The King’s Dream

The soothsayer lead the Bishop up to the tower on the East side of the castle, the only tower that remained in the old castle after 500 hundred years of withstanding time and battles. The soothsayer quickly ushered the Bishop in, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him. He lit a few candles on the sconces that were aligned along the wall were it was bare from the many tapestries that hung heavily on the walls. The soothsayer would excuse the excess of these odd tapestries as to keep the draft out. One couldn’t argue as the room was cozy once he lit the fire. As the the room grew steadily warm, it became even more friendlier.

“I believe the King is having these not so pleasant dreams and he himself cannot understand why,” the soothsayer broke the Bishop’s trance.

“Oh, yes, yes,” the Bishop agreed. “What kind of dreams would you say?”

“Dreams about the future maybe,” the soothsayer said, “though, I do not think he understand what he sees. His father had them during his time as his grandfather did too.”

“Is that so?” The Bishop had not met the King’s father as the late King had been killed in battle along with three of his sons, that was before he became the King’s advisor. “What should we do?”

“For now,” the soothsayer said, “nothing. We wait.”

The Bishop pressed his forefinger against his lips. “May I inquire the dream his father had?”

“It was one dream,” the soothsayer began, “He refuse to tell me about the dream because it made him unhappy. He had me fix him concoctions to keep him awake. It never worked, no matter how long he stayed awake that dream would creep in, like an old familiar ghost. Do you recall how the late King died?”

“Yes, yes,” the Bishop said, “he died in battle along with his three sons.”

“That was the dream that did not pacify his thoughts” the soothsayer said. “As that day grew closer the dream became even more real for the King. He tried to convince his sons from entering that battle, but when he heard they had not obeyed him, he went after them. By the time he came to save them, it was too late. Before he could turn back an arrow from out of nowhere pierced his chest followed by four more arrows. He did not wish to be taken away and leave his sons, whom he could see lying dead on the ground from where he sat bleeding. One of his guards that was by his sides heard the King say that this was his dream.”

“That was not good,” the Bishop lowered his head.

The soothsayer could only shake his head. The late King did not listen to him, believing he could outsmart his dream. His father, the Old King, had been the same, did not want to believe the dream was anything but a dream.

“I only heard stories of the late King,” the Bishop said. “From what I was told the late King was highly reactionary, opposing any reforms that limited his autocratic rule.”

“His father, the Old King, took more of a reactionary stance, less flexible than his son,” the soothsayer added. “Alas, it’s what probably got him killed.”

“And how was the Old King killed?” The Bishop was never sure what the truth was. There were so many stories about his death, some he speculated were just myths.

“He caught a chill,” the soothsayer said matter of fact. “He did not want to be treated and died four days later.”

“Did he have any dreams?” The Bishop was curious.

“He had more than the late King,” the soothsayer, “but he wasn’t superstitious, didn’t believe in fortunes from the great unknown. Even as he lay dying in bed he refuse to believe his dreams to be true prophesies.”

“Wasn’t the Old King who took you in?”

“It was,” the soothsayer, rested both his hands on top of his staff. How could he forget that?

‘If he didn’t believe in prophesies, why did he listen to yours?’ wondered the Bishop.

The soothsayer was used to the query and doubts of people’s thoughts he managed to read when he wasn’t blocking their voices out of his head. He sighed to himself. ‘He somehow trusted me’, the soothsayer thought to himself, ‘I was his most trusted advisor, but in the end, even I could not convince him any other way.

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