The prince wandered a hallway lined with paintings, not knowing what to do in the face of his father's might. Tomorrow he was to be king, to ascent the throne, to take control.
He looked at the portraits of kings, all strong and sturdy, their eyes piercing, jaws set, fond of the homeland. He wasn't like them, he felt an anchor tying him to the land. He should do the kingdom a favor and stall his succession until he was worthy. He heard an animal neigh outside.
He looked at the painting to his right, the one of his father gazing down with pride. A wise man, and a good king. Yes, his father would understand.
****
Jak bowed before the King, his father, sitting on the throne in all his glory. His robes red, the color of his family; crown gold, the color of authority; and his sword sharp; a symbol to their strength.
"My king I am the heir to the throne, and it is my duty to wear the crown next. But with my authority as the Heir, I ask you to delay my ascension"
"No," said the King
"My king, please be practical, I'm not ready. I would not make a good king, not yet. I ask you delay my ascension"
The King shook his head.
"Father I beg you, I'm only sixteen, I don't want to be king"
The King gave him a stern look.
"It is tradition, my son. What do you think makes us kings? what do you think holds everything together? what do you think it is that holds back chaos? Tradition. It gives us rules and it holds us accountable. And so our citizens trust us"
The King touched his robe, "Trust that our family will serve the kingdom" Family
The King touched his sword, "Trust that the King will be strong enough to protect it" Strength
The King touched his crown, "Trust that the King will rule." Authority
"That is why you must be king or tradition burns, and the kingdom with it"
The Crown, The Robe, and The Sword. Three anchors that bound him.
The Prince took a deep breath. He will have power. But responsibility for a kingdom. He bowed to the King and took his leave. His throat ached.
He looked out a window and he saw a stallion in the distance. It beckoned him. Ready to gallop.
But The Prince was bound. His anchors pulled him back, grounding him.
He went to his room and laid down on his bed. Tomorrow he will be king. The anchors were heavy. Sleep was light.
****
Morning arrived.
He put on his robe, red like his father's. Family. It was tight and it was hard to breathe in.
He sheathed his sword, sharp like his fathers. Strength. He wasn't even strong enough to delay his ascension.
He held his crown, gold like his fathers. Authority. What kind of king would he be? not able to convince his own father.
Three anchors. The Crown, The Robe, and The Sword; heavy, suffocating, painful.
Crack
He threw his crown on the ground. He ripped off his robe and stabbed it with his sword.
He pulled on a shirt, hid his face with a hat, and left everything else behind.
He jumped out a window and saw the stallion, still beckoning him to come and ride.
He hopped on and urged it to gallop.
He turned around and thought he saw fire.
Tradition burns and the Kingdom with it
The trade was made. Freedom for tradition.
But his anchors were gone and with it remorse.
