Short Stories
The sun was barely up when the prince felt the tugging.
It wasn’t pulling on his hand…and not on his favorite blanket. Not on the blanket that covered him from neck to foot.
He twisted and turned, but the tugging wouldn’t stop.
“Is that you, my son?” he finally burst out.
But it wasn’t his son.
His eyes still closed, he whispered instead the name of his love.
But it wasn’t his wife either.
The prince was confused---and afraid---for he neither knew where the tugging was nor who was doing it.
But perhaps…
“Father, is it you?” the shake was deep in his voice. “Is it about my friend?”
But it wasn’t the king. And it wasn’t his friend.
And tears fell from the prince’s closed eyes.
You will die today, a voice seemed to whisper. In battle you will die.
The prince’s eyes opened. Those tender eyes that shone with light.
He sat up---though the tugging was still there---and looked at the woman by his side.
She was beautiful. Her face was pale, her hair dark.
“I love you,” he whispered to the moon in the night. “I love you for you. How many princes marry for love?”
And he kissed her on her lips…his tears falling on her cheek.
But she did not wake. For she was not meant to wake. Not that morning…perhaps, not that day.
And the prince left her---in overwhelming grief--- and walked in the gardens of the palace.
He sat on the soil---an unprincely thing to do---and watched the servants moving about.
So early in the morning. The sun had now shone.
You will die today, a voice seemed to whisper. On account of your father, you will die.
And he appeared as though the wind brought him.
The king, his father, who both loved and hated him.
“Today we go to war,” the king said sadly. “And today, perhaps we will both die.”
The prince merely smiled and said: “Yet something tells me that ‘perhaps’ does not exist. What the king knows, the king must believe.”
The king held his son in tight embrace…something he had not done for many years.
“Today, I am your father. Kings and princes are the ones that don’t exist!”
And together they wept, their tears mingling like the sand.
“They are not men!” jeered some servants who saw.
“And yet if men have not love,” some others thought. “nor have feelings and regrets…then what good would it be to be a man?”
But the prince heard none of this, for then he had left. He ran like a madman---with the tugging more harried---‘till at last he reached the room where lay…the royal little crib.
And inside the cot, half-yawning and smiling, lay a little babe that had his mother’s eyes and his father’s little chin.
“My son, today, your father will die!” the prince nearly screamed the words. “How cruel life is! For then, will I never see you grow to be man?”
But the little babe reached out, his tiny hands brushing his father’s beard.
Your son will live, a voice seemed to say. For his father’s sake.
And at last the prince knew from where the tugging came.
It was his heart that was being pulled…and death was calling his name.
“Mephibosheth!” he called his tiny little son.
And in bitter regret he stood and left.
But on that day, with a prince’s glory, he faced death.
A/n: I was wondering…at what line did the readers figure out that the story was about Jonathan? If they did. ^_^ Please do tell me.
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