Fairytale Endings
And thus it came to pass that Prince John the XVII, 4th heir to the throne, forfeited his life.
The prince had been known all his life to be a man of the worst, most despicable kind. His own relatives shunned him, and he had no friends. He refused the repeated pleas of his parents to return home, that he may be sheltered from those outside who hated him. He wandered the kingdom, a wretched and lonely man, until finally he was found lying dead on a pool of vomit in the alley behind a seedy tavern.
His coffin was closed. No one could bear to look at his grotesque form.
And thus it was strange that so many people had come to his wake. Perhaps they had all come to rejoice the death of a blight upon the world.
No one offered condolences to his grieving mother. His father, the King, remained at her side, stoic. The multitudes of people who thronged the chapel wondered why anyone would mourn the death of such a bastard. But then again, any mother would grieve the death of her child, no matter how horrible that child may be. When courtesy forced these people to fashion a smile and offer greetings, they would ask each one a single favour.
“Remember the one thing that was most awful about him. Then remember at least one thing that was good about him. There will always have been one good thing about him.”
The Princess of the neighboring kingdom of Ala Targa thought hard for a while. She had only met the Prince a week before, just two days before his death. She said what struck her as most horrible about him.
“He was a yellow-faced coward. A man who had not an ounce of honor in him. He had given up on himself and on the world, and cowered in the bars and taverns of ill-repute.”
After which, she thought hard and long and continued:
“But I suppose he had a huge heart. No matter how wretched he got, children seemed to adore him. He had a few stray animals that followed him all the time. He was a very tender man, despite his filthy ways.”
They only looked at her sadly, and the Queen uttered something that left her confused.
“You are the last, then.”
The Duke of Eastwait was there, a man who was just decorated for valour in the Battle of Three Ravines not two months past. After being faced with the same request, he instantly replied:
“He was a man of many vices. He drank like there was no tomorrow, and smoked noxious herbs that cast a man into fevered, waking dreams. He frequented the brothels and gambled away what little money he had.”
He then tried to remember something good about him.
“But, he… He was strong. Life had thrown such evil fates upon him and yet he strove forward with courage unlike any I had ever seen before. Nothing seemed to scare him. I guess perhaps that is because he had already been in the dark for so long, it no longer held any surprises for him.”
The former Duke of Norreach was there as well. He had recently abdicated his right to the Dukedom to pursue the monastic life, and so had no qualms about what he thought was worst about Prince John.
“Ha! When I met that wastrel of a man not more than a fortnight ago, he was the most unintelligent buffoon ever to have disgraced my sight. Even the dogs with him were smarter than he was.”
But once again they King and Queen pressed him to remember one thing that was good about him. Grudgingly, he thought hard about it.
“Perhaps, I could say that he was at least a man of strong virtues. He might have been an idiot, but he not one who would be swayed into sins easily. I would admire that in a man, were it not for his being a complete and utter boob.”
All day long, the King and Queen sat there, listening to the people say the good, and the bad about their son. That he was discourteous and crude, yet possessing the wisdom and mind of the greatest scholars. That he was horrible with money, and lost even the smallest amount as soon as he got it, but was always dignified and refined. So on and so forth.
Finally, when the sun had drawn its purple curtains across the darkening sky, and when the crowd of people had trickled back to their homes, the prince’s parents stood up and looked at the dead face of their son.
Their thoughts returned to the people that day.
The kind-hearted Princess of Ala Targa, now beloved by all her people. She used to be the epitome of apathy towards her people’s sufferings; she had not cared one iota for the floods that had ravaged her lands, nor the people who had died then.
The courageous Duke of Eastwait, whose newfound valour led him to victory. A victory against those raiders and bandits he had sold his people to just before; begging desperately for his own life when his coach was attacked.
The steadfast former Duke of Norreach, whose fortitude was now legendary. His last wine-sodden, orgiastic bacchanal had been a fortnight ago; he had not touched a draught of alcohol nor indulged in his other pleasures since then.
And so on.
Who would think of them now as they were before?
His mother once again shed great tears as she looked at the painting of the handsome, wonderful child he had been so many years before, standing beside the coffin. His father on the other hand, remained silent, the failing light deepening the lines on his face.
Both remembered the night when he was born, an adorable and beautiful baby, and the gift the faeries had given him.
“May you always and evermore inspire the best in all those whose lives you will touch, Prince John.
This… is our gift to you.”
