Saturday, June 25, 2011

Poor, Poor Pitiful Thing

Here's one of the 500-word skits I did a while back. I need to continue these! I was rereading some of them, and this one made me laugh, and then made me shudder, which I expect was the goal. Give it a read and let me know what you think!

Also, if you can name where I got the title of this piece from (i.e., who sang it?), I'll give you a virtual cookie!

~~~

The tomb was covered in white marble, gilded with gold, and even had a few engravings along the sides and top. But the worst of it was the serene expression worn by the burial mask at the head of the casket.

King Iodus ran his aged fingers along the cheeks and brows of the face. It was his son. Dear, poor boy had been laid to rest not ten days ago. He had died in a most brutal accident. After fighting with his new wife, Prince Felen had run out into the hallway, naked. There had been a maid scrubbing the sleek floors, and the prince had slipped.

At first, the king had been mortified that his son had died in such a foolish, embarrassing way. Now, however, he felt the weight of his son’s death. The king was in his eighties and had no living heir. Even Prince Felen’s wife was not with child. There was no one to take over the kingdom. Soon—very soon, the king felt—his country would be pitched into turmoil, and a succession war would begin.

The only way to remedy this was to take the late prince’s wife to bed. Iodus shuddered at the thought. She was a pretty thing, for certain, but he wasn’t comfortable sleeping with his son’s wife. Even if it was to save his kingdom from war, he wasn’t sure he could do it.

Iodus reached up and scratched at his balding head. Liver spots decorated his body in constellations of brown and gray. Little white hairs wafted from his naked crown, and for a fleeting second, the king considered taking another wife. Many of those in his harem had died years ago. He’d never seen fit to replace any of them. He was too old to be dealing in matters of the pants.

Pristine light shattered his thoughts as the sun rose and swathed the floors in orange. The king had spent another sleepless night at his son’s tomb. Rather than stay much longer, he took up his cane. He hobbled toward the door, leaving his son behind. Whatever misdeeds his son had done to deserve such an unfavorable end, the king knew in his heart he couldn’t wait much longer. Soon he might not be able to father children at all.

And so, he entered his palace. Knocking on his daughter-in-law’s door, he was resigned to waiting for her to answer. At last, she opened the door. She wore black, just as any widow in the kingdom was commanded to. Her eyes were clear and focused, not the red puffy eyes he had expected from a grieving widow.

“Your Majesty,” she said, draping her skirts back in a curtsy.

“Hello, Lady Elga.”

“What can I do for your grace today?”

“I was thinking of my son—Felen—and how I have no heir.”

The woman’s face paled considerably as she pieced together what the king was driving at. “You would have me?”

“There is no one else to take over the kingdom,” he muttered, ashamed. “It has to be done. You cannot rule, and will be ousted the minute I’m dead. To secure your place in the palace, you must bear me another son.”

Elga’s brow pinched, her fine, pale skin wrinkling at the thought. “But…I…”

“Come, we must be quick about it. You will have a child by royal blood, and say it is my son’s.”

“Your Grace, I don’t think now is a good time…”

“If we do not do it now, then I fear I will lose my nerve.”

Her expression seemed to plead for that moment. “Very well then.”

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