You Don't Want the Crown

The Story of Matuac - 4

And that is the story of how I accidentally become king.
It genuinely didn't occur to me before. I knew I wanted him gone. I knew I had to do something about it to keep my family together. I just, sort of, forgot that him being king would then in turn make ME king.
And I have no idea how to be king.
And if you think that keeping the two past queens around because they actually know how to run a country is a poor method of government, well you are completely incorrect. It is a great idea and one that I am personally fond of.
I am crowned king of Ulster at the age of fourteen. A child king in most people's eyes. But unlike my, two, illustrious predecessors, I don't plan on dying.
"Somebody is going to depose you," Morgana predicts, "They'll never let you have the crown."
"They can pry it from my cold bloody hands. This is the only way to keep you, and me, and Galin safe, and together," I inform her, as we sit in the main hall which is where Galin wanted to arrange his horses. He gets to play anywhere now; he doesn't have to be shut in his room.
"We're going to be killed," Morgana sighs.
"No, no, no, I've got this. The queens know how to—actually—run a country. I can learn. I'm still learning the sword. And the knights have to guard me think of how bad they'd feel if a third king a row got murdered," I say, looking at the portraits on the wall of past kings.
"I don't think that's a good strategy," she sighs.
"It's all I have! I'm not saying this is a great idea, Morgana, I'm saying it's the only one I'm capable of making. I won't get killed. I'm a kid they don't like killing kids."
"Elisedd was like six and they stabbed him in his bed and cut his face off."
"That's true and I was hoping you wouldn't remember that."
"Matuac! I just don't want to lose you," she sighs, tears welling in her eyes.
"You won't," I say, hugging her, "I promise. I've got this under control." I have nothing under control.
"Your Majesty here are the daggers you requested, along with a set of better ones someone with too many opinions on knives asked me to bring—oh hello little Prince you having a joust?" Is how Sir Fitzroy enters the hall, carrying daggers I asked him to bring me and apparently extra. He's Galin's favorite person for joust reasons and he's always really nice to him, so I keep him around a lot. Also he's invested in the murder of my father not being discovered.
Galin grunts happily and tugs on his coat.
"Yeah, I love your joust that's nice I'm bringing your brother something he probably shouldn't sleep with under his pillow, but not my place to say, here," he holds out a leather sheath with a dagger, "But again someone with too many opinions on knives said this—" he holds up another one, "—is gonna be more comfortable to sleep with also it's sharper."
"Oh, thank you," I didn't know I just requested a big knife, "You're dismissed—for now—I'm good, thank you."
"Thank you," Morgana nods.
"Your Majesty," he bows a bit, then leaves.
"See? Under control," I say, holding up the knives while I feel my nervous break down start.
I thought nervous break downs would be quick. And very obvious. They are not. They start with rapid breathing, followed by panic attacks of long periods of time that is we're talking days when I can't leave my room, followed by irrational thought, paranoia, and inability to speak.
Over the course of the next four years. I go from confident if a bit shy, to one step short of a raving lunatic.
Blessedly the queens are very decent about helping me with what actually needs to be done, and I sign things and preside over what I have to, and sign off on plans I don't fully understand. I have no plans of my own beyond staying alive and that preoccupies my every thought.
I hardly sleep. I eat little. I grow taller, but also I grow more gaunt. While Morgana becomes a woman I become a skeleton. Instead of sleeping I pace the halls, whispering to myself. Some days my voice catches and I can't speak to anyone. My one enjoyment is practicing sword play with the knights.
Even on my worst days they'll treat me as a normal person and let me clash swords with them, speaking or no. I break down a few times in public having uneven breathing and they have to drag me to safety. My skin is thin and pasty. I never grow a beard instead looking like a dying youth, eyes translucent, hair limp, voice faltering and still too high. In short, I'm dying, even if the only killer is myself.
I don't know strictly when I go insane. To me it's as though it happens gradually, just little things here and there.
I can't stand to wear a shirt just a heavy coat and the loosest possible trousers and even that irritates my skin. I hear whispers from the corners of the room. And I can't breath sometimes; it just feels as though I can't breath.
Every night I will clear out the throne room, and shatter glass on the stone floor. I love the sound. Then I will go lie in the shards, naked or just in trousers, and roll in it till my skin is a million little cuts. This is the only time I laugh. But I suppose I'm not completely mad. Because I know well enough to lock the door.
Morgana fears for my mind, I think. She tells me to rest. She tries to help me. I don't let her. I don't want it to get to her too.
"Tell me," she says, cradling my face in her hands, "Tell me what I can do for you?"
"Send the prettiest squire you can find to me, when I'm alone in the throne room," I say, condescendingly, patting her cheek.
I don't expect her to do it.
He comes in, clearly terrified and concerned, when he sees lying there in the shattered glass.
"Close the door," I mutter, eyes half closed. I'm finally relaxing after the day. The whispering has finally stopped.
"Your Masjety needed me?" He asks, very slowly. He is the prettiest squire, with pale hair and smooth skin with a number of freckles, pretty clear blue eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Finn, Your Majesty."
"And how old are you, Finn Your Majesty," I laugh at my own joke.
"I'll be sixteen sir."
"Good," enough. I think that's how old I am? Why does that matter? I feel like I've been alive forever.
He stands there.
"How much money would you want, to lie here with me, and put your hands on my chest?" I ask.
"Your Majesty?" He breaths quickly.
"You fucking heard me."
"I'm your subject I—,"
"Name a price, pick a good one," I scoff.
"Five silver pieces, my sister's sick she—,"
"Lie down then."
He does, very slowly, in the shattered glass. Then he slowly lays a cool hand on my bloody chest.
I breath in and out, blood on my lips from a cut on my cheek, closing my eyes as I focus on the feeling of his hand, light as a bird, on my chest.
"Sir—?"
"Shhh," I smile, "Don't you know what quiet sounds like?"
I have him return every night. I don't know what Morgana thinks we're paying him for but I don't care. I get one thing, something, for me, don't I? Isn't that supposed to stop me from going mad? Is it, potentially too late for that? I can't imagine getting worse I'd cease existing completely, wouldn't I?
I think everyone assumes I fear my father's murderer. That's true in a way. But I also fear whoever killed King Conri. I know everyone assumes it was my father, but I was there and I've been through all his papers. That's not true.
It was not him.
So who did it? That question drives me...mad.
"Who killed you?" I whisper, staring at his portrait in the hallway, "And why did you have to die?"