A King No Longer

All beings, be they great or small, have one thing in common: they all sleep. Even the primordial beings and the divine.

Far beyond the reach of time, a time before the Great Divide, there was only one fae kingdom, and it was ruled by a single, benevolent king. He was a man of warmth and kindness, his laughter the light and his mercy the rain that nurtured his people. Yet, for all his joy and wisdom, he carried an emptiness in his heart, for he had no child to call his own.

The king possessed a rare gift: the power of song. His voice could shape the very fabric of reality, weaving dreams into existence. But though he had crafted wonders and built a kingdom of harmony, he had never been able to sing a child into being. For all his gifts, he could not give himself what he desired most—a daughter.

One winter’s night, a vagrant came through the palace gates, a shadow of a man, thin as a whisper, shivering beneath the frostbitten sky. He pleaded for warmth and shelter. The king, as kind as ever, took the man in and draped his own green cloak over his shoulders. The vagrant, humbled, thanked him and begged for food and drink. With a smile, the king drew a great breath and sang a feast into existence, filling the hall with the scent of honeyed bread and spiced wine.

As they dined, the vagrant marvelled at the king’s power. He asked many questions, and the king, ever generous, answered them all. But when the vagrant asked, “Where is your child? Surely a heart as grand as yours must have an heir,” the king’s smile faltered. With sorrow in his voice, he admitted he had none.

“Have you tried to sing her into being?” the vagrant inquired.

“I have tried,” the king confessed. “But my voice does not carry love the way a father should. My song alone is not enough.”

A gleam flickered in the vagrant’s eye, a knowing look that spoke of truths beyond mortal wisdom. He leaned forward, his voice hushed. “Then let us make her from you, for she must be of your own flesh.”

The king hesitated, but longing gnawed at him. He had shaped mountains, rivers, and stars, yet he had never felt the touch of his own flesh and blood. Slowly, he nodded. The vagrant, solemn in his purpose, took up an axe and raised it high. With one swift stroke, he split the king asunder.

Where once there had been one, now there were two. One half of the king, healing as though no wound had ever touched him, stood trembling. The other half reshaped itself, forming something new—a child with bright, curious eyes and hair spun from a golden sky. She opened her mouth, and from her lips poured the gentlest of lullabies, as though she had always been singing, always waiting to be born.

The king fell to his knees, his heart swelling with love and gratitude. But as he reached for her, a great weight settled upon him. He was weakened, not whole as he once was. The act had drained him, his essence unravelling like the last note of a fading song, a song that was now frozen, cold, indifferent.

He could sing, no longer. That power now belonged to his daughter. All that remained of his gift was the song in his mind—an echo of his former strength. Yet, though his voice was silent to the world, his thoughts still carried melodies too powerful to fade. The dreams he could no longer bring into the waking world took root in the minds of others, shaping the slumber of all who slept. His song, though unheard, still lived on in the dreams and nightmares of every living being, bringing balance to a dreaming cosmos.

And so, he called forth a chariot of midnight and stardust, a vessel spun from the echoes of his own voice, a long time ago. Each night, he took to the sky, riding across the world’s slumbering expanse. Where his shadow passed, dreams and nightmares blossomed, whispered into the minds of those who lay beneath him. Some woke with laughter; others with tears. And as he soared, he sang—not aloud, not for the waking world, but in the endless halls of his own mind, where his power still lingered, forever shaping the sleeping world. He was king no longer, but bound by a duty he now burdened.