — or drowning himself in wine. He quite liked music as well — and women, of course. Though over the years, he’d found them altogether less enthusiastic towards him. Still, he was a King after all. A King in peacetime held all the privileges the world could offer.

His ancestors had lived in stone castles — great strongholds that kept enemies at bay. Now, Kings lived in palaces — soft furnishings, gold trim, and oak panels carved with dragons and unicorns and other great beasts that never were.

His ancestors had been taught to fight, even the women; riding before they could walk, wearing armour like a second skin. The sword was an extension of their own arm. The King had only ever had to hold a sword when he sat for portraits.

It was always a mighty broadsword, with a golden hilt and intricate patterns marked into the blade. He’d grown to detest the thing; his arm would ache for days after holding it in their hour-long sessions.

The armour that he had worn for his last painting had to be refitted to hold around his belly. No matter what assurances the blacksmith gave him, even the King knew that steel did not shrink.

This time, the King had assured his portrait painter that he could use creative licence in his brushwork. In fact, it had been encouraged in a voice that had once made men shudder.

Now, after so many months, it was time to see what had taken the painter so long.

Even after all these years, the King couldn’t help but feel excited. He’d never had a portrait done by this particular artist, but he’d seen his other works. He’d always managed to capture the essence of a man. The King was curious to see what the painter had seen in him.

The silk cover was pulled away in a fluid flourish. A hush. A gasp. Then the applause — bright and hollow.

Beside him, the painter bowed.

“Such a great likeness,” he heard someone in the audience remark.

“Beautifully done.”

The King’s brittle fingers curled into fists.

The painter knew his trade well enough. The face was the same, though all wrinkles had been smoothed away. His eyes were the piercing blue his Queen often remarked upon. He remembered the painful hours spent in that very pose and yet — he stared at a stranger.

The man in the painting was on horseback, that mighty sword in his hand. The crown was fixed firmly atop his head. His muscles were toned, and there was not a grey hair in sight. Such ‘creative licences’ were to be expected — had even been encouraged. And yet, there was something more to this man. Something in those icy eyes. Courage. Determination. Something fierce.

He looked ready to crush the world beneath his horse’s hooves. He looked like he’d never known defeat.

This was a painting of a great King, a warrior King. And yet—

The King glanced down quickly, at his soft hands, at his tight-fitting robe and his flabby arms that could hardly hold up a sword.

His chest tightened and his breath was hot and heavy. He could feel heat rising within him as sweat gathered cool against his skin.

He directed his sharp gaze towards the painter, who was still bowing to his admiring crowd. That blasted painter was acting as if it were he who wore the crown.

Could he have the painter’s head for this? This insult. This mockery. Could he? He was the King — of course he could. But he couldn’t tell them what for, couldn’t even hint at it. That would be an even greater embarrassment.

He’d have to invent some reason. What would they believe? What could he get away with?

Then the King remembered the crowd before him. He breathed in, then out. He was a king of thirty years. A man of fifty-seven. He forced his face to be plain, fixing his gritted teeth into a small smile.

His pained fingers had been balled into fists. He cringed as he stretched them out, and then finally forced himself to clap. The crowd’s applause swelled sharply against his ears. The King turned slowly to face them, feeling the full cruelty of unearned applause.

Did they see the difference? How could they not? He felt like a child again, playing in borrowed robes. He knew that they would not see him as the man in the painting. He was not that man. But how could he be?

How could they blame him? They had delivered him no great war. No trial. No true challenge that might allow him to be great. They could not expect this of him. He would have been the greatest of them all — had there been reason.

The King nodded and glanced at the painting once more. The quiet voice in his head would not be silenced. His fingers, still aching, curled slowly at his sides. What was worse, he could not tell — a life of unfulfilled greatness, or proving himself lacking.