The King's Vision

There had been whispers of the King and Queen’s madness for months, but this was the first time the doctor had witnessed it for himself. Refilling the chilled basin with hot water, the doctor repositioned the King’s cold, bloated hand into the bowl and quickly moved toward the other side of the bed, avoiding the wild eyes of the Queen as she urgently glared at a spot just above the King’s head. Aside from her continuing pleas for her beloved to awaken, she remained still and unresponsive as the doctor stalked for hours throughout the room, drawing from his mind an abundance of treatments - both proven and aspirational - which might revitalize the leader and heart of Vaherwood. 

              But the doctor knew it was too late. The King had been dead for at least a full day before he had been called to the castle as a last recourse. And for hours since he had stepped into the damp room - now thick with hot stagnation and quickly filling with the intensifying smell of rotting flesh - the doctor worked on the King, partly in hope for a miracle, but mostly as a theatric to the Queen; that she would suddenly return to her previous state of sanity and beg for the doctor to stop with a knowing that the King was gone and could not return to her.

As he positioned himself at the foot of the bed, the doctor removed a sharp needle the size of a quill from his kit, and offered a hesitant, yet assertive jab to the heel of the still foot of the King. The droughted response was anticipated, but with waning notions of any resolution, the doctor resumed this action, formulating a look of purposefulness for the desperate audience, whose mix of confidence and despair he felt as a heavy blanket strewn around his neck, and growing tighter across his throat with every passing hour.

He had been abruptly prohibited from entering the castle some time ago, the formal letter reading that his therapies were “inconsequential”. The rumor of his exile spread quickly and took immediate residence in the minds of the loyal townspeople, whose firm trust in their royal leaders had, up until recently, yielded abundance and protection for generations. The halted arrival of necessities from the west initially inspired a mere tilt of the head. But, as the ocean’s horizon remained clear for months, with no pigeons sent nor received, the growingly hungry eyes of the villagers now desperately begged the silent castle walls for a solution.

Despite their growing desperation, the people of Vaherwood maintained an unwavering loyalty to the King and Queen. Their comradery, strongly woven together by thick threads of optimism, were effective means of enduring the pains of the day, while in the silence of night, the doctor often heard the soft, desperate knocks of the ill-fallen. Under the night’s protection, he often revisited the homes of his former acquaintances who, despite the weakness of hunger, still managed to display looks of shame and disgust over their current state of despair. As time wore on, the visits became more frequent, as more villagers were afflicted with illnesses born of poverty. And the doctor, encountered waning resources to treat them. 

The doctor was jolted out of his contemplations by the sharp reaction of the needle making contact with bone. His widening eyes inspired no response from the small group of onlookers in the room, who appeared to have all retreated from this present nightmare and into the various comforts of their minds. The Queen’s appearance was the same, except for an unavoidable fatigue growing behind her senseless eyes. 

How did this come to be? The doctor contemplated, knowing the answers were in this very room, now hot with the stench of the King’s decay. But the doctor was an outsider, a message firmly communicated by the averted eyes of those in the room. 

As the doctor continued his work, the onlookers inwardly recalled varying accounts of the past few months. A wanderer from the north had appeared at the doorstep of the castle, claiming to possess the ability to dream the future. Nobody could recall her advancement to the palace doors. It was as though she just appeared. She was a shadow of a woman, thin and long-limbed. Her head was cloaked in a heavy brown cloth. Her arms effortlessly supported a swollen bag filled with charms, books, and other mysterious articles. She claimed that her dreams urgently guided her to Vaherwood to advise and protect the kingdom. She promised growth and prosperity, and most prominently, safety. With startling swiftness, she was received as an intimate advisor to the King and Queen. She fed them potions that filled their minds with visions and arousals that kept them awake for nights on end. The King and Queen’s minds were muddled with contradictious judgments. They felt inspired, yet paralyzed by budding mistrust, thus casting aside decades-long alliances and trades. As resources waned, they grew insistent that the solutions lay in the dreams and visions. The stranger vowed to pass her ability of foresight to the King. Through guided ceremony, the King consumed a potion that would put him into a deep sleep, where the stranger would then insert her gift into the King. Soon after, the stranger vanished with the same abruptness as she arrived, and the King would not awaken. 

Sickness seeped from the Queen’s brow as she sat with her unmoving husband, allowing the doctor to work his rituals to wake him. She focused her eyes on a dark shadow whispering relentless wisdom into the King’s ear. This was the answer that they needed. The stranger had left quickly and full of the riches of Vaherwood entrusted to the realm since the beginning of their settlement. The Queen, at first, felt it no concern, for the King was now plump with the knowledge of growth and richness that would return their fortune to them tenfold. And yet, he wouldn't wake up. Certainly, she thought, he was filled to the point of satisfaction. Why did he insist on such a long departure?

              The doctor wearily lowered the sharp pick and gazed at the Queen with hesitance. The odor of death and mutilation lodged itself into every inch of the room. It was at that moment that the doctor realized with horror that she was their only hope. He wordlessly begged her to come to her senses. She met his eyes, and detected his surrender. This was the first moment that the doctor saw her resolve tremble. She leaned forward and sent her hand across the King’s swelled forehead.

“You know our destiny, our demise. My love, awaken,” she pled to her King. 

The desperate murmur of prayer arose from somebody near the door. It was the last whisper of hope remaining in the room.

The King’s feet were raw with puncture. A disfigurement of ligament and muscle. The doctor sat silently, uncertain of what this meant for the future of their kingdom. If they survived this indignity, how would this be remembered? What significance would rise from this tragedy?

The doctor lowered his eyes to the King with exhaustion and humiliation at his failure. He turned towards his kit to gather his belongings, but not before catching a glimpse of what he believed to be the swift jerk of a maimed foot.