King

Here he sits bored. King and some say prophet. He does not know. He knows he sits and sighs with thoughts of stars and charts. He wishes anything to be out on the sea in the sky. In his youth, a conqueror. How times change. Now he sits and becomes fat on foods he doesn't know the name of. Perhaps credit should be given where it ought. He wouldn't be sitting in relative peace had it not been for his conquests as a lad and the triumph of his warriors. Certainly not the good old days, but nostalgia has a way of making it seem that way. Anxiety is remembered as excitement. He could use some excitement. Perhaps he ought to stretch out his bow arm. He stands, stretches then pouts. Where was that bow again?

"My King, you seem lost," speaks a voice across from him. Normally such casual and direct discourse would upset him, if the speaker would be anyone other than his Queen. But the Queen it was, gilded with the finest golds and skin pure of any blemish.

"Wife, I am lost." He gestures toward one of the attendants at once, the one he usually spars with he thinks. Why did they wear these uniforms again? And why did they all seem like the same man with shaved heads and no beards. He strokes his own. "Bow." he spoke. The man bows and leaves backwards as is custom. He wonders how anyone could walk backwards for such a long distance without once looking.

"What a simple man you are today, My King." The Queen hides a faltering smirk. He supposes he is rather laughable at this moment. King of this part of the galaxy and at loss for his bow.

"My Queen. I desire air. Care to join me?" He is still standing. She inclines her head. He is pleased with her agreement, perhaps he is not the only one who is bored. She rises and looks something of a lioness sauntering toward a point of interest. He admits a small fear of her as dazzling as she is. They were a fearsome duo in memory. She from a wandering tribe of ferocious blades-men of the Isles of broken moons, he from the desert planet of ancient princes. The attendant presents his bow. He takes it, examining it. It glows ever slightly at his touch. Metal from those very moons his bride hails. It was a gift if he recalls on their wedding day. From it bears a resemblance of disuse in recent memory, but like a child looking upon a beloved toy he once played with regularly he strokes the grain and scuffs. Was the nick because he foolishly dropped it during training one day or was it because he used it as a shield during a rather intense battle? He could not recall.

"It is a rather quiet morning," states the Queen as they walk toward their playground, attendants following at a respectable distance. "I suppose I should be grateful. It has not been easy keeping the quiet."

"Yes, of course you are right." The King knows what she meant. Memories of blood and anguish cross his thoughts. It has been years since the Battle of the Republic and the Kingdom. It has been years of quarreling in counsel rooms and public debates. It has been only recently they reached an impasse only held by a lazy embargo no one really enforces. Still, he itches to do something. Court affairs are tepid at best, and neither one of them is used to being a glorified administrator. They arrive at the archery range in short order, eager to do anything other than sit. The King rolls his shoulders and takes an arrow to notch it rather tensely. He groans, has it been that long?

His Queen ever a dear approaches, but he is disappointed when she does not offer a massage to his aching shoulders. Rather she takes one of the soldier's training bows and fires a shot herself. Her form is calm and her aim a streamline toward the center of the target, she releases. She misses. It is off center by only a few inches, but the King knows her better. He barks a small laugh and she hits him softly when he releases his own notched arrow causing him to miss his target entirely.

"Sore loser are we?" he asks knowing the answer. The Queen twitches her nose and should the attendants have been anywhere else he knew she would have stuck her tongue out like a spoiled child. He takes another arrow and fires, he also misses center by a few inches. Pouting he can almost hear her exuberant laughter from the glean in her eye as he catches her gaze. It hasn't been that long since he shot a bow, but the evidence speaks otherwise.

"We've both been out of practice it seems, my King." He relents as she sighs. This time she gestures to her attendant asking her to schedule a wake up call. He half listens as she delegates something or other speaking 'it unbecoming of a queen to be so lazy.' He sighs, at least she tries to do something about their state in life. He simply waits. Waiting for anything to happen.

She prattles, which is unusual. He wonders when they became prattlers of all things. Idleness begs for gossip he supposes. His thoughts are interrupted.

"My King," speaks the Queen. Her eyes are alight with a fire he did not see in a while. "Your attendant speaks."

He turns to see one of his appointed attendants sweating at the brow looking gaunt. "Well?" speaks the King.

"Sire, the Republic has begun an embargo," he mutters. The king resists to role his eyes, he knows this.

"And what of it, lad? We've been in an embargo for years," the king blurts. Since when did he blurt? The lad doesn't look placated, rather he bows an apology but continues.

"Yes my king, but they've never enforced it-" he says bowing once more perhaps surprised at his own boldness, "-until now."

The king fires another shot just as his attendant finishes but he does not look to see the result as his eyes are on the poor boy still bowed in front of him. The king stills. The attendants are gossiping now with their whispers hardly hidden under murmurs. He gestures toward his Queen in silence, the attendants quiet themselves immediately. He speaks to the lad before him. "Get my coat, and the queen's while you're at it." The lad leaves with one more bow and quickly backwards without missing a beat.

The Queen merely places the bow back into the hands of the soldier she borrowed it from. The King also returns his own bow by attendant. No sooner he receives his coat as though the attendants knew something was going to happen, or perhaps they too were prepared out of boredom. He doesn't care. The Queen, also ready meets his gaze, fire ablaze. She mutters something to him and he smiles pompously. They walk briskly towards the exit of their palace. He is a lad again ready for battle, and she his lioness her words ringing in his ear. Nice shot.