[CW: death during childbirth.]
The firstborn came into the world bathed in blood. The queen, beloved by all, succumbed to the the ill effects of the childbirth. She was a strong woman, both in wit and appearance. But that did not matter in the matters of her womb. She had smiled when her son issued his first cry, and held him in her arms.
Her husband, King Jakim the Uniter, his grief knew no bounds. When he was given the child afterwards he would not let it go. The child had to be wrenched from his hands to be fed by one of the wet nurses, for he would not even entertain the notion of his wife, the child’s mother, not being the one to do such a thing.
It was cruel fate that the kingdom was dealt this hand. It was unjust punishment that a beloved ruler would have to suffer through such tragedy.
He kept to himself for a few days. He allowed only one of the younger, healthier nurses to care for the child when it needed caring. Other times, the child never left its father’s arms.
For a few days the king all but ignored his kingly duties, and let it fall to the court carry on with stately affairs without his oversight. He built a great court. He trusted their judgement.
But the only affair that was significant was my affair.
I was not part of the court. I was part of the temple. I was the Oracle. The only being other than the Divine One that the king would bow to. For I held the fate of his lineage in my quill and paper. With strokes of dark ink I could foretell what was to come.
I had done so with Jakim. I had written how, after six generations of constant conflict and skirmishes, the King Jakim would finally cease the hostility between his kingdom and the neighbouring free lands of Luqari. Not through invasion and subjugation, but by unity.
The unity being between Jakim and the freedom fighter Boomika, the only person the free lands recognized as their spokesperson.
There was a lot more to this unity that I was not privy to at the time. But it was clear. Jakim would be the one to end hostilities and strengthen the kingdom through an unlikely alliance. That was what my hands were compelled to write.
Now, as the quill flits through the empty piece of paper, wanting the write the grand deeds of the heir and eventual king, I realise a dark truth.
The king’s firstborn son would accomplish nothing. Nothing of note. The kingdom was in a good state. No war, no conflict, no shortages of anything. Trade was trade, taxes were taxes. Everything was as a kingdom should be.
There was no grand new war to be fought. No new weapon to be wielded. No divine quest nor challenge that needed to be overcome. There was… Nothing. The child would not be remembered for much.
After what Jakim had gone through… After the cost that was paid to bring this child into the world… How could I tell him his progeny would not amount to anything? How could I face him and give him such news.
The Royal Deliverance was meant to be a joyous reading where I would foretell all the great deeds that would be done by the new royal in times to come. How would I stand up in the balcony and read from my scroll what I had written if what I had written was ‘the child would grow to be a king’ and nothing else?
What would the townsfolk say? What would the kingdom say? What would the king say?
I was dreading it. I was dreading talking to the king. I dreaded it from the night the child was born and I seen his bland future. It had been four days since then, and I knew eventually the king would leave the palace and make the journey here to present me the child’s name and ask me to tell him his fate. After which we would go the palace balcony and from here I would recite the prophecy in song for the people. But I doubted the latter would be done now. Four days had passed. The tradition was already broken, not that it mattered.
And on the fifth day, he came. He came alone, his hair disheveled and his robes simple. Not clad in the extravaganze of his station. In his arms he held the child in close embrace, close to his chest. As if he feared the world would take him away like it did his wife.
He stood before me, dark rings around his tired eyes and shoulders slumped. Looking a shadow of what he once was.
“I am here for tradition and duty. I am here for your knowledge and your wisdom. I am here for your gifts. Of prophecy and truth. I am here in supplication, to ask of you as my father had asked of you and his father has asked of you. I wish to know the song of my son, Lyca.”
His voice was tired. His demeanor was deflated. But his words still carried weight. He wanted to know what would his son become.
The lies I had planned to tell him sprung to my mouth. I could not let the good king feel helpless. I could not tell him his loss was for nought.
But what came from my mouth was the truth. Despite my best efforts I was but an oracle. A vessel for the divine truth.
“This is the song of Lyca. A babe born of tragedy to a father who had known none. A babe that would grow knowing no strife, no challenge. A babe that would inherit a sleeping kingdom that would only know peace under his rule. A babe who would only be remembered for short time by those after him, who would know his rule as the rule of ease. Those after him would call him the In-Between King. The king in-between kings of real note. The king in-between kings of real worth and greatness. This would be his legacy. This would be the song of Lyca.”
I stood, silent, angry at the prophecy. The words I was compelled to utter. This was a gross disrespect. A horrifying jest. In-Between King? That was a title of mockery. Despite myself I wanted to apologize to Jakim.
I saw him look down at young Lyca, offering the child his finger which it eagerly grasped with its tiny hand.
“You don’t know how big a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My boy would inherit a peaceful kingdom, you say? And he’d know no strife?” He bent down an pressed his lips against the child’s hand, “What more would a father want for his child?”
