He stood where he had ridden a stallion so long ago, the foam flying from the steed as glittering lines of men crashed together. He saw again the wheeling phalanxes melt under the flying hooves, and he felt stirring in his veins the same shout that broke from his lips when he smashed in the head of the sorcerer the old king employed to oppose him.

The long years had smoothed the burial mounds of the dead, and the farmers nearby only remembered when their plows turned up a rusty helm. The sword still hung at his side, but he had not drawn it in years. Now, he could not settle squabbles with his blade, nor could it cut apart the lies of plotting nobles. He had taken the crown because he longed for riches. Now, jewels flowed through his hands, but what more could they buy him? He guzzled wine, but he dared not get drunk, and the girls no longer looked at him.

The king sat upon the ground. When he stood, he would return on the oft-trodden path to the castle, though his heart longed to ride road he did not know.