The King and the Bee
There was once a king who was much hated. He was not tyrannical or selfish. He was not unjust or faithless. The only explaination for his unpopularity might be on account of his age, for the king was little more than a boy, for all his wisdom. He did his best to placate his foes and to win friends, but no matter what he did or said, he found no respite from the rancor.
One day, while contemplating his sorry state, a simple bee flew into his chamber and alighted on the back of his hand, so casually outstreched at the time. At first, the boy did not notice the visitor. Gradually, he became aware of the creature and started with dismay, for he was deathly allergic to the sting of such beasts.
"Are you some assassin sent by my myriad enemies?" He questioned direly. "Or perhaps a manifestation of the hatred cultivated against me?" He wondered.
"I am no assassin, my Lord, for you see, I am a Queen myself," the small bee responded. "And am equally no manifestation, for I bear you no ill will."
The boy king marveled greatly, for it had been many years since he had met one who bore no secret ire toward him.
"Would you ever consider me a friend, small queen?" He asked, his heart welling with hope.
"You strike me as kind and noble, fair king," the bee responded. "I would like very much to be your friend."
And so the king found companionship in the Queen bee. Each day grew less unbearable, until the boy began to smile once more. He leapt from his bed in the morning and kept a favorable disposition, no matter what vitrol was thrown at him by his court.
The boy and the bee found that they shared a great many interests, and the King grew to love the bee exceedingly, even calling her "my Queen," for he had no human counterpart.
But, as seasons passed, the King found his Queen growing more distracted, more distant. He feared the loss of so close a friend, and felt himself exceedingly unworthy of the affection she had showed him in the past. What sort of friend was he, to let her suffer under a private burden? And so he resolved to confront her on the matter at once.
But their meeting that day was not to take place. She sent her regards, but explained that she could not meet with him on that day. The next day, a similar message was left, and the same on the day after that.
The King grew greatly anxious and depressed as his Queen's emotional distance transformed itself into a physical distance. The King began to blame himself for the bee's troubles, loathing himself far greater than any of his foes might.
It was in such a state that the Queen bee flew into his chamber one day, and landed on the back of his hand, once more.
"Why do you pine, my King?" she asked.
"I feel that I have driven you from me," he responded, "and you are more dear to me than even my life."
"I... understand," she responded, haltingly. "And... I am sorry."
"For what-" the King began, cutting off as he felt the Queen's stinger pierce his skin, her venom pumping into his bloodstream. Without a word, the bee flew out of his life, leaving no explainations to those left behind.
As the poison coursed through his body, the King sat stock still, twin trails of tears weeping over his flushed cheeks.
"Why?" the King asked of the empty air. And, in his pain, the King grew very wrathful.
"I showed her every consideration, every kindness!" he stormed, his tears not lessening for his anger. "How could she betray and abandon me thus? I will...! I will..." The King fumbled in his wounded declaration.
"I will destroy everything she holds dear, dooming all that she loves, even as she has doomed me!"
But, as the poison ran into his heart, the King sat back down with a heavy realization.
For he saw that love had done this to him. He had long hid behind friendship without ever truely considering his love for her, and hers for him. And love, he saw, was a madness of sorts, a contagious thing that seizes the mind and vanishes as quickly as it came.
The dying king knew he could have no revenge, for the woman who he loved no longer lived. She had died quietly one day, and another had taken her place.
And what revenge might he visit upon a stranger? Indeed, it was no surprise to have been stung by this new Queen, for was the boy not hated by All?
So, the King concluded, his breath coming in fractured gasps, perhaps it was best this way. For what is life without your Queen? And the boy king died, his wounded hand clutching his chest, just over his poisoned heart.
One day, while contemplating his sorry state, a simple bee flew into his chamber and alighted on the back of his hand, so casually outstreched at the time. At first, the boy did not notice the visitor. Gradually, he became aware of the creature and started with dismay, for he was deathly allergic to the sting of such beasts.
"Are you some assassin sent by my myriad enemies?" He questioned direly. "Or perhaps a manifestation of the hatred cultivated against me?" He wondered.
"I am no assassin, my Lord, for you see, I am a Queen myself," the small bee responded. "And am equally no manifestation, for I bear you no ill will."
The boy king marveled greatly, for it had been many years since he had met one who bore no secret ire toward him.
"Would you ever consider me a friend, small queen?" He asked, his heart welling with hope.
"You strike me as kind and noble, fair king," the bee responded. "I would like very much to be your friend."
And so the king found companionship in the Queen bee. Each day grew less unbearable, until the boy began to smile once more. He leapt from his bed in the morning and kept a favorable disposition, no matter what vitrol was thrown at him by his court.
The boy and the bee found that they shared a great many interests, and the King grew to love the bee exceedingly, even calling her "my Queen," for he had no human counterpart.
But, as seasons passed, the King found his Queen growing more distracted, more distant. He feared the loss of so close a friend, and felt himself exceedingly unworthy of the affection she had showed him in the past. What sort of friend was he, to let her suffer under a private burden? And so he resolved to confront her on the matter at once.
But their meeting that day was not to take place. She sent her regards, but explained that she could not meet with him on that day. The next day, a similar message was left, and the same on the day after that.
The King grew greatly anxious and depressed as his Queen's emotional distance transformed itself into a physical distance. The King began to blame himself for the bee's troubles, loathing himself far greater than any of his foes might.
It was in such a state that the Queen bee flew into his chamber one day, and landed on the back of his hand, once more.
"Why do you pine, my King?" she asked.
"I feel that I have driven you from me," he responded, "and you are more dear to me than even my life."
"I... understand," she responded, haltingly. "And... I am sorry."
"For what-" the King began, cutting off as he felt the Queen's stinger pierce his skin, her venom pumping into his bloodstream. Without a word, the bee flew out of his life, leaving no explainations to those left behind.
As the poison coursed through his body, the King sat stock still, twin trails of tears weeping over his flushed cheeks.
"Why?" the King asked of the empty air. And, in his pain, the King grew very wrathful.
"I showed her every consideration, every kindness!" he stormed, his tears not lessening for his anger. "How could she betray and abandon me thus? I will...! I will..." The King fumbled in his wounded declaration.
"I will destroy everything she holds dear, dooming all that she loves, even as she has doomed me!"
But, as the poison ran into his heart, the King sat back down with a heavy realization.
For he saw that love had done this to him. He had long hid behind friendship without ever truely considering his love for her, and hers for him. And love, he saw, was a madness of sorts, a contagious thing that seizes the mind and vanishes as quickly as it came.
The dying king knew he could have no revenge, for the woman who he loved no longer lived. She had died quietly one day, and another had taken her place.
And what revenge might he visit upon a stranger? Indeed, it was no surprise to have been stung by this new Queen, for was the boy not hated by All?
So, the King concluded, his breath coming in fractured gasps, perhaps it was best this way. For what is life without your Queen? And the boy king died, his wounded hand clutching his chest, just over his poisoned heart.
posted by Jonc0re at
3:38 PM
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