Wisdom's Embrace


Bodies of soldiers were trampled and crossed,

as those loyal to the Church had humanity lost.

The King and Fensham fought side by side,

yet time only waited ‘til one of them died.


A sword promptly plunged to the crown’s exposed back

brought out from The King a cry of strength’s lack.

He fell to his knees and, dropping his sword,

he reached out for the man whom he once had abhorred.


Fensham stopped fighting as the soldiers withdrew.

The order was given as The King was run through.

And the man once a traitor, of evil and guile,

took The King in his arms as if holding a child.


Blood from The King’s mouth sprayed out with convulsion,

and some of the soldiers considered revulsion.

None of those standing could say that The King

deserved such an end; such a terrible thing.


With tears in his eyes, Fensham cradled the head

of the man who so rightly had wanted him dead.

He whispered, ‘How sadly this great man dost fall,

at the hands of a coward pretending God’s call.’


And whether or not The King heard his voice,

he sought to reply with these words of his choice:


‘Yes, all around us are the demons I let in.

This is the price of all of my sin.

For I wallowed daily in pity and pain,

the rage of my past defining my reign.


‘Anger and vengeance are friends of no man,

for they embrace only the death of God’s plan.

My weakness and selfishness gave way to this schism,

as I turned away from embracing God’s Wisdom.’


‘Such wisdom, Your Majesty, is not for man,

yet to share in it only...this is God’s plan.

I know now our duty, but maybe too late,

for I am a victim of the humour of Fate.’


‘Do not resign, Fensham, to endless despair,

for the heavens await us and God’s glory there.

I see in thy face a mirror of my past,

the echo of a peace that I dreamed could last.

And though thou were the cause of the death of my son,

I offer thee forgiveness for the evil thou hast done.’


Fensham’s heart broke with the silence of shame,

feeling beyond absolution of blame:

‘Thou art truly wise,’ he said, when he spoke,

‘but I have resigned myself to Hell’s yoke.’


‘No, my Lord Fensham, for I offer pardon.

Thou shalt sit with my son in the peace of the Garden.

For if he has the wisdom to let go of rage,

then surely our mutual end should assuage.’


For a brief, fleeting moment, Fensham awaited.

He hoped that more greatness might yet be related.

But the man’s eyes glazed over and saw only death.

His arms lost their grip, and The Good King lost breath.

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