“Do you understand what I say?”

His voice seemed to boom with authority, though not in anger. Instead, he spoke with a confident, self-awareness that I dare not even attempt to mimic. So sure of Himself, His role as this kingdom’s wise and powerful ruler, no one has ever had the gall to go against any of His decisions in the last decade. But during His first year as the newly-sworn-in Monarch, He faced many a trial all while smiling and perfectly composed; at least, that is how things had appeared to be back then…

I had not been paying Him full attention, though I somewhat “understood” His words. But what fixated me in this moment was His appearance in reality rather than in paintings and sketches. His soft, curly hair seemed to be comprised of lamb’s wool of the purest white and a myriad of sparkling stars and constellations; His crown--silver and a surprisingly plain, standard design without any fur lining or jewels-- paled in comparison to the white-hot stars that danced throughout the atmosphere around His head. Neighboring kingdoms’ expectations that Royals are pale in skin tone and petite in size always encounter a bit of shock when they see Him in portraits and/or in person. He is the tallest king in the last fifty years of Mukormic, standing at an intimidating six feet and five inches in height. His skin was a deep shade of brown, but almost appeared dark blue in certain lighting for some reason. Many individuals meet with Him each day, yet there has never been talk of how cold His touch actually feels.

His strangely-cool temperature was prevalent throughout the designs in the castle, from the curtains to the clothing of those who worked for Him. Even His own clothing matched the winter feel of His touch; he wore a hand sewed, white ruffled top which caught the light in every direction He turned, emphasizing the subtle iridescence in the fabric’s material; the deep shaded blue of His trousers reminded me not of the vast, dark oceans, but of the novel idea that a King would allow Himself to be seen in clothing that the lowest-ranking peasant may wear any given day; His slippers were cloud white and unlike any footwear I had seen, each tip rounded instead of the well-recognized point associated with Elves at times; finally, His hand of Dominance-- this week, it is the left-- was adorned with many gems. His thumb caressed a Tanzanite-jeweled ring with a silver band that matched the bands on his four fingers; they each had a Sapphire, Kyanite, Benitoite, and Sodalite ring from first to fourth finger, respectively. The silver medallion around His neck--surprisingly plain with little detail save for the swirl designs around its border that matched the tiles in the large Court-- mocked my reflection of growing fear. Why fear appeared in my mind I do not know, yet that word is beginning to take over the confines of my head. Doubt slowly nestled into the crevices of my brain and my world blurred from the overwhelming sea that was drowning me.

His medallion’s mirror-like surface reflected my face and warped my eyes to appear squinted, my mouth buttoned, my cheeks wetter and wetter as my arm raised to shield the horrible sight from Him. Questioning voices surrounded us. Instead of scolding me in the view of several members of the Court-- knights included--He whisked me away, our forms concealed in the darkness of long curtains in a nearby corridor. I awaited an angered tone from His kind, gentle voice, a physical assault of my face, or perhaps my hair pulled in His grasp. Instead, His tone was softer than it had been as He spoke to me in the Court. It was hushed now, as if listening for possible bystanders. There was a subtle vibration after each word He spoke, beginning to lull me into an arrogant sense of security. From the sweet scent of His breath to the overall fragrance of His clothing, my nerves and thoughts began to calm. The soothing register of His voice was reminiscent of a cello’s deep tones playing the most melancholy of compositions.

“Why do you weep?”

His hands grasped my armored shoulders--evidence of His physical strength peeking through--yet He was so gentle. My eyes stayed fixed on His slippers, my vision blurred by tears, my already-insignificant pride dwindling further into nothingness.

I just want to be enough for Him. I just want to remain of use until my last, dying breath. I just. . .

“Please look at me, Sir Worcestershire.”

His hand extended towards me and I nearly flinched, anticipating a slap or harsh squeeze of my throat. He caressed the side of my cheek, softly. Despite His warmth in speaking and presence, His hand was bone-chillingly cold, almost as cold as Death. His thumb swept against my cheek and my tears nearly froze from the contact. My eyes shut in response to His touch. Why isn’t He yelling at me? I must have embarrassed Him, embarrassed the other knights present. Who cries during the most important ceremony of their life? The silence between us became more and more deafening, time quickly passing since He had requested I...Surely, He does not expect that I look at Him, the King.

His lips ceased Their movement, as if waiting for me to respond. Just as I started to go mad from the silence, as small gasp stirred up from my own mouth. His hand lifted my face by the chin and I met his eyes, not having quick enough reflexes to look away or to look down. His eyes were so pink they seemed unreal-- breathtaking cherry blossoms that glimmered the brighter He smiled.

“There we are.”