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Artur's teeth sunk deeply into the chicken leg, letting grease drip down the King's beard.
"How are things at the front?" His words came half gargled by his chewing and heavy breathing.
"We have yet to make the first assault, sire." Replied his advisor. "The soldiers need to be properly motivated first. Perhaps a speech would do them some good?"
He pulled himself off his seat with a huff and glared at his subject.
"Motivated? I'm their King, and they're the enemy. What more do these ungrateful peasants want? The symbol of their nation was insulted by a foreign ruler. That should be enough reason to put the Greksills to the sword."
"I understand you may know very well of our rivalry, but they do not. For many, the Greksills are neighbors and relatives. Remembering why they are fighting would do them good, sire."
"Useless!" With practiced grace, the advisor side-stepped Artur's path out of the tent. "Always something with these people. If my father were in power, I'd have problem solvers, not more demands."
After careful composure, Artur assumed the persona of a good and noble man. The mask had done him well in covering many a scandal. Two squires helped the King onto his horse, whining softly at the weight on its back.
One of the squires handed the King his sword, not that he had ever used it.
As Artur looked over the crowd of squalid farmers, breadmakers, and carpenters, he had to turn away to hide his disgust. How dare they fail to see the glory in their mission? This was why the Gods put these miserable creatures on this plane. Their deaths would be inscribed for future generations to marvel upon. Certainly, that was better than their dull existences toiling in the fields for copper pieces.
"My subjects!" Artur began, his voice bellowing. "Your enemies are at the door, waiting to take what is yours and disgrace your pride. Their King, a selfish and greedy tyrant, has attacked me and, in turn, has struck all of you. Your sons and daughters will reflect on this day as your moment of triumph. I could find no better subjects across all the isles, nations, and seas. Together, we reclaim our honor and prove ourselves as a people to be feared and respected!"
A cheer rose from a great many, but some remained sullen. He noted their faces to ensure they were placed on the front lines.
"Let us pray." Artur waited for the people's heads to bow and cursed that more were loyal to their divine powers than him. "Dear Domiel, Mercy Bringer, we ask you to have gentle hands upon the souls of our fallen and let the ends of our enemies be swift. This battle is dedicated to your honor, champion of compassion. In your name, we pray, amen."
Sitting atop his horse on a nearby hill, Artur had a perfect view of the battle lines below. His soldiers were preparing their formations, and the enemies were doing the same. There seemed to be even numbers on both sides, but as long as the battle deterred others from daring to insult him again, this could be called a victory.
"Is there anything we can do about that damn glare?" Artur moaned, covering his eyes from a sun shining brighter than usual.
In a blaze of light, a figure twice the size of any man appeared before the King. As brilliantly gold as the crown on his head and with a sword stowed at his side, Domiel stood radiant before Artur.
"Lord Domiel! You've come to see my victory! I am honored."
"I am not." The hand of the celestial reached out to take Artur's wrist, and in a flash, they were both gone.
Artur blinked, seeing before him the army of his enemies and their King similarly bewildered. The lines of soldiers had not clashed yet, and both looked expectantly upon their Lords. Domiel stood to the side, a look of disappointment evident on his face.
"You two have a quarrel," Domiel said, "If blood is to be spilled, it should be yours."
Each of the kings had a sword at their side, and each looked to the other to draw first. Without men to die in his stead, Artur found no reason for blood to be shed over such a minor offense. So too, did the other King seem to desire to live another day. Each ruler returned to their people with a scar on their pride, a wound from Domiel's sword.
No citizen rushed to their King's aid. And after that day, neither nation saw a need for Kings anymore.