The Queen Of Peace

Short fantasy story about grief and healing

I let King Almus sit in his grief for four days before I showed myself to him. He kept his chamber curtains closed, and his candles extinguished as he howled and hollered. He’d weep and sob for his late son, Prince Ain. Invisible to him, I settled near the window to catch as much light as possible to recharge myself, and I watched him. I watched and listened to him beg and pray to any God he could think of for his son to return from his early grave. His beloved heir, who would never get his chance to be King, his only child.

In all the days and nights I settled in his chamber, Almus allowed no one inside. He kept his door locked and only opened it when he wanted his meals, which was a sparse happening. He let his weight slip from his frame in the same manner as he wished his anguish would.

Most people like him that I’ve helped sat silently while they agonized over loss. King Almus did not. He spoke to himself constantly. Sometimes it made no sense like it was the ending of a tale he had begun in his head. Other times he recounted memories of Ain, as if he was talking to an old friend. He’d pace around his chambers or bury himself under his heavy wools and just speak. He spoke of everything about his boy, from the merry memories to the sad. I heard and retained it all, but there was one story he kept telling over and over, as if he forgot he told it already. Or perhaps it was because he couldn’t forget it. Prince Ain’s death story.

King Almus would sometimes cry through the story, sometimes laugh, and others he’d scream it.

As I gathered from the King, It was dawn when the Prince rode into battle. With his father’s warriors and his trusted First Knight, Dalier, by his side, Ain was confident in securing another victory under his belt. They were to diminish the numbers of the Utarian warriors occupying the outskirts of the kingdom.

The Utarian warriors were hefty and more resilient than most, so Almus’ warriors were not expecting an easy fight, but they had no idea Prince Ain would be bested. Warriors from both Kingdoms fell left and right as the bloody battle raged. Grunts of pain, groans of death, and shouts of victory rang out. But Dalier’s roar of anger triumphed as the loudest sound on the battlefield. Amid their own fights, everyone felt compelled to turn and see what had occurred. Dalier was pulling his own sword from the chest of a Utarian warrior. As that warrior fell dead, Dalier dropped to his knees next to the fallen Prince, and cradled the boy to his chest. Ain’s bleeding neck wound poured crimson over the both of them. His life drained out of him before Dalier could think to utter a prayer so that his spirit could find the eternal light.

When Dalier relayed the events to the King, he said that he had only lost sight of the Prince for one terrible moment before it happened. Even with the knowledge I carry, I felt no reason to question the Knight's words. I could feel his grief settle in him almost as thickly as it did in the King. The Prince and Dalier must have been close. Dalier was also close to Almus. There would be no other reason for the Knight to spend many hours outside of Almus’ chambers trying to be let in. For no less than twice a day, Dalier would beg and plead for the King to let them grieve together, to share the burden with him. But Almus never allowed him in.

Almus wanted to blame the man, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The Prince was no damsel; he could fend for himself perfectly on the battlefield, and he had surely demonstrated it countless times before. He just happened to become a casualty of war. He felt that no one was to blame but Utaria.

Utaria stayed in the King's mind an equal, if not greater amount, than Ain did. He’d remember the boy’s blinding smile while being unable to forget the permanent sneer on the Utarian King's face. He’d think of Ain’s pleasant voice, and it would be overtaken by the guttural sound of a Utarian war cry. That’s probably the last thing Ain heard. The King smashed a vase against the wall, near me in fact, in an attempt to hear anything else. The shards passed right through me, scattering on the cold floor of the King’s chamber. He screamed and stomped to force that sickening sound from his mind.

Since Ain’s death, I watched Almus have no break in his grief to be able to plan a counterattack. He knew the neighboring kingdoms would be expecting him to retaliate, and rightfully so, but he just didn’t have it in him yet. He felt weak, unable to make himself move. To leave his chambers and do his job as King. What King can’t do his duties? Almus voiced sometimes. But his mourning tethered him to his chamber and, some days, to his bed. Weighing him down in a way that was suffocating and left him gasping for breath. Other days, he couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t stop pacing from his bed, to his door, and back to the bed. He felt like if he stopped moving he would die. Today was a day where moving felt impossible.

The King buried himself under the quilts that covered his bed. He laid still, unable to sleep and dream of Ain. He did nothing. He found that if he closed his eyes he could pretend the warmth coming from his quilts was from a hug. He could pretend Ain was hugging him and thanking him like he did when gifted something. Ain was always so appreciative, and that’s what Almus would miss the most. His son was able to appreciate even the smallest of things given to him. Almus recounted the time he’d given Ain his first sword, Ain almost cried with joy and carried that sword everywhere for a whole moon. Almus will never get to see that look on his son’s face again.

A sneaky sob snuck upon the King and escaped from his throat. His bedding was soon soaked with tears that wracked his body. He could hardly breathe as he wanted for his son back.

“Help me!” he cried. Not to any of his court members, but to someone who could take his grief away. To someone bigger than himself that can fix this hurt. To me

“Bring my son to me!”

“I cannot do that,” I said, revealing myself.

The King was startled by my strong voice, one he did not recognize. He clambered to sit up, fumbling for the dagger under his pillow. He pointed it at me as I glided to the foot of his bed.

“Who are . . .” he trailed off, gawking at the sight of me.

I was a woman with looks uncommon to this region. Uncommon to any region. Where people of this kingdom were lithe with mahogany skin and soot-colored hair, I was different and therefore unusual looking to the King.

My skin was a deep black, much darker than that of the Kings, and it shone in a way unnatural to living beings. My wavy hair, an intense blaze of orange, brushed my shoulders and illuminated the shawls that covered and dangled across my solid, burly frame. The thin, orange, and yellow shawls worked on adding to the light of my being. In that dark moment of the King’s life, I was his personal sun.

“Who are you?” Almus found his voice to ask me. He tightened his grip on his blade, too inept and limited to even scratch me. He didn’t know that, though, and I knew once his grief wavered in the slightest bit, he would make his move against Utaria. For now, he wasn’t going to let me get in the way of that.

“I am the Queen of Peace,” I identify myself, “And I cannot bring your son back.”

My resounding but lilted voice held authority that no King was used to hearing directed upon them.

“I do not know that kingdom, but I do know you have no right to be here and you will leave at once. Do not mistake my grief for weakness,” he stood from his bed, stopping before me and keeping his blade outstretched.

I regarded him with knowing eyes. I kept my head up and eyes locked on the King as I spoke, “But you are weak. Weak with grief that if left unchecked, will destroy you. I can aid you. Only if you let me.”

“Have you no kingdom of your own to grace with such generosity?” the King spat out. He tired of this interaction that confused him and just wanted to be left alone.

“I have no ties to any kingdom,” said I, “I rule over peace. The understanding and warmth that comes with emotional peace. I cannot bring Ain back from the world he is in now, but I can help you find peace in your own.” I extended a hand out to him, but too quickly for the King to register it as anything but hostile. He swiped down upon it with his blade. I did not flinch or scream because the blade did not cut me. Instead, it went through my flesh as if Almus had swung through open air. The skin that should have been bleeding acted as smoke does when fanned away, but then it reformed.

“Guards!” Almus screamed as he slashed his blade on the me again. The same thing happened. “Guards!”

I stood passively as the royal guards stomped their way down the hall and burst through his chamber doors, Dalier leading them.

“Apprehend her!” Dalier ordered once he saw me. Two of the ten or so guards flanked me and tried to grab my arms. They slipped right through just as the blade had done.

“What are you?” one of them demanded.

“I am the Queen of Peace,” I said, not taking my eyes off the King, “I am only here to help.”

“Take her from me at once!” the King ordered his baffled guards. He just wanted this fiasco to be done and to be alone.

“Wait,” Dalier says, “I have heard of this Queen.” Dalier moves to stand beside his King and before the guards he commands. “She is responsible for pulling the Hulime Kingdom from ruins and into the prosperous mammoth it is now.”

“There is no way,” the King dismissed,

“The Knight of Hulime told me herself, my lord,” said Dalier.

“She helped fix the Guld famine, also my lord,” one of the guards said, “I heard from one of their guards.”

“I’ve healed many kingdoms, and yours can be next if you allow it,” I said.

“You will hold your tongue until I ask,” Almus snapped. “My kingdom is not in the state those others were.”

“But it will be,” I said.

“Quiet!” the King screamed, “Stop talking. You know nothing of what my kingdom will become!”

“I will not sit here and endure these outbursts for much longer. Your grief and the future misery of your people are what brought me here. But your rage is what will push me away. I am only able to stay here and help if peace is what you truly desire. I am the reason the Milon Kingdom restored itself, and I am the reason the Keftor kingdom did not. One of those kingdoms accepted me, and the other did not. Which will your kingdom be?” I declared this loudly and with annoyance clouding my features. My voice occupied all the space in the room and commanded their attention.

The guards watched Dalier, waiting for a command. Dalier watched Almus, waiting for a command. Almus stared at me. The room was silent.

“Take her to the dungeon,” Almus finally said.

“. . . I’m not sure we can move her,” Dalier said.

“Figure it—” the King is interrupted.

“I am leaving now because it is clear you are not ready for help. I will be back soon but hear my warning. If you let this rage consume you, I will be unable to stay.” I started to fade away from their view, like a light slowly dimming until it vanished. The guards made to grab me I was gone to them. I lingered invisible for a beat longer to watch the King.

“Leave me,” the King said quietly, his energy for the day completely drained from him. The guards quickly marched out of his chambers. Almus was left alone with Dalier.

“Almus . . . “ Dalier started, staring at the King who climbed back into his bed.

“Dailer, would you lie with me? I do not want to be alone anymore,” Almus did not look at Dailer as he spoke. He stared straight up at the ceiling.

The Knight said nothing as he laid next to his King and friend. This was not anything they hadn’t done before; even the crying wasn’t new. Dalier held the King as he sobbed, just like he did when the Queen died many seasons ago, and just like he was sure he’d do again.

“Dalier,” the King mumbled, “What will I do? How will I go on?”

“You will know what to do when the time is right. You have me by your side, always.”

“I miss him,” said the King.

“As do I, Almus. As do I."