THE PRINCE WHO WANTED THE WAR
Every day, Prince Arturo got up, took his breakfast
and a comforting bubble bath. He polished his bayonet and went immediately to
the playground. There, he was always awaited by his lead soldiers and the three
tanks of war with which he fought the most incredible battles and obtained the
most unusual feats. He was only 10 but he had already reached 14 victories and
only one defeat that although tiny (since it had been against the flea dogs
that at that time were stronger and bigger than him), he never could overcome.
-
"Someday I'll have the
revenge," He said.
The months passed, the trees of the garden had seen
pass a dozen autumns, winters, and the same number of springs and summers.
However, they did not age, with the passage of time they looked more vigorous
and imposing. Like the trees, the prince had become a beautiful and majestic
man. He knew that in a short time he would have to become king since his
sovereign father had acquired a mortal disease. For some, product of his
constant anger, for others, the sovereign had been the victim of enchantment on
the part of other sovereigns of distant lands who, full of envy and helped with
artifices and witchcraft had managed to weaken their strong contender. For one
or the other, everyone in the kingdom expected his departure and the young
prince, although hurt by the imminent absence of his strong father, felt great
pleasure in imagining himself occupying the royal throne. Discreetly alone in
the relics room he spent hours admiring the blue cloak full of spots and golden
nuggets, the same one that in his childhood had used his father to receive the crown from the
hands of the prime minister when his parents had perished at sea victims of a
group of small-time pirates. The prince also looked the suit with which everyone
would tremble when they saw him pass, the suit that dressed him with power and
strength. He did not want satins, no
silks brought from the east. His clothes would be his military uniform. The one
with whom five years ago he had sworn to defend his family, his homeland and
most importantly: "his honor".
Two knocks at the door of the great hall of relics
took the prince out of his idyllic session. Aldo, the royal butler, who more
than a butler looked like a pixie taken from a story
- Our king is about to enter the world of the
dead.
A little jump shook the heart of the prince who could
not decipher if that sensation was due to pain or emotion, because he loved his
strong father from whom he had learned everything about mathematics and
military tactics. No doubt, he would miss watching him ride through the palace
gardens, hunting classes and target shooting. But at the same time, Arturo
would be free, with the right to do what he liked. He would no longer be the
son of King Arthur III, he would be the king himself. A sudden knot gripped his
throat and not knowing if it was grief, anger, joy or frustration the young
Prince Arthur unleashed it with a simple:
- What do you
know about the world of the dead?
At the cold response of his young prince, the butler
hastened to apologize, but his dry lips did not reach to separate when the
beautiful prince finished:
- My father will leave this world only when God wants
it and remember that God is eternal, almighty, omnipresent, omnipotent;
Feared, Jealous, Vengeful, and also ...
- "Male" Continued the phrase the butler.
Excuse me, young prince, but I have seen that look before, and death is round
your father's pupils. Between gasps and anguish he asks me to bring you to his
presence. He spent the whole night raving. He speaks of a legacy; he repeated
your name over and over again. This morning, when at last his body seemed to
find rest, he asked me to take you to
his presence.
The young man folded the blue cloak, kept it carefully
in the beige glass and wooden cupboard that looked more like a coffin than a
dresser and without a word mutter walked firmly into the bedroom of his dying
father.
Three servants, two pages, six maidens, the doctor,
and of course the queen mother were sitting around the king. The sunlight of
February entered through the window and the white and beautiful body of the one
who was once the king of the distant town sank among purple pillows and golden
colored comforters. Arturo walked slowly towards the bed, took his father's
hand and, resting his chest between his left arm and a little velvet pillow,
whispered:
- Here I am father ...
The old king's eyes opened instantly, his gaze penetrated
the young man's heart and between tremors and agitation he tried to tell him
everything, his tired hands snatched those of the young prince and with a
supernatural force he could whisper:
- My legacy ... my son ... Sorry...
Only a tear ran down the cheek of the dying man who
between rattles and an impending choking was unable to utter another word.
- Already your mission was fulfilled. I will keep your
legacy and follow one by one the instructions you showed me.
The bewildered son agreed to respond. It was at that
moment when the king, white as cotton, looked at the sky and in a kind of
prayer uttered the unintelligible phrase that no one in the room could
decipher, and in a sigh, all witnessed how the soul of the sovereign came out
gently by between his lips and floating ethereally was lost between the
blankets, the curtain and the window. It was there, at that very moment, when
at last the most beautiful and brave prince, the only son of King Arthur III,
wept.
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