Lore, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The last march.

It’s a lonely path, the way of kings. Beset upon from all sides by those who lust and envy the crown, or those who seek out the lands and folk to take, claim or kill.

At all points one must be on guard as they think of what will come and what will be. But that old place of standing stones is where you will feel it.

You will walk the path alone, one your ancestors have taken before you. As a babe you will walk, a humble humility to your marriage with the earth.

No secrets will you keep, no weapons will you hold. For on that path you are your final days as but an heir.

And when you finally come to the stones which stand tall upon the end, you will enter without fear or past, a rule to come from acts and not of whispers.

As one with the earth you will be in that place, as a king should always be. For then the fields and woods grow fertile for seed to harvest and beasts to hunt.

When the king betrays his bond, the world will turn as winter, until his purity returned, or an heir of worth takes fate from that which is corrupt.

So walk that ancient path, receive a crown, a cloak, a sword. And care tenderly for the land with which you wed, and your folk which live about you.

And should you rule as greater kinds of days of ancient lore, you will find your rest will come without the fear of what might come.



A prompt response.


22 thoughts on “The last march.”

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