A Preparation

The king lay back across his throne, goblet in hand. A low flame danced lightly in the hearth at his foot. Near the fire, a lowly minstrel bent over his harp.

The king, with a grin splattered across his face, exclaimed, “Need a king concern himself with the opinions of those who did not crown him?”

The minstrel let loose a single chord, bright and true.

“A crown may fall, milord.”

“And so what if it may fall?”

“Then pray that those who did not crown thee wait near, for they alone can lift the crown from the mire, and hand it back.”

A solemn look passed over the king’s face. “No.” He stated firmly.

“She alone crowned me and she alone determines whether the crown rises or falls. No human can take what she has given and no crown will stay on those she deems unworthy. For as long as I stay right with her, no obstacles shall exist that can stop a king, and I will not be shaken.”