© Copyright 2-8-08 by 45 Mike
The faerie watched in silent muse as the old man slept peacefully huddled tween the roots of the gnarled tree.
He was old, had wandered far into the forest. He had a sword that spoke of battle, though as she gazed at him, it was clear he was not a warrior, though he had fought in battle, as scars on his body, and within spoke of clearly.
Her sight was clear, and the man would not leave this place, his end was near.
The wind whispered through the forest, and the quiet flutter of the faerie wings as she left did not disturb him that slept. Her wings though shed some of her thought, and left a promise as a dust upon him.
He stirred in the night, and woke. His blade glowed faintly, but he did not see that, hidden under the folds of his cloak, and within scabbard.
Instead, he rose to his knees, and saw that where he had lain, a flower had been. His repose had crushed and bruised the stem and petals. With sorrow, he reached down to straighten, to heal. He felt a tear singing of regrets for this final hurt he had dealt the life that had been his. The tear dropped to splash with the softest sound he could have heard. Then he fell as well. His body curled beneath the tree, the flower close to his face, and his last breath touched the flower.
The flower recovered, and grew. The tree ended it’s time, and it fell as well. The forest round, receded as ages passed.
Of the man, nought was left, but the steel of his blade, even the scabbard had long since reduced to the stuff of the earth.
This is the true beginning of the king.
None know now how he came to that place, what his life held in memory, only the sword remembers. That blade has no memory before the faerie promise, but is rich with ages since.
The faeries have long since departed, failing, falling into tales, then legend, then into nothingness.
The world had shrugged, and men who had once flown in metal birds, and covered the earth with filth had been reduced to the edge of extinction. Yet now, after healing, the earth has once again felt the touch of man, but this is a gentle touch.
The village grew slowly, not far from the edge of the forest, and within the forest the meadow of the flower still flourished.
Within the village men, and yes women planted crops and gardens. They tended small herds that supplied milk and cheese. They did not raise animals for meat, however if one aged, or sickened, and died, they would consume that, and the skin and bones would be used. They did not hunt. They did not grow to great numbers, but kept pace with the provender they could forage and farm.
They celebrated the seasons, and often came to the forest glade and wondered at the flower, blooming endlessly throughout the seasons. None could approach the flower with destructive intent, some power lay upon the meadow, and all who came with that intent, left it with hands empty, and their heart healed.
Often the young folk would come to lay in the sweet grass. Many children had been brought into the world, their seed planted within that glade.
It came to pass that a young man, and a young woman come to the meadow. He had fallen in love with the lass, and had urged her to come with him. She had laughed merrily and refused many times. She and her close friends had come here many times and they had chattered about who they would like to lay with. He had never been one they would have spoke of in their youthful dreams.
Even now, she merely came with him to tease him. He was a poor sort, his family had been gone for many years, falling ill in his early years. The village folk would not leave him to die, he was passed to different families from time to time, and became like a son to all the men and women. To his dismay, the girls in the village all considered him a brother, and not at all suitable for marriage.
He was large, and clumsy yet in his youthful exuberance. Yet he was strong, and healthy and skilled in many things, as each village family had him tasked with different chores. He could do anything that the village might require.
When the man reached for the flower, as all before him, he found that he could not will his body to grasp it. One could come very very close to touching the petals, but no one had ever actually touched it. Some had come back telling that they had, but with witness, they could not, and they recanted.
She watched, as he strove to pick for her the flower, and found that in her secret heart, she was hoping that he would. Her face flamed in embarrassment at her thoughts. Then the young man gave up, frustrated. It was a village tale that if a man should pluck the flower and give it to his love, she would return that love and they would prosper and have children healthy and strong.
He wanted the lass, very much and knew that she did not feel that way for him. He despaired that never would he find a mate. His days would be spent and grey with loneliness and futile toil.
She breathed a sigh of relief as he relented his attempt.
He looked upon her face, and his countenance spoke all of his pain and suffering. Yet she would not offer any hope to him, and though she had meant to tease him, found that she had no desire to hurt him.
Neither did she intend to open herself to him, not here, not now, not ever, and she wondered if she would ever know a man who would pick the flower for her. That was the secret dream of every village girl, of course.
The village women often shared tales of how men had tried to pick the flower to gain their love. Often they laughed at the many men who after failing to procure the blossom by straightforward effort had fallen to their knees meaning to dig up the flower, roots, stem, leaves and all. The women gaily spoke of the men thwarted of even this, failing to even barely scrabble at the ground.
So, it had become custom, that even if a man failed, as they all did, that the lass might reward his effort. Thus the many children that had been seeded there. A woman coming here with a man, surely knew that the man wanted her, and only rarely, as now, did a woman come here with a man, without sharing that desire also.
This man however, as he reached to dig, found his fingers digging into the soil, and he grinned with delight as he felt what he thought might be a root of the flowering plant.
He grasped, and pulled.
Not a root, but the hilt of a sword it was that he held, and the blade was bright as if freshly forged and polished.
Sunlight danced along the edge as he held it up in wonderment.
The woman backed a step, awestruck and afraid.
The two looked at each other, and stared at what had been wrested from the earth here.
The young woman stepped forward, curiosity overcoming her astonishment. The young man stood. He wondered if this blade might be a key to gaining the blossom that could win his desire.
He turned, and swung the blade at the flower, or so he thought.
The woman watched as the man stood, then her fear peaked as he turned and swung the blade, towards her bosom.
He watched the blade as it connected, and knew that he had swung not at the flower, but at his hopeful lover. He cried out as the blade passed through her.
She felt the blade as a whisper, without pain, passing through her chest. Then a shout as it touched her heart. Then she understood. She knew!
The young man watched the blade in horror as it passed through the woman standing before him. Then he was amazed and fearful as the blade completed its traverse, without impact, and without visible effect.
Moments passed in silence as the two looked at each other, and at the bright blade he grasped, yet hanging listlessly at his side.
The young woman, at last, smiled faintly. “I am unhurt, yet not unchanged. We will have a son, and that will be his sword.”
She turned away. He watched as she began unfastening the ties of her tunic. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “I will have your seed, within me and we will have a son. You would do well to undress yourself now.”
He stood, mute and unmoving. Her tunic, she was removing, and his eyes found her legs hidden by her clothing revealed. Then her tunic was raised further, and he saw her thighs.
A few moments later she stood before him, the sunshine kissed her flesh as he longed to do himself. Then she turned back to him.
He stared, and she laughed. Then she came to him, and the sword dropped from his grasp forgotten. He began fumbling at his own tunic. Her hands gently took over, and she kissed him as the ties and belt were undone.
As he hitched the cloth over his head, removing it at last, he could feel her hands on his belly, and lower, then grasping him, and he was ready for her. She smiled at him, and her eyes had a fire in them that matched his own.
Her hands felt it, and he knew he was loosing his seed and he could not stop. She did not seem displeased, nor dismayed. She was gentle, and caught the fluid in her hands.
“This is the seed for the flower.” she told him, and she released the drippings upon the blossom and it’s leaves. she stooped and cleaned her hands upon the ground around the flower.
“You are young, and there will be more for me shortly. Come lie down and we will be as one here, and we make our son, and he will be strong and healthy.”
Later, as the sun dropped lower, the two lay breathless and sweating from their exertions. He had been young and had managed to mate several times with his lover. They lay on their sides, facing each other, searching eyes for some meaning, and some truth to the desire that had overcome them.
He was spent. He had wanted her, like this for long. He knew that he would want her again, and again. That was plain in his gaze, but something was missed, and she knew it. He could see in her eyes that she would welcome him, again, and again, but her gaze also told that truth.
Then they looked about them, and found they lay within a carpet of flower petals scatted about them. The blossom had failed, and stood bare and seeded.
Years passed, the day had indeed brought a son. He grew and flourished, learning the trades and skills of his father. He often went to visit the meadow, where the tale of his coming into the world spoke of the flower, that no longer grew there.
More years passed and the son became a young man himself.
Then one day his father and mother gifted him with his birthright. He held the sword, and they all saw that it began glowing.
The next day he resolved to leave the village.
He passed through the meadow, and this summer day he saw the glade glowing as well, with a carpet of flowering blossoms.
More years passed, and the young man aged in his travels. He had many adventures and some few misadventures that are told in tales well known. As all know, the best teacher is adversity.
So came to the throne, the King.