It must be difficult, he considered, for a man to live under the shadows of his forebearers, much less ancestors, than the figures of the Magorians whose mettle was the stuff of legends. And here he was, Damyen’s King in a keep built countless aeons ago by the greatest peoples that had ever lived.
            He bore such pressure well. It becomes him.
            Damyen had met the King but once, when he was but a little boy, and a little brat at that. Even less to look upon. Now he stood, as tall as any statue, just as sturdy, just as strong, a rigid, unstoppable force. He wore black, as was his ancestor’s custom, a velvet doublet of pointed shoulders and large upper arms which narrowed at the lower arm, tightly fitting, all with a silver trim and the image of an owl on the chest. A black cloak much the sae with the high boots polished to a sheen and breeches that were also thicker at the upper leg. A man could dress himself in the finest livery however, but that would make him no more of a man, it was all in His Majesty’s face.
            A fine trail of a beard surrounded his thin lips set in a straight line and over a prominent chin with a nose that fit as perfectly as if it had been placed there by an artist. His face was gaunt and pale with the last vestiges of grief. His hair, like his beard was a rich brown colour, with the hint of autumn red, although parted, though it curved over his forehead, with small locks falling close to his eyes, the greenest eyes that ever were. It was small wonder that the lords of the realm flocked about this young man.
             It took Damyen some time to respond, longer than he ought, as the King’s lips coiled round.
            “Your King asked you a question.” He murmered, his voice was low yet it carried.
            Damyen immediately fell to his knees.
            “Apologies, Your Majesty.” He looked up as the King ascended to his throne. Before he sat down however, he held out his hand and the owl swooped over to the arm of the throne. He took his place, his back rigid as a hand went straight to stroking the birds feathers.
            “You are forgiven.” Though it was as if he was not talking to Damyen.
            “I...” Damyen had forgotten why he had come. He fumbled for the words, grasped at them like trying to pick the stars at night but he could not get a hold. Never had he felt so humbled as he did now.
            “My Lord of Drayvon, if you will not speak, then permit me?” King Leon asked, yet it was no question.
            “Indeed My King.” Damyen looked down again.
            “Then I shall begin with saying, please stand.” Damyen did so. He was utterly powerless here. “Next, let me welcome you to Louena, this city is made greater by your arrival.” He finished there.
            “You honour me, Your Majesty.” He knew it was a simple courtesy, yet he still believed it. “But I did have something to bring to your attention, if I may ask it?”Damyen kept his head bowed.
            “You may.”
            “It concerns my late son, Captain Damyen.” It had been so long, yet the grief still held him.

The End

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