The Half-King
The Half-King
The dying fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the longhall. Outside, a bitter late-winter wind howled through the valley, sweeping down from the barren, desolate peaks of the Grimwall.
Those gathered tonight sat close, dining on roasted hare and carrots, washed down with warm spiced wine. The quiet clink of silver cutlery against pewter plates filled the hall, broken only by the occasional fit of laughter or the low murmur of conversation. Many of these men were accustomed to simple luxuries - a warm hearth, a full belly, a strong drink. Though they bore titles and had taken up arms for Falreach, most had been shielded by their lineage, serving far from the heat of battle. They were posted in cushioned keeps, kept safe by name as much as by steel, their conflicts fought from behind well-fortified walls.
But while the others feasted, one man sat silent.
King Derrick’s brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, his eyes distant. Perhaps pondering some weighty matter of state, or perhaps he was simply adjusting to the heavy iron circlet that now rested on his head.
The crown was new to him that night, and it sat uncomfortably.
Where other kings wore crowns of gold, studded with jewels and crystals that caught the light, his was plain wrought iron - a symbol not of wealth or grandeur, but of the hard, unyielding land he ruled. A single sharp point at the front hinted at the coronet’s only decoration, while a worn strip of leather inside offered scant relief to the one burdened by its weight.
A slender, gaunt man - though not without a certain rugged appeal - Derrick sat quietly, his brow furrowed in thought. His years, nearing fifty, were etched into the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but they hadn’t stripped him of the quiet strength he still carried. His plate remained untouched, the spiced wine cooling at his side, forgotten. There was a heaviness to him tonight, as if the weight of his new title had settled not only on his shoulders but deep into his bones.
“Do you know what they call me?” Derrick said suddenly, his voice sharp, cutting through the soft murmur of the longhall.
The nobles around him quieted. Lord Amric, ever the cautious one, glanced up from his drink, his pale eyes darting between Derrick and the other men, always ready to play the diplomat. “Sire, I’m sure-”
“They think it jest,” Derrick interrupted, voice low but trembling with barely contained frustration. “But it’s not.”
Lord Hobb, stout and unflappable, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He and Derrick had trained together as young squires, his heavy fists known to break bone and spirit alike. “They’re commoners, my lord. What do they know of crowns and kingdoms?”
Derrick’s fingers clenched around the stem of his cup, his knuckles whitening. “More than they should,” he muttered, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his furrowed brow. “I hear it whispered in every tavern in every village. Even in the halls of MY OWN BLEEDING CASTLE!” his voice raising in anger. “Do you think I’m deaf to it?!” His gaze swept the table, daring any of them to speak.
Amric cleared his throat cautiously, “Sire, they’re just words. Idle gossip from-”
“JUST WORDS?!” Derrick’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling plates and silencing the room. “Is that all it takes to bring a king low? Words? Do you not see what they do? They mock me! They mock US! ALL OF US! FOOLS! That’s all we are to them!”
Lord Gelfrey, younger than the rest, tall and lean like a blade, opened his mouth to speak but quickly thought better of it. The others, sensing the gathering storm in Derrick’s tone, averted their eyes.
“They call me less,” Derrick continued, rising abruptly from his seat, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a shrill screech. His sudden movements sent a jolt through the room. “They think I don’t belong on this throne. They look at me and see a man who wasn’t born to rule.”
He began to pace, his right leg dragging behind him as he strode the length of the hall, wincing with every step. “They say I’m no true king, as if I haven’t fought for this realm, bled for it. As if wearing this-” he reached up, touching the rough iron circlet on his brow “-somehow makes me less.”
The room was quiet. None dared meet his gaze, not when his temper flared like this.
Lord Hobb, ever blunt, ventured a response. “Sire, what does it matter what they say? You sit the throne now. Let them whisper their petty nonsense.”
“It matters,” Derrick growled, turning on his heel to face him. “It matters because it’s not nonsense, is it?” His voice rose, trembling with anger. “They say it because they believe it. They call me...” He hesitated, his face twisting with frustration, the words choking out of him. “They call me...half a king.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of those words finally spoken hanging in the air like a curse. Derrick’s chest heaved with anger, his breath sharp and ragged.
Finally, Derrick spoke again, his voice low and trembling. “They think I’m some unfinished thing. Some...unworthy pretender.” His hands clenched at his sides, the iron circlet on his brow feeling heavier with each word.
He stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing at the men sitting before him. “Get out.”
A pause.
Lord Gelfrey blinked, as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Sire?”
“I said, fucking get out!” Derrick roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “All of you! Go!”
One by one, they filed out, their footsteps a muffled shuffle in the silence. The heavy wooden door groaned as it swung shut, and the hall was left empty save for Derrick - and one other.
Brenar, Derrick’s oldest and most trusted advisor, remained seated, watching the king with calm, steady eyes. He had weathered Derrick’s tempers before, and he knew when to speak, and when to wait.
After a long, heavy silence, Derrick sank back into his chair with a pained groan, the firelight catching on the worn edges of his iron crown. He exhaled, the anger seeming to drain from him, leaving only weariness behind.
Brenar stood slowly, walking toward him with measured steps. He didn’t speak immediately, but when he did, his voice was calm and steady. “Do you really think you’re half a king, my lord?”
Derrick laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“They say many things,” Brenar replied, pulling a chair close and sitting beside his king. “But they also say you weren’t born to rule, and yet here you are. They say you don’t belong, and yet you lead them. And now they call you...that.”
Derrick glanced sideways at his advisor. “Go on, say it. Half-King.”
Brenar met his gaze, unflinching. “You know why they call you that, don’t you? They fear what you’ve become. You weren’t given this title, Derrick. You took it. You carved it out of a realm full of men who thought they were kings. And now they say you’re half because you’ve done more with half of what they had.”
Derrick stared at him, the bitter taste of those words still heavy in his mouth. “It’s still a mockery.”
“Not for long,” Brenar said quietly. “The day will come when they’ll whisper it in reverence. Because you didn’t have to be born to this - you made yourself into it.”
Derrick’s brow furrowed, the firelight flickering against the iron circlet on his head. The weight of his title still sat heavy on his shoulders, but Brenar’s words found their mark, settling deep within.
“Let them call me Half-King,” Derrick muttered, his voice low but steady. “I’ll make sure they remember the other half.”
Brenar smiled faintly. “Now you sound like a king.”