Heavy is the Head that Wears the Solemn Crown

Nine - Inhuman

Wilbur

Wilbur was not where he was supposed to be. He was meant to be in his tent where the royal guards could protect him with their lives. He should have been reading reports and signing off on documents that would make the war effort easier on his people. He knew that was a top priority, obviously. Even a blind man could see how the war was impacting the people of Pogtopia and Manberg negatively. Every report Wilbur received about their suffering paled in comparison to what he witnessed when he ventured to the infirmary. He had even gone to a nearby village earlier that day. Despite being far from the frontlines, the village was having an economic crisis. There were no merchants to sell them goods, and all the viable hunters had volunteered for the war. In fact, Wilbur hardly saw a parent. It was mostly the elders of the village gathering the children together with the few adults who were so injured or sickly they couldn't walk. Wilbur wanted to inspire hope in his people, but their tired stares that lacked emotion or food told him they didn't want empty promises. Wilbur wished it wasn't a promise, but he had lived long enough to know that wishes didn't mean a damn thing in the grand scheme of things.

Instead of doing his best to solve these issues, Wilbur had walked the winding staircase to the very top of the ravine where his people made their headquarters. He stood at the very top of the ravines' edges, staring at the sky instead of down at the people who swore to fight for him and would probably die by that same oath. He was exposed, his body waiting for an arrow to pierce his flesh. He had foolishly not brought a guard with him, though he suspected one followed him anyway. He was alone at the top of the ravine, and he was stargazing.

Well, he wasn't stargazing. He was looking at the sky, but he could care less what stars were blinking in and out of his field of vision. He just needed the fresh air. The ravine was stuffy with all those people's body heats. Not to mention, with how many fires they had going to keep people warm, the smoke was a little suffocating. The ravine was wide enough for the smog to rise above the edges of the ravine, but it was tighter than the average canyon. All of that could be tolerated, however. Wilbur could deal with the heat. No, the real issue is that he disliked being surrounded by people when he was so alone. With each battle, less people were coming back. The list of those who were dead or had gone missing was becoming staggeringly large. It made Wilbur sick to his stomach, especially when he could put a face to the names written on those papers.

Wilbur was a king, but he didn't see himself as a cruel one. He tried to understand his people in order to make the most informed decisions about what was best for them. He was the subject of their reverie and respect. He had to live up to this conjured ideal that the people made him out to be. If he didn't, he would only foster rebellion in his subjects. If they suspected him of being a horrible king, he would sooner see their enmity than their love. And animosity meant a loss in power, and without power, Wilbur was little more than a brightly painted target. Wilbur had to balance the act of being what his people needed and what the aristocrats wanted.

In doing this, he walked a fine line between being close to his people while remaining distant enough. It wasn't like he didn't understand why there were rules of etiquette that the nobility liked to follow. He knew that as a king he was meant to take their veneration. He knew that with political power came prestige. Some people were meant to be treated with the utmost respect which included all those fancy titles and ways of addressing each other. Wilbur wasn't going to put that into question. What made him slightly upset is that he could hardly see the perspectives of his people. He could hardly leave the castle without the threat of assassins hanging over his head like the blade of a guillotine hung on a thin thread instead of a sturdy rope.

Another problem was that his people didn't treat him like he was human. That was a fair assessment. An ordinary human couldn't handle the affairs of an entire country with as cleverness and stability as Wilbur did. Still, he sometimes felt human emotions, and that must have counted for something. He was afraid of magic, and he experienced grief over his parents' deaths. That must have counted for something. But perhaps it was how the rest of his emotions had been put on the backburner for so long that he hardly recognized them. Wilbur was the figurehead and spirit of L'Manberg. When the country was prospering, he was happy. When it was torn apart by war, he was upset. He did not experience happiness or anguish outside of his people's general sentiments. Such was the way of a good king.