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2022-12-14
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Flower King

Summary:

"It’s not right, what you did. But I realize now I’d have done it too, if I were you."

A fairy tale about barren winter landscapes, burials, and forgiveness.

Or, if the story wasn't an allegory, but the allegory was a story.

 

incredible art from Ev!

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

Your name is lost in snowdrift deep
Too cold to bury the dead, too cold to weep
You climb a frozen tower
You give your final hour
You make the soil for a flower
You will sleep, you will sleep, you will sleep
– Anglo-Saxon Prophecy for an Unknown King, circa 700 C.E.

 

I.
Once upon a time, there was a boy born in the summer, whose destiny was winter.

The land was ruled by a great king, proud and stubborn and fair. He knew no sorrow, but neither did he know joy. When he finally took a wife, the people rejoiced. She came from faraway land, and sang songs as warm as her heart and clever as her mind. Her name was Calliope. She was a worthy queen. The king, at last, knew joy.

The king and his wife had a son, who came into life with his father’s stubbornness, his mother’s singing voice, and both their beauty combined. His name was Orpheus. He was not born in the summer. His destiny was different.

It is not for this story: know only that it was avoidable, and that he was doomed from the start. Know only that his father sealed his fate. Know only that his father could have done nothing to prevent it. Know only that he is dead now.

His destiny arrived only three years after he became a man. Queen Calliope, grief-stricken, abandoned the king and left for her home. The king, too soon, knew sorrow.

His advisors visited him, for this was their duty, and their king needed them. The king had always loved his work, and they tried to cheer him with it.

His youngest councilor visited him in his throne room, and said:

“What new proclamations do you have for the kingdom, your grace?”

“Tell my subjects I am their unnamed king, for I have buried all but the first letter of my name. Let the rest be spoken on the pain of death.”

His oldest councilor visited him in his study, and said:

“What new knowledge do you have for the kingdom, your grace?”

“Tell my subjects I failed my son. Tell my subjects I will fail them too.”

His wisest councilor tried to visit him in his personal chambers, but the way was barred.

He asked through the heavy wood door:

“Are you there, your grace?”

And no answer came.

The councilors met to interpret the king’s third decree, and at last named it isolation. They ordered the swiftest son of every village to come at once to the castle. The councilors told them it was a great honour to carry the king’s will, and the new messengers listened carefully to their instructions.

Each was to return home and present a scroll bearing the new laws, written thus:
     I: Any subject who speaks the name of the king’s son shall be hanged by sundown.
     II: Any subject who disturbs the king shall be hanged by sunrise.

And then speak fifteen words:
     The king has no name. The king failed his son. The king will fail you.

When the last messenger had returned home, every leaf fell from every tree. A cold wind rose up and howled, and all gentleness was chased from the land. Snow came. Snow came. Snow came. The wind stopped. Then there was only the sound of cracking that echoed through forests as young trees snapped under unbearable weight. Animals that could sleep slept. Animals that could not sleep hid. Animals that could not hide died. And then, at last, the kingdom was quiet.

The End

 

II.
Seven months and seven weeks and seven days passed thus.

I'm afraid there's little to say of them.

 

III.
On the morning of the first day of the tenth month of winter, in a village that had always been in the shadow of the castle, whose people were more accustomed to darkness than most, three solemn figures looked out onto the vast blank plains below. It used to be a handsome green place with a river running through it.

“He covers the land to smother his grief,” said a wise old woman.

“He makes it cold so he can’t feel anything,” said a hard-working blacksmith.

“He brings endless winter so we will all die,” said a gossiping fishwife.

A rock next to them snorted and revealed itself to be a fourth figure who had been sitting down.

“Not me. I won’t ever die,” said a drunken soldier.

“Your foolishness shames the king,” said the wise old woman.

“Even at his lowest,” said the hard-working blacksmith.

“Are you not still in his service?” said the gossiping fishwife.

“I suppose,” said the drunken soldier. He looked dubiously over his shoulder where the great castle loomed atop the hill. It was the only thing left to mark this empty landscape.

 

IV.
In the morning, the drunken soldier was no longer drunk. He was no longer a soldier either. He had not been a soldier since the terrible winter had settled on the land. None of them had jobs anymore, not even the king’s great councilors. They only pretended to, sometimes, because it gave them comfort.

He was just a man. But he was tired of the cold and dark, and had spent his last coins on warm ale the night before. There was nothing better for him to do. With a chill in his bones and a pang of hunger in his belly, he set off for the castle.

“Where are you going, drunken soldier?” asked the hard-working blacksmith, when he saw him walking down the street.

“I’m going to offer my services to the king,” he said.

“What services? You’re not really a soldier anymore,” said the gossiping fishwife.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”

“There’s nothing better for you to do,” said the wise old woman, and smiled like she felt sorry for him.

“Thank you,” he said, for these were the only gifts he would be given for his journey.

He continued walking. The path was heaped with unswept snow, for none had dared to call upon the king and incur a greater wrath. At the outskirts of the village, he visited the cottage of the noble woodsman. He did not knock before he went inside. He took the noble woodsman’s axe and left.

“Thank you,” he said again, even though the cottage was long since cold and empty.

 

V.
He walked for lonely hours. He had taken the axe to defend against vicious beasts, but no vicious beasts approached him. Nor did the birds call, not even the carrion crow, who had smelled him, but was too weak to fly from his perch and follow him to where he would fall.

He climbed the great hill to the castle even though he could not see the ground he walked on. It was like walking through great mounds of sand that sucked the warmth from his body and the marrow from his bones.

The snow soon reached his hips, and it was not firm enough to walk upon without sinking down. His boots were fine and leather, but the cold seeped into them too, and he could no longer feel where he walked.

The snow then reached his chest, and he needed to help part the way with his hands. He wore no gloves, and his hands grew red and shining with frostbite.

And at last, when the castle was close enough to call out to, it lay wreathed in such deep skirts of snow that he fell to his knees.

He fastened his frozen hands around the handle of the noble woodsman’s axe, and used it to carve a tunnel. So he crawled, underneath the snow piled as high as houses. So he crawled, hoping his path was true. So he crawled, thinking himself a giant rodent so he would not panic at the lack of space and fresh air. So he crawled, until finally his passage met with the bottom of the tall castle doors.

He dug more so that he might push open the door, and in the eerie light, he came upon a dark little shape he first thought another rodent. He scraped more snow away and realized it was a man’s boot, and a man’s foot, and a man’s leg, and he stopped, for he knew it was one of the castle guards. The last of his strength must not have been in his muscles, but in his spirit, because the sight sent his arms falling like iron weights to his sides.

He knew he could dig no more, so instead he leaned his body on the great door until it groaned and swung inwards.

The castle was cold and dark inside, but for some torches on the wall, burning low. He followed their path on numb and stumbling feet. He climbed many steps, and he was so cold and tired already that he did not notice the the frost along the stone walls, or the snow that gathered in the corners and shadows like cobwebs.

He came to a heavy wood door, and tried to push it open too, but it was barred from the inside. He lifted his axe. His shoulders were still broad and strong, and they obeyed his will. The door split apart with a thunderous crack.

“Who goes there?” called a voice. It was deep and heavy as all the snow that covered all the land, and the man knew he was speaking to the king.

“I was a soldier once,” he said. “I am nobody anymore.”

“Show your face, Nobody Anymore,” said the king.

He crossed into the king’s chambers and saw a ghastly figure lying on a bed. If it were not the king’s own bed, he would not have thought the man there the same fair king he had once seen at great distance as a youth. Frost latticed his blue-white skin. His black hair was tangled and wild. A fine layer of snow lay over him as it did everything, like the dust of a forgotten room.

For a long moment, the king’s form was so still that the man wondered if he was still able to move, or if he was frozen to the spot.

Then cold grey eyes opened, and the king slowly sat up with the same sound of trees creaking and breaking under the snow. His golden crown was trapped in a frozen waterfall of ice that flowed down from his head to drape itself across his shoulders in the mockery of a hooded mantle.

The king bore the tremendous weight of it like it was nothing.

“What do you want?” asked he.

He approached the king and knelt. “I was born in the summer, your grace, and I would like to see another summer before I die.”

“My son will never see another summer again,” said the king.

“Nor will mine, your grace, but I still live. Many of your subjects live. Perhaps not for much longer.”

“You pay the price of your king’s promise.”

“What price could I pay for you to bring warmth to these lands, your grace?”

“It cannot be done. I have made an oath that stilled rivers and smothered trees. I have spurned Spring, and she cannot be called back. I have said I would fail you.” Then the king trailed an idle hand along the man’s face, and white frost bloomed like flowers where he touched. The man did not flinch. “Still,” he said, after a moment. “What would you offer?”

The man looked at him, dark eyes burning. His lips had turned pale. The cold had gone very deep into his bones. He knew he would not be able to warm himself again unless the king lifted his curse, and he would make any false promise to secure another day of life.

“I was a fine soldier. Let me offer my services as your knight.”

“No. I have no need of a knight when I have already failed my kingdom.”

“I was known to be merry. Let me offer my company as your friend.”

“No. I have no need of company when I have already been forsaken.”

“Some have thought me handsome. Let me offer my-”

“No,” said the king, interrupting him. “I have no need of you at all. You are dismissed.”

And the man, smarting from the sting of rejection even if he would have been loathe to warm the bed of such a cold creature, forced himself standing, and found his sluggish tongue newly woken with ire. He looked down upon the king to speak the name that he had banned, fashioned such that it might hurt him the most.

“Then I have nothing to offer your grace, but my condolences for your son, named Orpheus, the lyre player, father-forsaker, whose fate you surely sealed when you would not aid him in his quest.”

The ice draped around the king’s shoulders split apart and crashed to the ground as he raised himself up in fury. A gust shrieked through the room and flung the snow into a blizzard.

“How dare you,” he cried, over the terrible noise. “I will see it you are put to death!”

“I hope you are willing to do it yourself!” shouted the man, and the king hesitated in his wrath. The snow dropped back to the floor, and the wind disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“What do you mean? Have my guards abandoned me too?” asked the king.

They now stood face to face. For the first time, king and man could see how tired and sad the other looked.

“They are dead,” said the man. Then he added, with gentleness he did not think he still had, “I am certain they would have barred the way to me if they had been living.”

“Did you kill them?” asked the king. He did not sound angry.

“No, your grace. I did not.”

The king was silent for a moment. “Then I did.”

“Yes. But you have done nothing you did not warn us of first.”

The king was silent again. “You said you had a son?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“What is his name?”

“Robyn, the noble woodsman.”

“Is it his axe you carry?”

The man looked down in surprise. His hands had been numb for so long he had forgotten he was holding it.

“Yes. It is. I failed him, too.”

The king went to the other side of the room and brought a box from a hidden alcove. He opened it, and pulled out a beautiful golden lyre carved with vining flowers.

“This is his lyre,” said the king. “I would rather have been left with an axe.”

The lyre could buy a hundred fine axes, but the man knew that was not what his king was saying. “Why?” he asked. “Because an axe is more useful?”

The king put the lyre away as tenderly as though it were a babe in a crib. When he turned back to the man, his hands were shaking.

“No, Robyn’s father. Because you can destroy with it.”

The man held out the axe. “Take it then, if you like. I have no more use of it.”

The king frowned. “It is a simple axe, but it is more a treasure to you than it would ever be to me.”

“Yes,” said the man, and sat on the cold floor. “He was a treasure. He was my greatest treasure.” He looked up at the king with a queer light in his eyes. “You are such a strange creature,” he said. “I had thought you were a man, like me.”

“I cannot be a man. I am a king. A poor one.”

“And I am your soldier,” offered the man.

“Yes,” said the king, frowning again. “You already told me you were.”

“And we both failed our sons. I bet Orpheus was a great treasure, too,” said the man, and the king flinched. “Funny, isn’t it? Burying our treasures? Wonder if that means we can come back for them someday, dig them up shining and whole again. I won’t need any map. I won’t ever forget where he is.”

“This is why I unnamed myself. I buried all but the first letter of my name when I buried him, and I lost my right to the rest.”

The man smiled as though he had said something foolish but endearing. “I know. I understood straightaway, you know, when it was announced. I didn’t want to get out of Robyn’s grave after setting him down in it. Took three men to carry me away. It’s not right, what you did. But I realize now I’d have done it too, if I were you. If I lost my son and then nobody stuck around to pull me back out.”

“What’s your name?” asked the king.

“Doesn’t matter, when you know me as Robyn’s father. That’s enough.” He was silent for a moment, and then spoke again. “But I’m very tired. Will you hold my hand, Orpheus’ father, while I fall asleep?”

The king sat with him, and took his hand.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” said the man. “But I hope Robyn is there, and that he forgives me.”

“No,” said the king, finally understanding, but it did not change the fact that the man was only a man, and had been very cold for a very long time, and used up all his strength to come to the castle and see his king and ask for summer.

“Do you not think he will?” asked the man, with a terrible sadness in his voice.

“He will,” said the king. “Yes, of course he will. I am sure you did all you could, even if you failed in the end. I only mean you should not rest yet, Robyn’s father. You must not. I command you to rise.”

His soldier only smiled and shut his eyes.

“I have already disobeyed you three times. At least now you will need not put me to death for it, poor king. Fare thee well, fellow-father. Thank you for holding my hand.”

“I will not be abandoned again,” said the king, and there was a new flush of rage underneath his frost-covered face.

But the soldier did not respond.

“I will not be abandoned,” repeated the king, and took hold of his subject’s shoulders. They felt cold under even his touch.

The soldier said nothing.

“I will not abandon you,” said the king, and cradled his friend in his arms.

The soldier said nothing still.

The king carefully picked him up and carried him past his splintered door, down the many stairs, and through the cold dark corridor. He laid him down in front of the largest hearth in the largest feasting hall. But even after he raised a roaring fire and covered him in many thick furs, the soldier still did not stir.

The king knew then he had failed him. The king knew then he had failed all his subjects. He could hardly be called a king.

“I order you to wake,” he said, fruitlessly. “I must put you to death. It is the law. Please.”

He looked inside of himself for any further warmth he could give. There was nothing there except the same frozen waste that he had spread across his entire kingdom.

“I order you to wake,” he said, again. “I forgive you. I will spare you. Please.”

And still nothing happened, so he bowed his head, shut his eyes, and became as still as the soldier.

The frost over his skin turned to dew, and the ice that bound the crown to his head melted and dripped down his cheeks like tears. The crown tumbled to the floor, but still he did not move. At last, he raised his head.

He opened his mouth, reached inside, and pulled out a perfect orange chrysanthemum.

He slid his hand underneath the man’s tunic, and pressed the flower to his cold and naked breast. For a moment, it resisted, burning the flesh, but he pressed harder still, and it disappeared into his body.

“Wake,” he said. “I cannot order it any longer, but wake, I beg.”

And the soldier awoke, as peacefully as though he had been napping on a summer’s day.

He touched a hand curiously to his chest, and found a new white scar the size of a silver coin. He smiled up at his lord with sleek raven hair and worried eyes. He had mistakenly thought they were grey, but they were brightest blue. He had mistakenly thought his king was no longer fair, but he was. He blushed.

“You have a healthy colour again, your grace,” he said.

“Do not call me that. I am no longer your king, named or unnamed.”

“Oh,” said the man, who understood well enough, for he had once been the merry soldier, and then the drunken soldier, and then nobody at all. He touched his chest again and felt the power there, awaiting him. He set it aside in favour of the man leaning over him. “It happens. Would you like to be my fair husband instead?”

“Yes,” said the man, who had once been King Morpheus. “I would like that.”

Then they walked together out the open doors of the castle, and every place they stepped, the snow hissed and melted and rose around them as steam, and it was made gold in the morning sun.

After walking some distance, the new king knelt and pressed his palm to the frozen ground. His fair and promised husband laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “Summer is your birthright, Robyn’s father,” he said. The king turned and smiled at him, and then looked back at the earth. He could feel the sleeping of all life beneath his hand.

“Wake,” he said.

Notes:

thank you all for reading this little fairy tale. i've been wanting to do a dreamling winter fairytale since back when it was still warm out. here it is! your comments are new motifs in the folk literature index of my heart.

more of other wips to come later this week <3

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