Silently, Fluin passed the sword to Harith, for his
inspection.
“Beautifully balanced,” was his laconic comment.
“What must we do with it?” asked Steppan, turning to Fluin,
“It’s yours, now.”
“Mine?” said Fluin, sharply, suddenly concerned, “I don’t
want it! I don’t want to be king!” He thought of how he’d been the happiest
since he could remember over the last few days.
He thought about his new-found powers, of the simple pleasures of
singing and meditation and magic—and love.
He didn’t want to wear a crown.
He didn’t want to be alone again, and somehow he knew that a king is
always truly alone, unable to uncover his true friends out of the entourage of
hypocrites and sycophants.
“I don’t want it!” he repeated, “I’m not the bearer!” He was angered by his sense that he was wrong
to avoid his duty, that he truly had no choice, if the empire was to be spared
disaster.
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