The Lazar King
Aug. 30th, 2023 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThe Lazar King
Summary: A dying medieval king has a brief conversation with his private physician.
Series: Standalone
Word Count: 665
Notes: Arguably the deathly serious bookend to The Absolutely Correct Story of King Baldwin IV. This story is based upon that famous figure, the king of Jerusalem with Hansen's disease in the 1100s. Rogan originally clacked this one out on a manual typewriter at an arts festival on 7/16/2022, and it was originally posted for the Patreon crew.
I am so tired, the king said. I have been dying for so long.
There is intimacy in being a private physician. Guillaume had been the king’s physician since he was young and beautiful.
By the calendar measure, the king was still young. But he was no longer beautiful.
He had not been beautiful in a long time.
Most kings do not have the luxury of privacy. They are always surrounded by advisors, courtiers, servants, sycophants. But nobody would be near the king when he was disrobed with his physician, not even the most battle-hardened vassals. They couldn’t stomach the sight.
Guillaume didn’t mind. He had known the king for a long time, when His Majesty was only a child with a numb arm that felt neither nails nor teeth. Guillaume had always been there.
You mustn’t say such things, your Highness, he said.
No, the king replied, I truly think I must. I became king only by circumstance. You remember.
Guillaume did. He had been there. The king’s father had died of dysentery, still young (though not as young as the sick king, and certainly not as beautiful). The king before him in turn had also died young, in an improbable hunting accident. Some people said that this kingdom was cursed, that the kings were all doomed to bad ends… though this king had been singularly unlucky, even by those standards. He had been thirteen when his father died. Everyone had known by then that the prince was ill, but nobody had wanted to say it. An illness of numbness could be a lot of things. Maybe it wasn’t the unthinkable, the unspeakable.
Said Guillaume, Even as a child, you were a better candidate than anyone else. You were crowned in hopes that your sickness would come to nothing, and that if it didn’t, someone better would come along, but none have.
None have, echoed the king. He sounded so weary.
You’re a good king, your Highness. Your people thrive. Your enemies respect you… and those that cannot respect you, fear you. Nobody can get this backbiting crew of argumentative vassals, Templars, and Hospitalers to agree on anything, except for you.
I cannot see, groused the king. When I could no longer walk, I rode. When I could no longer ride, my subjects carried me in a litter. I was once so good with horses, do you remember? But in the last battle, my horse threw me, and then I had to be carried off the field by my own vassals, because I could not rise under my own power. Now I cannot walk, cannot see, cannot ride, cannot even sit. All I can do is lie here and rue myself. What is the meaning of me being king anymore? I am not even a man now, only a rotting corpse.
That may be so, my king, said Guillaume. But the body is born to rot and die; only the soul may remain untarnished, and most do not. You have at least beaten those odds.
The king was silent.
Guillaume let his tone become sharp. It is true, your Highness. You are sick. You are dying, you have been dying a long time, and you have neither wife nor children nor lover to comfort you—and, by the rule of this land, you never shall. But you do not get to abdicate, your Highness, and do you know why? Because the throne is forever. Someone must be king, and all the other candidates are venal, corrupt, stupid, or cruel. You are sick, but you remain a good king. And so you must continue. If you must, think of Job.
Job cursed God, laughed the king. It was a dry, faint sound, like the wind through dead grass.
Guillaume hid a smile behind the bandages he was unrolling, pleased to amuse his liege, since little did, these days. Perhaps, he said, you will get your chance. I will be wagering on you.
Summary: A dying medieval king has a brief conversation with his private physician.
Series: Standalone
Word Count: 665
Notes: Arguably the deathly serious bookend to The Absolutely Correct Story of King Baldwin IV. This story is based upon that famous figure, the king of Jerusalem with Hansen's disease in the 1100s. Rogan originally clacked this one out on a manual typewriter at an arts festival on 7/16/2022, and it was originally posted for the Patreon crew.
I am so tired, the king said. I have been dying for so long.
There is intimacy in being a private physician. Guillaume had been the king’s physician since he was young and beautiful.
By the calendar measure, the king was still young. But he was no longer beautiful.
He had not been beautiful in a long time.
Most kings do not have the luxury of privacy. They are always surrounded by advisors, courtiers, servants, sycophants. But nobody would be near the king when he was disrobed with his physician, not even the most battle-hardened vassals. They couldn’t stomach the sight.
Guillaume didn’t mind. He had known the king for a long time, when His Majesty was only a child with a numb arm that felt neither nails nor teeth. Guillaume had always been there.
You mustn’t say such things, your Highness, he said.
No, the king replied, I truly think I must. I became king only by circumstance. You remember.
Guillaume did. He had been there. The king’s father had died of dysentery, still young (though not as young as the sick king, and certainly not as beautiful). The king before him in turn had also died young, in an improbable hunting accident. Some people said that this kingdom was cursed, that the kings were all doomed to bad ends… though this king had been singularly unlucky, even by those standards. He had been thirteen when his father died. Everyone had known by then that the prince was ill, but nobody had wanted to say it. An illness of numbness could be a lot of things. Maybe it wasn’t the unthinkable, the unspeakable.
Said Guillaume, Even as a child, you were a better candidate than anyone else. You were crowned in hopes that your sickness would come to nothing, and that if it didn’t, someone better would come along, but none have.
None have, echoed the king. He sounded so weary.
You’re a good king, your Highness. Your people thrive. Your enemies respect you… and those that cannot respect you, fear you. Nobody can get this backbiting crew of argumentative vassals, Templars, and Hospitalers to agree on anything, except for you.
I cannot see, groused the king. When I could no longer walk, I rode. When I could no longer ride, my subjects carried me in a litter. I was once so good with horses, do you remember? But in the last battle, my horse threw me, and then I had to be carried off the field by my own vassals, because I could not rise under my own power. Now I cannot walk, cannot see, cannot ride, cannot even sit. All I can do is lie here and rue myself. What is the meaning of me being king anymore? I am not even a man now, only a rotting corpse.
That may be so, my king, said Guillaume. But the body is born to rot and die; only the soul may remain untarnished, and most do not. You have at least beaten those odds.
The king was silent.
Guillaume let his tone become sharp. It is true, your Highness. You are sick. You are dying, you have been dying a long time, and you have neither wife nor children nor lover to comfort you—and, by the rule of this land, you never shall. But you do not get to abdicate, your Highness, and do you know why? Because the throne is forever. Someone must be king, and all the other candidates are venal, corrupt, stupid, or cruel. You are sick, but you remain a good king. And so you must continue. If you must, think of Job.
Job cursed God, laughed the king. It was a dry, faint sound, like the wind through dead grass.
Guillaume hid a smile behind the bandages he was unrolling, pleased to amuse his liege, since little did, these days. Perhaps, he said, you will get your chance. I will be wagering on you.
