king - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Above all else, the king was a man. I saw him in good times and bad, always weighed with the responsibility he accepted for others. He was brave on the inside, willing to see his flaws and work to be a better human being, kinder, more empathic. He was brave on the outside, leading from the front regardless of personal cost. Everyone else had to see him flawless, the polished version to inspire such confidence, but not me. Everyone needs somebody to be a child with, to cry on, to tell their fears to. He was afraid of not being enough, of failing in sacred duty, of his purpose unfulfilled, weighty as it was. I can tell you that he was always enough for me, as a man, as a king. He never needed a crown, or fine things, or the hedonistic wants men can develop with greedy hearts. He never needed to ask for my love, it was his. One who nurtures needs love. One who leads needs solace. One with a brave heart needs a champion of their own, a protector to have faith in them when darkness is at their door. It takes a queen to stand by a king, and a king to stand by a queen - equally loving, equally brave, equally duty bound as protectors in all ways.
The greatness of the king came from the way he loved. He was one who truly listened, with the heart as well as the ears and eyes. He saw the whole person in a way that others did not, as if he alone was somewhere calm while the rest could only attempt to have vision in the fog. The most troubled of souls became calm, those from places far away sought his company and counsel. It was as if everyone had a thirsty soul, and the best we could do was offer one another a sip at our cups, yet he could hold a saltless ocean in the palm of his hand and fill the cups of all. So, though I knew him as a man, I respected him as my king.
In those difficult times he was the king we needed, down to earth and real. He showed us what he'd learnt in life - the value of nature and the simple things. He drank water, tea, normal things. He loved gardening, growing vegetables with his grandchildren and being in the company of animals. He was humble about his mistakes, obviously scarred, but so bold in his will to love deeply. That's the example that helped our nation on the road to a kind of healing, seeing that we too could make amends by living well, respecting both nature and one another.
He was of a sleek nature, built upon legs with which could carry only him, as he intended to use them. He was a glutton by all accounts though he was of a slight build and yet he seemed to escape the diabolical restraints of food worship. He was ever so slight, how could I describe him more aptly than that? He was tall too, something he was ever so proud of and claimed it to be the right mixture of progenitorial prowess coursing his thick veins that granted him such a boon. Amongst his persons he carried finery the likes of Midas had obsessed. I had not put it past me much that his slothfulness may have been derivative of the weight he carried in gold and jewels. He had tended to wear his crown as much as was possible, though it’s weight had become something of an ailment and his neck had been the bearer of a burden quite crooked. Again, movement was not this, things, strong point in any case, unless it was in the course and action of swift greed and gluttony. Goddamn that man, oh how I loathe him so. His laboriously chiseled face, cheekbones that had near pierced his flesh had led to sunken eyes, puddles of avarice set about them. Dark hair covering his head, long and fragrant with rose thorns. His chin, one such extremity which sought to put his cheekbones to shame, it had indeed succeeded in it's purchase to pierce it's own flesh. A small scab can be seen about it’s exit, to which his hand tended to itch. And to cover such an extremity was that of a small tuft of hair that paraded as something akin to a beard.
As interesting as this room is, as aesthetically pleasant the four walls of this place may be, as commudious as this edifice is, it has fatigued me to the point of tears. You would have thought a person such as myself, the very King of France, would have the capacity to hold ‘refuge’ in a singular place for a mere few days. Unfortunately, this is not the case. I feel that I have drifted into a deep and depressing hole, one that I cannot climb out of, despite the charming interior of it; the walls plentifully bestrewn with the most intricate paintings, shining golden lighting and exquisite wallpaper coloured with the deepest red underneath. The flooring of the ditch, a rug. No, a magnificent carpet stretching across the entirety of the floor, detailed with miniscule images of pulchritudinous flowers in various colours and tiny scenes filled with perfect children, perfect men, perfect women about their daily business. I might dare to wish that my own people were like the flawless community portrayed in the carpet below my feet. The furniture, made and varnished to the best quality, is scattered tactfully around; the only two items of furniture in a form of arrangement being the two chairs my partner and I sit on presently. I do not like to brag about such matters, but the study, in short, is a truly impressive room.
Yet, in spite of this, I am still unbelievably provoked by the nagging of ennui, in addition to the constant anxiety that any sort of incomprehensibilities could be occurring outside the palace at any moment. Something abhorrent or something meritorious. It depends on the people’s intents, despite the fact that I hold power over them all and I could have them all guillotined whenever it pleases me. At least, this is what I thought, before they attacked the Bastille, something unforeseen. At this moment, it is the same as on the fourteenth of July. I do not know how they will react or what they will do without