A Kings Duty, A Serpent's Nap

Author's Note: I decided to incorporate all three suggestions from the prompt.

***

King Charles III, in his private chambers at Buckingham Palace, was grappling with a rather peculiar sort of royal lethargy. It wasn’t a mere tiredness from a day of handshakes and ribbon-cuttings; this was a profound, bone-deep weariness that seemed to settle in with the evening mist.

He felt as though the very weight of history, embroidered into the tapestries and carved into the mantelpieces, was pressing down upon him. The crown, an object of immense symbolic power, felt less like a regal adornment and more like a particularly heavy, and slightly-too-tight, hat.

His Majesty’s latest obsession was an ancient English myth he’d stumbled upon in a dusty, leather-bound volume from the Royal Library. It was the tale of the ‘Somnolent Serpent of Somerset,’ a mythical beast said to hibernate for a century at a time, its slumber so potent it could induce a collective laziness across the land. The myth claimed the serpent’s wake-up call was a specific celestial alignment, a rare configuration of stars known as the ‘Coronet of Cassiopeia.’

Charles, a man of science and tradition, found the myth equally absurd and strangely compelling. He couldn't shake the feeling that the country's recent collective apathy—a general reluctance to do anything more strenuous than sip tea and complain about the weather—was somehow connected to this slumbering snake.

Tonight, the Coronet of Cassiopeia was to be visible. The Royal Astronomer, a man named Dr. Alistair Finch-Hawkins, had confirmed it with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Charles, however, was less enthused. He had to be dragged from his favorite armchair, where he had been contemplating the complex political dynamics of the palace's garden gnome placement, by his ever-vigilant valet, Barnaby.

"Your Majesty, the telescope is prepared on the West Terrace," Barnaby announced, his voice a crisp contrast to the King's drooping demeanor. "Dr. Finch-Hawkins is awaiting you."

"Barnaby, must we?" Charles sighed, a sound of such profound resignation it could have deflated a hot air balloon. "The sofa is so… supportive."

"A king's duty is never done, Sire," Barnaby replied, a practiced blend of firmness and deference. "Even when that duty involves staring at distant lights in the sky."

With a truly monumental effort, Charles rose. He donned a thick velvet robe, a garment that felt less like a symbol of power and more like a comforting blanket. As he shuffled towards the terrace, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of kinship with the legendary Somnolent Serpent. They were two peas in a pod, he thought—one a mythical beast, the other a monarch, both just wanting a good, long nap.

On the terrace, Dr. Finch-Hawkins, a man with a wild shock of white hair that seemed to defy gravity, was practically vibrating with excitement. He adjusted the massive telescope, its brass gleaming under the moonlight. "Your Majesty! It's a truly magnificent night! The sky is a canvas of unparalleled clarity!"

Charles grunted in agreement, his gaze fixed on the warm glow emanating from the palace's kitchen, where he suspected a freshly baked scone was being prepared.

"Look, Sire, just to the left of the W-shaped constellation," Dr. Finch-Hawkins said, gesturing with a trembling finger. "That's it! The Coronet of Cassiopeia! The very alignment said to wake the Somnolent Serpent!"

Charles peered into the eyepiece.

He saw a shimmering cluster of stars, like a spilled handful of diamonds on a black velvet cloth. It was beautiful, he had to admit. But it didn't exactly fill him with a sense of urgent purpose. He was, in fact, contemplating the possibility of ordering a small, unobtrusive stool from which to observe the heavens.

"The myth says the serpent wakes and, upon seeing the Coronet, is so inspired by the majesty of the heavens that it sheds its lethargy and revitalizes the land!" Dr. Finch-Hawkins babbled on, his voice a torrent of academic enthusiasm. "Perhaps tonight, Sire, we shall see a great revival! The nation will be awash with energy!"

Charles pulled his head away from the telescope. "And how, precisely, will we know if it's worked? Will the populace suddenly start jogging at dawn? Will the postal service deliver letters with a spring in their step?"

"Well, Sire, one can only hypothesize," the astronomer stammered, a little deflated. "But the myth is quite clear on the serpent's awakening."

And then, a faint, rhythmic humming sound began to emanate from the ground, a low, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Charles's slippers. The sound grew louder, a deep, snoring bass note that seemed to shake the very foundations of the palace.

Dr. Finch-Hawkins's eyes widened. "Good heavens! The serpent! It's… it's waking!"

The humming intensified, and a faint, sweet smell of damp earth and lavender wafted over the terrace, a scent that was surprisingly pleasant. A moment later, the ground beneath them shifted with a gentle, rolling motion. Charles, instinctively, grabbed onto the telescope for balance, narrowly avoiding a rather undignified tumble.

Suddenly, a massive, scaly head, the color of a mossy stone, emerged from the rose garden. Its eyes, the size of dinner plates, were half-closed, and a wisp of vapor, which smelled faintly of chamomile tea, drifted from its nostrils. The serpent let out a long, rumbling yawn that rattled the windows of the palace.

"It's… it's magnificent!" Dr. Finch-Hawkins whispered in awe.

Charles, however, was less impressed. "It looks rather sleepy, doesn't it?"

The serpent's gaze, a slow, languid sweep, eventually landed on the King. It blinked, once, a ponderous movement that seemed to take an eternity. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, it stretched its immense body, knocking over a meticulously pruned topiary bush in the shape of a swan. A small, pathetic "squawk" sound was heard as the ceramic swan figurine was obliterated.

"Oh dear," Charles muttered, "that was a prize-winning topiary."

The serpent, seemingly unconcerned with its horticultural destruction, began to speak. Its voice was a deep, gravelly murmur, like stones rolling in a very slow stream.

"Hello, Charlie," it rumbled. "That was a good nap. Thanks for the wake-up call. I needed it."

Charles was dumbfounded. "You… you know my name?"

"I've been here for centuries, lad," the serpent drawled, its voice thick with sleep. "I've seen all the lot of you come and go. George, Victoria, even your mum, a lovely woman, always had a nice word for me. But you, you've got the look of a man who appreciates a good lie-in. A proper king, you are."

Charles felt a strange sense of vindication. "I knew it! The lethargy! It was you all along!"

"Aye," the serpent said, a rumbling sound that was half chuckle, half tectonic plate shifting. "It's the side effect of my sleep. A bit of a snooze-puddle, as it were. Wakes up the land, they say. But I always figured the whole country just took a wee kip with me."

Dr. Finch-Hawkins, his scientific mind reeling, stammered, "But the myth says… you revitalize the land! That you inspire energy!"

"Oh, that," the serpent said, letting out another yawn that sent a fresh wave of chamomile vapor across the terrace. "That's just a bit of creative marketing, isn't it? A bit of a fib to make it all sound more exciting. Honestly, I'm just a big fan of a good, long sleep. But seeing that starry coronet, well, it does make a chap want to do… something."

Charles's heart skipped a beat. "Something? What something?"

The serpent slowly lowered its massive head, its huge eye fixing on Charles. "Well, I think I'll go for a bit of a wander. Stretch my legs, you know. Maybe pop over to Cornwall. See what's new. Been a while."

And with that, the Somnolent Serpent of Somerset, with a languid, unhurried movement, began to slither away, its scales shimmering in the moonlight. As it moved, it knocked over a second topiary, this one in the shape of a stag, and then disappeared around the corner of the palace.

Charles and Dr. Finch-Hawkins stood in stunned silence. The humming had stopped. The lethargy, the feeling of profound weariness, was gone. Charles felt a sudden, surprising jolt of energy. He felt awake, alert, and, for the first time in weeks, had a clear, decisive thought.

"Barnaby!" he called out, his voice strong and clear. "Barnaby, ring up the groundskeepers! Tell them we need to replant the topiary! And then… then get the car. I think I'll go to Cornwall. See if I can catch up with that serpent. He seems like a rather interesting sort."

Dr. Finch-Hawkins, still in a state of shock, watched as the King strode purposefully back inside. He looked at the mangled remains of the stag topiary and then up at the magnificent, twinkling stars. It seemed the myth had been only half wrong.

The serpent did indeed inspire action. But instead of revitalizing the people of England, it had simply inspired the King to finally do something more strenuous than contemplate garden gnomes: go on a road trip.

And perhaps, Charles thought as he went to fetch his favorite jacket, that was truly royal duty after all.