Misshapen star (Part 2)

Part 1

The woman was bent over the bed, almost lying atop the man, her hands cradling his head, as a lover searching for a kiss would. It was not a kiss she searched for and there was no love in her eyes. Love meant nothing to her. She had been taught to steel her heart against the rage of feelings and lust, that only cloud judgment and distort the vision. That would not do for her kind, they had to see clear and remember everything as they’d witnessed it.
King Siran was almost gone from this world, the horrendous suffering of the past three days no longer torturing his handsome face. Only the tiny beads of sweat moisting his brow showed him to be still alive. Beyond saving, the doctors shook their heads. A few drops of a dark green medicine were allowed to wet his swollen lips, bitten bloody in the throes of the pain tearing at his guts. A sleeping potion from which he was never to wake up.
The silence in the room was punctured by the Queen Mother’s soft sobs and the odd wail of the mourners gathered in front of the palace. The woman whom many still remembered as one of the greatest beauties of Gand had a bewildered look on her face, torn between the grief of losing a child and the unexpected joy of finding her firstborn, the one she’d thought dead and had duly mourned seventeen years ago.
As for the crowd outside, they lamented the loss of the greatest king ever. Even those who only a week ago grumbled at the huge expenses the royal household incurred or the ‘terrible’ peace treaty with the kingdom of Lansing, now hung their heads in sorrow. ‘A fine man he was’, one voice proclaimed, prompting the gentle ladies of Gand to reach for their handkerchiefs, while the older women let out shrill wails to show their respect to the dying man. They said he’d slipped into the final agony, but maybe he could still hear and know how sorry they were. Sort of a consolation prize for him to carry in the afterlife.

The wise woman finally stood up, her duty fulfilled. King SIran’s memory would live forever in the great pool of remembrance that held the likening of all those who have ever lived, from mighty kings to lowly fishermen. History forgets most and memories fade, but the wise women remember all. Siran of Gand will not be remembered as the good king people mourned outside, nor as the boy the Queen Mother keeps in her heart, but as a man with all the merits and failings the wise woman took stock of.
As the woman steps back from the death bed, she places a hand on the grieving mother’s shoulder reassuring her that although her child will soon be gone his existence has been duly recorded. They are not required to any display of respect as they live outside the commoners’ laws, yet the woman in black pauses in front of the soon-to-be King Jolen, her prying eyes searching his face. It is not his time, but she cannot help herself. She remembers the troubled young man that once knocked on her door and then fled in terror. He’s fully grown and he carries the paunch typical of those who spend their lives among pots and pans, but it is not by any physical trait that she recognizes him. She knows his soul and she wanders what sort of ruler he’d turn out. The boy who wouldn’t be king.
Jolen finds himself ill-at-ease among the ornate court costumes and the rigid souls that inhabit them. He doesn’t remember how to behave with the woman who smothered him at her bosom and washed his face with her tears. He’s always loved his mother more than his father, but it’s not the same woman. And he is no longer the boy who’d sneak out at night to play dice in the guards’ room and get drunk on cheap liqueur. He is a man now, with a boy of his own, and he’ll have to learn how to deal with her. And everything else, all the things that he thought would never bother him again.
Yet, what troubles him most of all in this long dragging hours is the stranger clinging to life in front of him. He’s never known this King Siran. All he remembers is a boy, a bit too shy, a bit neglected as are all those who stand second in line. The boy whom he forced to take his place. And take the curse upon his shoulders, the prophecy that would have Jolen dead now visited upon his younger brother. Siran, dying in his stead, his life stolen from him because Jolen would not accept his fate.
He would not have returned, had not the monk threatened to make his hiding place known all over Gand. Jolen the Coward they would have called him, but that’s not important he likes to believe. The hand that poisoned his brother could have easily stick a knife in the chest of a nobody like the inn-keeper Jonah. Even that’s not important, for he is no longer a frightened boy, what matters now is his boy, Tarys, and the child has every right to be on the throne one day. He, too, carries the sign, and his star is not misshapen.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: beads! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!