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Once upon a time, there was a kingdom in need. Though powerful for centuries, it fell into decline as the winters grew harsher, and the harvests less bountiful. Surplus dwindled, and loans soon turned to debts, and to the sorrow of the King, his kingdom could be no more.
Neighboring kingdoms descended upon the land, their sovereigns demanding payment for their generosity. And so piece by piece the Pauper King sold off his fortune. First his gold and jewels. Then his silks and velvet. The livestock, the grainery, the bakeries, the silversmiths, the armories. The line of Kings he was indebted too was long, and his pockets grew even thinner.
The last King to visit was from a prosperous kingdom in the West. Delayed by a storm, his carriage arrived as the other monarchs had taken their fill. He walked into the castle, sending the Pauper King into a frenzy. The man fell off his wooden throne to his knees, and begged.
“Kind King, my debt to you is great, but I was unable to keep your share from the vultures.” He cried. “All I have left is a small patch of land.”
This was, of course, unacceptable. The King became upset, unsure of how to deal with a man so poor that his throne was merely splinters. And that was when a tiny voice spoke up.
“There is still me, my good King.”
There, behind the two, stood a beautiful young princess--
(“Can it be a prince?”)
(“Of course, little one”)
A beautiful young prince stood. He was dressed in rags, his fine silks traded off to pay the debts, and his hair was unkempt, but he was still the most beautiful man the King had ever seen. One look at those eyes as clear as the sky, and hair like soft spin gold, and he was sold. The Pauper King would not hear of it.
“My son is my world. Priceless. No debt is great enough to sell him off.”
But the Prince stepped between them, and kissed his father on the cheek. Their rival king would not leave without his payment, and the Prince knew this meant he would leave with him. Reluctantly, the Pauper King handed over the deed to the patch of land, as well as his only son.
The two returned to their new home, and held a joyous wedding, but the King was concerned. His new husband was shy and quiet. Not a kiss had passed between them since their wedding, and the King felt lonesome. He had his prince, but not his heart.
He set off to find something to win the Prince’s favor, sending knights to scour the kingdom for something irreplaceable. One returned with a rare orchid, which the King placed by the Prince’s bedside. But the Prince did not love him back. Another knight presented the Prince with the most elaborately embroidered silk he had ever seen, but still, the Prince did not love the king.
And so came a long line of gifts. Things found or made by lords and craftsmen alike in the hopes of a great reward to whomever presented the gift that would win the Prince’s heart. The King began to grow worrisome, each new gift taking up more space in his castle, until it was bursting at the seams.
Then one night, long after the parade of well wishers had left their offerings upon the floor, a knock came at the castle door. The King answered, and in hobbled a tiny beggar. His back was hunched and his clothes were rags, his hood pulled up to protect his haggard face from the rain. In his hands he held a lump of wood, crudely carved into the vague shape of a horse. For a child it would have been impressive, but for a man it was an awfully crafted bauble. Still, the King took it in his hands, examined it carefully and with a patient eye, and spoke to the beggar.
“This is a fine gift, and I hope it wins favor from my precious husband.”
The man bowed, and turned to leave the castle. The King felt a stone in the pit of his stomach as he saw the rain pour outside.
“Good sir, do not leave just yet.” He said. He fished out a warm cloak from the pile of offerings, and called for a servant to bring a plate out. “Please stay until you've had your fill. And take whatever may help you.”
The Prince, awoken by the commotion of a late night guest in the castle, ventured to where the King stood. He saw the beggar man, and the King offer him his home.
“What is this?” The Prince asked, looking over the scene. The King turned, and showed the Prince the little wooden horse, and the Prince’s eyes lit up in recognition.
“Father?”
The King turned to the beggar, who had since removed his hood. It was indeed the Pauper King, worn haggard by the plight of poverty. His hair was unkempt and his eyes wet with tears, but it was him. It was clear to the King that he had walked hundreds of miles to see his son once more, with the cherished toy horse the Prince had made him as a child tucked beneath his arm.
The Prince sobbed and threw his arms around his father, the two overjoyed to be reunited. The Prince then turned to his husband, throwing his arms around him to kiss him deeply. The King had offered their home to a beggar, unaware of his true identity. He had proven to the Prince the goodness of his heart, and the willingness to give back for all he took. And in return, he had won his husband’s heart.
Lawrence closed the book and placed it on the nightstand. “Come now, aren't you tired yet?” He asked. George wiggled beneath the quilt on his bed.
“No.” He said quietly. “Not until Papa reads me his story.” Lawrence sighed, his palms smoothing the dark black silk of his jacket.
“George, he won't be reading to you anymore. There's a reason why we all wore black today. Papa died, little one. Death stops us from reading stories.” George sat up in bed, eyes wet.
“But why couldn't I go see Papa?” He said. “Did he not want me there?” George wasn't completely clueless. He had heard his mother yell through the walls at his father only the night before. Yelled at him for reading one too many stories, along with a long torturous list of why she was unhappy with him. That morning the servants dressed him in black and told him the news, but George was barred from entering the carriage with his mother and brother.
“Was it my fault?”
Lawrence's mouth pinched into a frown, and he reached into his jacket for a flask. He fiddled with it, not really ready to drink from it, as he searched for the words. “Papa died of a broken heart. He was an old man who loved those around him very dearly. And when you love that hard, fighting wounds the soul. You did nothing wrong, little one. You will find actions more poisonous in this family than asking for another bedtime story.”
George sniffled quietly. “Will we wear black forever?”
“No, sweet child. This will pass. Death brings new colors and new kings.”
“Who will be king?”
“I shall!”
George giggled at this. “Lawrence, you can't be king. You're not old! You don't have whiskers like Papa either.” Lawrence puffed out his chest, and stroked his non existent beard.
“Hmmm.” He bellowed. “I think I shall remain clean shaven. Less itchy.” He threw a wink at George. “One day, when you're not six, you’ll have whiskers too and realize how itchy and awful they are.” Lawrence leaned over to tickle George’s chin.
“No, it's itchy!”
The two settled, and another thought popped into George's head. “You're choosing new colors? We're not wearing white like Papa?” Lawrence nodded, this time opening his flask.
“Oh yes. New colors to show we are a strong and healthy kingdom.” He said, taking a short sip from the flask. George watched him wince at the taste.
“I miss Papa’s colors.” He whispered. His mother warned him not to cry, but with Lawrence it felt safe, and a few tears rolled down his fat little cheeks. Lawrence wiped them away with a gentle hand.
“Tell you what. What if we didn't leave him behind?” He tapped the book on the bedside. “Papa gave you this, yes? So let's use it. When the court asks me what our colors shall be, I will stand proud and proclaim blue and gold. Just like the fair prince in the story.”
George felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach. No one ever listened to him, but here was his brother--his new king -- involving him in the naming of something that will be hung on banners and castles. In weddings and at war. The essence of their kingdom.
“Mother hates stories--”
“So we know mother won't catch on. What do you say?”
George smiled. “I like blue and gold.”
Lawrence laughed, and took another sip of his flask. “As do I.” George raised a brow as Lawrence winced again.
“Can I try some?”
His brother laughed. “No, little one. Too strong before bed.” But George pouted, his arms crossed over his chest in a way he knew softened his brother’s heart. Lawrence mulled it over.
“A few drops in your juice won't kill you. But hush.”
George tried to remember the joy he felt during his brother’s coronation. The cathedral draped in blue and gold, Lawrence wrapped up in it like a God, the crown they placed upon his brow. He was strong and triumphant. A Good King.
He tried to remember that as the fighting began once more with his mother. He treasured the colors they picked as he was sent to the military, no older than twelve. He didn't want to believe it when he was awoken one morning and instructed to wear black.
But the colors stayed true, and though black mourning is temporary it comes often. George was overjoyed when it came to claim his mother, and the day came for him to stand in the same spot as Lawrence and accept his crown. They wrapped him in blue and gold, and placed that glorious crown upon his head.
And he led a glorious and prosperous kingdom. One that warred and won, expanding exponentially. This new war was just another conquer, and his arrival would be brief. He would take his winnings, and leave.
But the King he found was a stubborn rival in ruins, his lands already in George's possession by the time he stormed the castle. There was nothing more this man could give. Not even his kin, who had died by the sword or by illness in the quiet of night. Until…
“Your Excellency. We have something for you. A monk who seemed rather anxious to leave.”
They held a candle to the face of a man George had seen in his dreams. A young man with eyes clear as the sky, and hair soft as spun gold. His hair was unkempt, and he wore rough ragged monk’s robes. But he was fair, and beautiful, and George was sold.
“Holy, holy, holy.”