The Dead Crown

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of death, war-related violence, and psychological distress.

The King sat down at the head of the table and gazed upon the feast that sat before him. A large boar that his huntsmen had killed that morning lay upon a bed of greens, with a delicious red apple delicately placed in its mouth; the smell of the smoked meat drifted to his nostrils. The feast was glorious. Fruit and vegetables gathered from that year's harvest sat nestled betwixt foreign cheeses. The smell of wax dripping from the candles danced with the aroma of the boar, and the sweet smell of roasted apples drifted across the table.

The King smiled at his Queen, offering her a cluster of beautiful, brightly colored green grapes, which she graciously declined. "Only after you, my love." Her sweet voice bounded across the air toward The King's ear.

His friends gathered around the table; joyous laughter swelled through the dining hall and out the windows, almost bouncing across the hills of his entire kingdom, continuing to echo through the room. The King felt full of joy, but hungry for the food before him.

At his right hand stood his head guard dressed in chainmail, proof of battle still shown on the purple cloth adorned with a wolf howling at the moon.

"We must take your clothes to the tailors at once." The King said, fidgeting with the tear on The Guard's cloak.

"King, I wear this in honor of the battles I fight on your behalf. Let the enemy see this tear and know I lived, let them be afraid." The Guard said, staring at the door, an unwavering presence of protection.

On his left was his Friend of twenty long years, someone he had fought alongside in battle and a true confidante.

"Where is the wine friend? I was promised respite with you, and we must enjoy our memories with a sip of the kingdom's grapes!" The King's Friend laughed, holding his glass in the air. The wine sloshed, though the king did not see it.

"Yes, yes, my dear friend!" The King replied, a memory of this moment fluttered through his mind, though he could not place when it had been.

The King brought his own cup toward his mouth, but soon realized it was dry. He turned it in his hands, watching the candlelight skim along the bare metal inside. Anger welled up inside him, and he thought about shouting for the servants, but he was interrupted by another burst of laughter from his companions and placed the cup down with a soft chuckle. It would not do to disrupt the moment.

He saw his servants standing along the walls next to the door, holding carving knives, awaiting the order to cut the meat. Their hands were steady, but their eyes did not meet his. Cowards, the lot, The King thought.

"My darling, you have been asked a question, didn't you hear?" The Queen shuffled her hand toward The King, but she did not touch him. Her fingers hovered as though she were unsure where he began and ended.

"You are distracted, my friend. Reminds me of the time you nearly signed that treaty upside down, nodding along to the dull drone of the Ambassador's speech." The Friend laughed, "Perhaps you should have a bite of that turkey your hunters caught," he said, turning toward another guest.

Yes, the turkey, The King thought, confused, looking at the boar on the table, the apple remained bright and untouched, perfect, almost like no time had passed.

"You mean boar?" The King whispered to himself. He wondered if the wine had dampened his Friend’s quick mind, or perhaps he had misheard him. The King leaned forward to study his Friend’s glass when he was interrupted.

"Do you smell that? The kitchen burned the pies again." The Guard said, standing at attention, not moving a muscle, not showing a reaction to the smell. Staring at the door, his hand always resting upon his sword.

The King tilted up his nose and took in a waft of burnt crust and overdone sugars melting into the fire in the kitchen. Beneath it was something else, smoke, perhaps, or old ash, too faint for anyone to tell. The smell of the boar and wine still overcame the smell of the desserts; he hoped his staff would have time to remake them before the main feast was done.

Thirst made The King let out a soft, dry cough, not alarming anyone but his Friend.

"Why do you cough? Drink from your field hand's work, King! You haven't taken a sip once that I recall." The King's Friend said, gesturing toward The King's cup.

"Yes, I do desire a quench to this thirst." The King lifted his glass to his lips only to once again be disappointed by an empty cup. Despite the empty glass, his throat no longer felt dry.

"After today's battle, you should celebrate. You have triumphed once again over the traitors!" The Queen said, though The King was unsure how she had spoken when she hadn’t moved in what seemed like an hour.

"Yes, rightfully," The Friend raised his glass for a toast, never actually touching another's, "It reminds me of the first battle we fought for the Kingdom, you were too young to lead, only eighteen, barely able to carry your own sword." The Friend almost slapped The King's shoulder in congratulations, but his arm fell to his side before meeting the cloth of The King's shirt. "My arm is heavy from the drink," his Friend laughed.

The King felt heavy as well, but cold; he saw the fire in the fireplace dimming, and he leaned forward to warm his hands above the candle nearest to him. The King looked down and saw that The Queen had not touched a single thing; she just sat, poised with her hands in her lap, the green velvet of her dress reflecting the shadows of The King's hands.

"Why do you not eat?" The King asked, lifting the grapes that were still lying next to her plate.

"Only after you, my love." The Queen smiled, but this time The King swore he could see a glint of fear run across her eyes, though it was hard to make out as she was staring ahead.

"Yes, it is time to eat!" The King announced to his companions. The King reached for a soft-sliced cheese still perfect in its rind.

"King, I must congratulate you on your achievement," The Guard interrupted.

The King slowly pulled his hand back toward his body, though he felt annoyed that he was once again led away from sustaining his hunger.

"You have done so much for our kingdom; the servitude of my life is the only payment I can give you. I hope you continue to accept it," The Guard said, kneeling, resting his head upon the butt of his sword. Though The Guard was bowing in loyalty, he seemed to be in pain.

"Yes, yes," The King waved The Guard away, but then reached down to toy with the sliced cloth on The Guard's cloak.

"Let the enemy see this tear and know I lived, let them be afraid," The Guard said, his words echoing through The Kings mind almost like they weren't real. The King heard a murmuring as he was enthralled in the loose threads of the cloak.

"My darling, you have been asked a question." The Queen said, sweetly, but still staring straight ahead.

"Do your minstrels know another tune?" The King's Friend slouched forward.

The King just then noticed that the musicians had been repeating the same instrumentals for far too long; he recognized the song but could not quite place it. The song made his heart sink and made him feel dread.

"Why do you play this?" The King shouted.

"Ignore them, they taunt you," the Friend said. "They wish for you to be old and die," the Friend took another swig of his wine.

Old, The King thought, but I am old. The King looked down at his hands, still wringing them over the candle, and saw dark spots and strange divots where his fingers were once smooth. The King shook his head and looked at The Queen, still smiling as beautifully as ever, yet simultaneously looking sad, staring at nothing but the wall.

The King looked back down at his hands, clean and smooth again, the thought of death approaching nothing but a mere daydream. The question from his Friend still lingered: how long had they been at the table? The King looked at the boar, steam still wafting from it. That can't be, The King thought, surely we have been here for hours. My Friend is already passed out, his face pressed into his empty plate. His plate is empty. How can that be? It seems untouched.

The King looked around the table, his companions laughing still, but like they were muffled. The Queen still had not touched a single thing at the table.

"Do you smell that?" A soft-spoken voice jolted the King, "The kitchen burned the pies again." The Guard’s voice caught on something that wasn’t there. He still stood at attention, yet this time his sword lay out of its scabbard, lifeless on the ground.

"Why do you so carelessly misuse your weapon. You are the King's Guard! You must protect me!" The King shouted and looked at The Guard. Something changed about The Guard's cloak, red, where the purple threads had been slashed by an enemy. The King grabbed at the cloak, letting it slip out of his fingers.

"Let them see." The Guard said, the banging of drums and strumming of strings were playing louder this time in the King's ear.

"Why do you play the Death March?" The King stood shouting at the minstrels, suddenly knowing the tune they taunted him with, but no one was there; just instruments sat next to chairs and stools in the corner.

The King sat back in his chair, his legs feeling frail despite having only been forty years old moments ago.

"Why do you taunt me!" The King tried to shout, but where a strong bellowing voice once was, a weak crackling voice replaced it. The King lifted his glass to drink down something to wet his throat, but was distracted by his reflection. Where once his hair was bold, and his eyes were bright, they were replaced with a weary old man with a balding top and dim color.

The smell of ash and smoke now wafted stronger through the smell of food toward the dining hall; this time, though, the smell wasn't coming from the kitchen. The smell was coming from the village, the sound of marching replaced the sound of instruments, but the beat of torn boots and shoes was still the same song.

"Why do you taunt me?" The King said, looking at the table of his friends. All of them have now changed, from full of life, they were slumped over in death. His Friend was still gripping his goblet half-filled with wine, and a faint odor of something else was drifting from his cup.

"Guard, we must hurry and help these poor souls!" The King said, grabbing at The Guard's cloak. This time, feeling what he had never wanted to, what he had hidden behind false imaginations, The King glided his finger tips back and forth smoothly, watching his Guard's blood drip onto his pant leg. The Guard was now on the ground, gripping his sword as if he could still fight in death.

Laughter erupted across the hall, filling each corner with maniacal cackling so loud it almost ruptured The King's eardrums. This laughter was different from before; it was not from his companions, but from the servants. The servants slowly edged toward The King's table. The King once again looked upon his glorious feast. The boar was nothing but bone the meat had long rotted away, and the cheese had grown a sour mold on its rind. The apple was merely a worm's home. The King looked up at The Queen, no longer alive, sitting as if she had been posed for entertainment, a smile still on her precious face.

The King grabbed his fork as the walls around him started to crumble, and the fire from the angry torches flickered in his eye.

"Why do you taunt me?" The King croaked, lifting his fork toward the servants, but his weak hands fumbled with the handle, and he dropped it to the ground. A tear trembled from his eye, and he winced.

"Cut the meat!" The last thing he heard.

Steam rose from the boar, the apple shone bright red, and the cheese looked flawless. The candles flickered, dancing shadows across the walls, warm and comforting. The Queen smiled at him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the green grapes gleaming like jewels. His Friend raised his glass, the wine untouched and glimmering.

"Eat my love," The King said, holding grapes for his Queen.

"Only after you," The Queen said, no longer smiling, but staring ahead, eyes sunken.

The King nodded, reaching for his knife and fork, but only scraped against the bare metal of his plate, his cup beside it just as empty.