Ballads

The throne room was an oven. Parath Masmaros exhaled a a deep, long sigh. His eyelids drooped, nearly closing shut as he sat in the middle of the throneroom. His face rested lazily on the heel of his palm while his elbow rested uncomfortably on this armrest. Sweat raced down the man’s forehead.

On the opposite side of the room, gargantuan twin doors sharing their fair half of his family’s insignia brought him little amusement in the sweltering summer heat. If he focused, or rather didn’t, he could make four sets of the unreasonably sized hardwood planks. From them never came anything good. Be it a vassal chief in need of reminding of his place or a peasant in need of a loan, it never excited him anymore. Sure, helping his people made him feel good — it should make every king eel good, if you asked Parath — but that got dull, and effect of the act grew more ephemeral, and in a kingdom that could be considered the most peaceful of all, such acts were rarely of need. And, who calls a king to fight a pesky vassal?

He scoffed. It was merely so some air could rush up his wind pipe. He wished he could be with his council. Lucky bastards were indulging themselves — most of them at least; to his knowledge, the Garet, the Finance Minister was the only one who was married and as such, perhaps shared in the king’s misery.

Sometimes Parath could only wish he wasn’t king, and be them. He wondered where he’d gotten himself the will to sit in the throneroom for such prolonged periods.

Usually, on boring days like this, he’d gather a party of some of his most loyal knights who once doubled as his closes friends—how so he wished that were still the case—and ride on horseback, into the forest or even at times, they’d go barefoot, just fot the thrill of the challenge.