Yet, just when they had nearly given up hope, they came to expect a son, and nothing could have made them happier. The whole kingdom, in fact, was overjoyed, for the people desired a prince from their beloved king and queen almost as much as the two did themselves. Celebrations were planned and festivities were arranged in anticipation of that much-awaited day.
When that day came, however, all did not go as anticipated: Queen Florryn died in childbirth, and their new son, Arttur, did not survive either.
The people were crushed. Their beloved queen was dead. They had no prince. But the king, he was beyond devastated.
The king's closest friends tried to comfort him, and, in doing so, they showed him that they cared for him, but, at the same time, they failed to make things better. Any thought of the queen brought him great anguish, and any attempts to console him brought only thoughts of the queen.
But, he would not forget her—he would not forget her. As time passed, many of his closest friends and advisors counselled him to seek love once again and to remarry. This however was a hollow and obligatory sort of advisement, for his friends knew it would not be heeded, and wondered if it even would help at all if were, for King Decoltur always vowed he would never love another as he had loved Queen Florryn.
As the years passed, and the king's friends and advisors began to age and die, the aging king himself realized that his own end was nigh, and yet the kingdom had not an heir, nor any ready means of providing one. King Decoltur knew that, were he to die without an heir, the kingdom would descend into chaos. The people wouldn't know who to look to for leadership or guidance, and those enemy forces the king had worked so hard to keep at bay would seize the opportunity to overrun the kingdom.
The king, already saddened by loss and wearied by living, in an overwhelming spirit of duty decided therefore that he would not die—that he could not die. So he didn't.
The king continued on because he knew his kingdom needed him. He had spent his life working to protect and defend and build up his kingdom and his people. Queen Florryn had done the same. He could not afford, no matter how much he wished to lie down to a peaceful final rest, to allow the fruits of that work to crumble. So he didn't.
One by one all those he knew fell and died. Before long, he was completely alone and friendless. It was not long thereafter that the faces and the voices of those he had once known faded from his memory, and, when he could no longer remember the soothing songs of his queen, the nightmares began to return.
Living and waking the king was pained and wracked with the torture of an aging body, a broken mind, a lonely soul and a lovesick heart. From his pain he dreamed and wished to die himself, and such dreams of the respite of death only accentuated his pain. Yet he could not die, for his kingdom—all he had ever worked for, and all he owed his people—could not be allowed to fall.
As decades passed the king eventually forgot who he was, or who he had once been. His weariness and nightmares had blinded and corrupted his soul: he began to grow bitter—to resent the kingdom and the duties that kept him tethered to this world when he would rather leave it behind.
The passion of the love he had once felt for his people having been replaced with vengeful bitterness, King Decoltur ultimately proceeded to tear down all he had built up. Of course, he was hardly the man who had built them up in the first place anymore. He prohibited music. He banned dancing. It was forbidden to speak the name of the queen. The peasants were worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week to provide for the kingdom, and to pay for their inconvenient protection and their unwilling king. Taxes were high and burdens were heavy. The king's guard was many and harsh. The peasants began to wonder if this king was truly the same their grandparents had spoken of with such awe and respect so long ago.
In fact, many began to wonder if it would have been better to have been taken over and conquered by ruthless invaders than to be crushed under the weight of a bitter king who refused to die.
The king, however, continued to rule, and continued to hate his kingdom for needing the protection of his cold, iron first and his cold, iron will.
So, no, the kingdom of Penmar is not a happy place at all these days.
And that violin now only plays either an occasional haunting, lilting melody of loneliness or the harsh screech of anger mixed with despair.
Once this was a happy place, but certainly no longer.
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