The Heir Apparent | Medieval Fantasy Sleep Story

Roam the streets of the King's Festival in tonight's medieval fantasy-inspired bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through a visualization for rest and empathy.

In tonight's story,

You are the child of the King-Regent in a prosperous kingdom.

Your father is holding a magnificent festival,

At which he plans to announce your accession to the throne.

Tired of the pomp and circumstance of courtly life,

And intrigued by the revelry outside the castle,

You disguise yourself as a commoner to move unnoticed among the crowds.

While exploring the streets,

You meet the ordinary people your kingdom serves.

Awakening your sense of authenticity and what's right,

The experience leads you to a crossroads in your life.

This story is connected to the dragon rider and tavern tales.

You don't need to have heard those stories to enjoy this one,

But you may pick up on some recurring characters and threads.

This is also the finale of Season 3 of Sleep and Sorcery.

I'll be taking a little break to work on Season 4.

Stay tuned to my channels for updates.

There are those who all they hear understand not though they hear.

They listen with the ears alone,

While the heart is like a stone.

Chrétien de Troyes Yvain A soft knock at the door stirs you gently from dreams.

You don't open your eyes just yet,

Clinging for a few moments more to the fantastical images that have danced through your mind in this last hour of sleep.

In the dream,

You think,

You were moving through a forest,

Thick with mist,

In a country that seemed to be bathed in midnight sun.

All around in the midst of the dream,

You saw shadows move and change their shape until,

At last,

The crystals of fog became a million tiny mirrors.

You peered into each of them,

Meeting your reflection in every droplet.

With curiosity and calm,

Never mind,

The dream whispered to you that the face in each reflection was not your own,

But the face of another.

They looked just enough like you to sneak through the passageways of a surreal dream understanding.

Now you shut your eyes tightly,

Wishing the knocking sound would cease and allow you to drift back into the strange midnight forest.

You hold on to the images,

The thousand tiny reflections,

For as long as you can,

Trying to make sense of them.

But swiftly,

The pictures fade into swirls of texture and color,

Losing their shape and specificity.

Another knock follows,

This one only slightly more urgent.

You call back for the knocker to enter at will,

Sleep still fogging your voice.

You roll over in bed to see the young woman enter with a tray of breakfast.

She lowers her eyes and curtsies on entry,

Then carries the tray over to the table by the window.

You've slept in later than you should have.

The sun streams in,

Falling in curtains across the wardrobe,

Where hangs the fine garment you are expected to wear today.

You thank the young woman warmly.

Your grace,

She says quietly.

Your father requests your presence as soon as you're ready.

In the throne room,

You can tell him I'll be by soon,

You respond.

The woman curtsies again and exits the room quickly.

You stretch,

Roll your shoulders and your neck,

And pull on a silk robe that hangs on the edge of the bed.

The breakfast platter smells very tempting.

You sit down to eat,

Still grasping at the memory of the decadent dreams through which you so recently swam,

But they won't come back to you in any coherent way.

Your mind turns to the day ahead.

For weeks now,

The energy of the court has been elevated,

Anticipatory.

Today is the first of a multi-day festival thrown by your father,

And preparations have long been underway.

Subjects are traveling from all over the kingdom,

Even from the remote forests and distant southern regions,

Places you've only dreamt of visiting.

The excitement is palpable and contagious,

With every day strengthening your desire to venture beyond the castle walls.

You so rarely leave behind.

After eating your fill of breakfast,

You dress yourself in the gold and crimson threads hanging in the wardrobe.

Certainly,

You think,

Addressing yourself in the mirror.

You look the part of the heir apparent,

The one who will succeed their father's throne.

But the collar itches,

And the exquisite details in the brocade,

Well undoubtedly made by someone with great skill,

Are so rigid and formal,

They seem to belong to someone else.

You never feel quite like yourself when done up in the fashions of the nobility.

It's more like a mask.

This is a charmed life,

Of course,

But a lonely one.

Most days are filled with lessons in the art of courtly behavior,

In swordcraft,

And in reading and studying languages.

You have no siblings,

And there's never anyone your own age about the castle,

So your most meaningful relationships are with your tutors.

There are days in which you long for mischief and adventure,

For breaking free of the restrictive lifestyle of court to wander the capital city and beyond,

For a formative experience of any kind for the matter.

The sound of voices,

Rising from the courtyard below your window,

Causes your attention to drift.

You wander to the window,

And gaze down to observe the source.

Far below,

Dabbled through the shade trees,

You can see a small group,

Dressing the fountain with bunting,

And draping flags across the courtyard.

It seems the castle gates themselves will open,

You realize,

At some point during the festival,

Allowing non-courtiers within,

For the first time,

You can remember.

The bells,

Sound from the chapel,

Intoning the hour.

They clamber brightly across the morning air,

And remind you of your purpose.

Your father won't wish to be kept waiting.

You leave the chamber,

Leaping lightly down the stone steps,

And down long corridors draped with tapestries,

And hung with armory.

When you reach the throne room,

You find your father standing before the elevated throne,

His back to you.

He's alone,

With no attendance.

He hears your footsteps,

And turns his head,

So that his profile is gilded with sunlight,

From the rose window above the throne.

There you are,

He says.

His voice is gentle,

Which brings you some ease.

I wanted to see you,

Before all the excitement begins.

Now he turns to you,

And places a hand on your shoulder.

How are you feeling,

About this evening?

You're not quite sure how to answer.

It's a curious mix of emotions that have run through you these many weeks.

On your last birthday,

When you officially came of age,

Your father,

The king regent,

Shared with you his plans to surrender the throne,

And announce your imminent succession.

It wasn't something you were prepared for.

Always you'd known you would one day take over his seat,

But this was a distant and vague proposition.

You never thought it might come so soon,

And at a time when you are still changing so much,

Still discovering who you are,

Still your father insisted that this kingdom,

So long ruled under a single dynasty before he came to power,

Would never be satisfied under the reign of a regent,

A temporary figurehead.

They need a true leader,

A monarch to see them through times of peace and of turmoil,

Someone they can trust.

This you could understand,

But are you that person?

You,

Who have experienced so little of the world,

You've had some time to process the impending announcement.

But all these complex feelings stir once more in you,

At your father's question.

You deliver,

However,

A practiced response.

I hope to serve our kingdom as nobly as you have,

Your grace.

He smiles,

Warmly,

And gives your shoulder a squeeze.

He reminds you of the hour at which you'll be expected,

But urges you to remain in the castle,

Preferably in your chamber,

Till his steward comes to fetch you.

Surely you have reading to do for your lessons.

Though your heart yearns to leave these walls and get out into the thick of the festival,

You do not protest.

You know better.

Once you're dismissed,

You leave the throne room behind,

Contemplating means by which you might sneak out into the crowds unnoticed.

You take the long way back to your chamber,

Passing through the quiet,

Elegant corridors of the castle.

Your family's banners have been freshly hung throughout the halls,

Depicting the heraldic symbol of your clan.

The two-tailed lion,

Set in black on gold thread.

You pull your shoulders back and try to think of yourself as the embodiment of a lion,

Strong,

Self-assured,

Committed.

Still,

It feels like a guise,

Like something there to mask the real you.

And how,

You wonder,

Are you ever to truly know who you are if you're stuck within these walls?

You'd been so looking forward to stepping out into the streets for the festival,

But your father's instruction echoes in your ears.

There must be a way,

You think.

It's at this very moment that the young woman who brought breakfast to your chamber this morning enters the corridor.

She's carrying bundles of cloth piled so high in her arms that they nearly obscure her face.

But you recognize the eyes peeking over the bundle.

At the sight of you,

She stops,

Drops to a deferential curtsy,

And resumes her pace.

Wait.

You call after her as she breezes past you.

She spins around,

Appearing startled.

Your grace,

She says.

How may I help?

I'm terribly sorry,

You say.

But I don't know your name.

Lunette,

She responds,

A hint of inquisition behind her voice,

As if she's surprised to hear someone of your rank take any interest in her.

Lunette,

You say.

I'm sure you've many things to do,

But I hope you'll pardon the delay on my behalf.

Of course,

Your grace,

She says.

You don't have to call me that all the time,

You say with a small laugh.

When you ask her to simply use your name,

Behind the bundle of clothes you catch her blushing.

You've just had an idea.

A wonderful idea.

I wonder,

You say cautiously,

If you might be willing to help me?

When,

Shortly thereafter,

You are dressed in unassuming linens from the scullery,

And you're moving through the passageways in the castle walls you never knew were there.

The ones used by staff and attendants when they must move about unseen.

You think you must find a way to repay Lunette for her kindness and willingness to abet your escape from tight quarters on this most exciting day.

You follow her directions to the letter,

Two lefts,

A right,

And take the steps down until you meet the water.

There is a concealed dock there for small shipments,

An undercover passage.

A humble little boat bobs in the water,

Just at the bottom of the steps.

You emerge into dazzling sunlight after the stretch of darkness.

The light shimmers off the surface of the river,

And a cool breeze fills your lungs with fresh,

Bright air.

Just as Lunette said,

There is a narrow towpath along the river,

Leading away from the castle.

Holding a hand across your brow to shield your eyes from the late morning sun,

You set down it toward the heart of the city.

It's a peculiar view you have of the castle in which you've spent your life.

You've never seen it from this angle,

Looking up at the walls and ramparts.

It seems imposing,

Impenetrable.

You wonder how it must appear to those who've never seen what lies within.

But then,

To gaze across the river and toward its vanishing point yonder,

How much more fully you can breathe in this moment.

As you come around the perimeter,

The towpath rises and turns slightly,

Fading into the cobbled paths and passages that lead into the city beneath the castle.

Faintly,

You can hear the strains of music rising over the rooftops.

So,

You think,

The celebration has begun.

You follow the music through the labyrinthine streets,

Past inns and courtyards.

The streets soon open onto a spacious square,

Filled with people,

And lined with market stalls.

A great column marks the center,

Adorned with stone lions round its base.

A band of musicians play an uplifting tune on the lute and pipe.

From the column to the buildings on all sides,

Your family's banners are strung,

Flitting golden in the breeze.

Colonnades and impressive half-timbered facades make up the perimeter of the square,

And an exquisite clock tower overhangs the scene,

Its spire piercing the drifting clouds.

The bustle of the crowd lifts the energy of the place,

And the sense of palpable excitement gives you goosebumps.

You can't remember the last time you saw so many people in one place.

And all are abuzz,

It seems,

With anticipation,

As they consort,

Barter,

And sell their wares.

Oh,

The crisp air is filled with the sizzling scent of the most sumptuous spices from the food stalls.

The music is playful and cheery.

Your approach in all the hubbub has gone unnoticed by the crowds,

So consumed in their activities.

The borrowed linens hang loosely on your frame,

Much more comfortably so than the royal costume that waits back at the castle.

You feel a great sense of liberation,

Like you can move unhindered,

Unobserved,

For the first time.

No one here knows your name,

Your rank,

Or the seat to which you will so soon ascend.

And with that uncanny anonymity comes great freedom.

You go forward with a lightness in your steps you've never had before,

A bounce and a brightness,

To experience life outside the walls and the expectations.

You're moved by the faces you find in the crowds,

The young and the old,

Their eyes.

Each person here,

You think,

Has a story,

Most of which you may never know.

What are their lives like,

You wonder?

Where do they come from?

How big are their families?

It isn't long before you encounter folks who look vastly different from you,

Or indeed anyone you've ever met.

People with pointed ears and distinct,

Elongated features.

You've always known that the kingdom,

Reaching as far and wide as it does,

Is home to many races,

Including half-elves,

But you've never seen one.

The increasing multitude and splendid diversity of the square spurs you to greater and greater curiosity.

It's like you've spent your whole life reading only one story,

Only to learn that that story is but a chapter of a vast and expansive volume.

If only you can bring yourself to turn a new page,

You perambulate the square,

Visiting many of the market stalls to examine the items for sale.

A merchant from the east displays herbs and spices in decorative glass bottles.

These exude the most extraordinary aromas.

Some are earthy and savory,

Others uplifting and vivid.

Another trader sells hand-carved trinkets and statuary,

Including miniature wood carvings of your father and the two-tailed lion symbol of your house.

It's funny to hold such a powerful symbol in the palm of your hand.

And to look down upon your own regal father.

It's a good likeness,

I think you'll find,

Says the carver,

An elderly man with kind,

Dark eyes,

Who seems effusively proud of his work and eager to please.

He speaks with excitement and hope about the expected opening of the castle gates,

And how wondrous it might be to catch a glimpse of the king's heir.

You feel the color rising in your cheeks,

And have to remind yourself that in this guise,

No one knows your true identity.

The man's earnestness moves your heart,

And you buy one of his lion figurines with a few coins you've smuggled out in your pockets.

It really is a lovely piece,

You think.

Perhaps it will make a welcome thank-you gift for Lunette.

As you continue your stroll through the market stalls,

You turn the hand-carved lion over absentmindedly in your hands.

You feel a rising tenderness toward these people from all walks of life,

And your spirits are lifted by the encounter with the old carver,

Who holds your father and your house in such high regard.

These people will soon look to you for leadership,

And you need only follow in the footsteps of your father,

It seems,

To earn their trust.

But this sensation you have,

Almost of walking on air,

Reveals itself quickly to be an illusion.

It's not long before you overhear a group of peasants decrying the extravagance of the king regent in throwing this festival,

When so many of his subjects are living in mean conditions.

Elsewhere,

You hear lamentations for the old king,

Whom your father replaced in a great coup before you were born.

Now there was a true leader,

A woman says,

A dragon at heart.

Even as she says this,

You stumble on the cobblestones,

Recovering and ensuring that no one's noticed your clumsiness.

You look down at the uneven ground.

Indeed,

It's not on mere cobbles that you've tripped,

But over a bronze inlay in the stones,

Embossed in the metal is the burnished symbol of the royal house that held the keys to the castle before yours did,

The dragon.

Such symbols are not hard to find in forgotten places,

Even within the castle.

For all your father's efforts,

History and memory are not so easily erased,

And many are alive still,

Who remember the old king and the dynasty that came before.

There are dragons carved in relief on the castle's very gate,

And in abstract form on the royal chapel's tracery.

It's natural that you might find traces of this recent history laid in the groundwork of the capital city the dragon's built,

And still aflame in the heart of disenfranchised commoners.

But there's something about the appearance of this symbol in this moment that rattles you,

As if stirring up unconscious feelings or half-forgotten dreams.

It's something like déjà vu,

You suppose.

You're roused from deep thought by the tender sensation of a hand upon your shoulder.

At first,

You imagine it to be your father having discovered your little gambit,

But this hand is softer,

Lighter than the stern hand of the king regent.

It's a woman's hand,

You realize,

As you look up into the face of the stranger.

Are you all right?

She asks,

Her voice smooth and low.

We saw you take a tumble there.

The lady is richly robed,

Clearly higher born than many of the people in the square.

Around her neck hangs a glittering amulet.

Raven-dark curls frame her face.

Yes,

I'm fine,

You insist,

Though your voice trembles more from the recognition of this symbol beneath your feet than from the fall.

A motley crew of others have gathered,

Another human and three half-elves,

Evidently of varying station.

You fear you may have attracted more attention than you can afford.

But it becomes clear that the group,

However unalike,

Know each other,

And no one else seems moved by the minor commotion.

Oh dear,

You are quite shaken,

The lady says.

Come now,

Why don't we get you somewhere you can sit down?

Yes,

Chimes in one of the half-elves.

Won't you come have a drink?

And he inclines his head toward a nearby alehouse.

Your first instinct is to refuse,

But on second thought,

You do crave retreat from the eyes of so many onlookers.

You agree to let the party take you somewhere quiet,

Where you can regain your composure.

The alehouse may not be entirely quiet,

But the hum of a dozen overlapping conversations is comforting in its own way.

You slide into benches near an open window,

Where the breeze is cool on your face.

The unusual crew of humans and half-elves bring mugs of ale and mead to the table.

Their rapport with each other is strong,

And while you speak little at first,

You learn much about them in the way they relate to each other.

They've traveled together for many days,

It seems,

And had only just reached the capital when they came across you.

We haven't even got a place to stay yet,

Says the merchant from the south.

But we've always been able to find hospitality,

Haven't we?

For better or worse,

He laughs.

You ease into their company,

Shaking off the reverie and concern,

And you begin to take interest in their stories.

They come from all corners of the kingdom,

From the far-flung forests of the northern country,

From the southern seaport,

And from villages so small you've never seen them rendered on a map.

Their lives sound vastly different from your own,

Or indeed from anyone you can imagine living in the capital.

They seem to have stepped into your life from the pages of legend rather than from the king's road.

You learn of their intentions for traveling hither,

Over long distances,

And through many adventures and perils.

The half-elves,

Who hail from the green forest,

Long for sovereignty in their own lands after a tacit agreement with the old king crumbled in the hands of your father,

Who has levied large taxes against them.

They hope to petition the regent for a new treaty.

The lady,

A wise woman and herbal healer,

Seeks aid for her village after blighted harvests.

The merchant,

Meanwhile,

Who set out only to sell his exotic dyes and silks to the affluent people of the capital,

Has been troubled to learn of the poor living conditions many face,

And fears his regent will suffer next.

You listen intently,

Soaking in their stories,

The authenticity of their desires,

And the ache in their hearts.

Only those with deep conviction could have traveled so far,

Overcoming such obstacles in pursuit of a better life for their people.

And you feel deep sorrow for their plight and for your family's role in the unseen troubles of a nation.

They too are the people you intend to serve.

Though they may hail from far away,

Holding your house accountable for their hardship,

They will be your responsibility as much as the admiring carver or the denizens of the capital.

This is the first time you've contemplated the true scope of your destiny,

And the far-reaching consequences of your actions.

You wonder if you have the wisdom and the strength to meet such multitudes.

But then,

You suppose,

Opening your eyes to the reality of life in the kingdom is the first step to righting wrongs and repairing trust.

It's the first step to good leadership,

In your estimation at least.

And if you are indeed to take the throne,

You would endeavor to be good,

To be loved by your people.

When the companions seek to know your story,

You aren't sure what to say,

So you don't say much.

Only that you've resided here in the capital all your life,

Seeing little of the world beyond,

That all you hope for is peace in the realm.

The half-elves share a side-long glance and a chuckle.

What is it?

You ask.

What's funny?

Don't pay them any mind,

Says the merchant.

They shouldn't laugh at such a thing,

With all the whispers about these days.

What whispers?

You press on.

The party huddles closer and their voices lower.

You mean the rumors haven't reached the capital yet,

Says the half-elf called Brightbuckle.

You know what happened to the old king,

Don't you?

Of course,

You say.

Everyone dies.

But even as the words escape your lips,

You question whether they're true.

After what you've heard today,

Is it even possible that in your sheltered existence,

You've heard an unbiased account of the old king's being put down by your father's guard?

Well,

Brightbuckle continues,

The thing is,

The old king had a child,

One who everyone thought was long gone.

Only if you believe the whispers,

They're not so gone after all.

You mean,

You say,

Wheels turning in your mind.

The lady,

Who's called Morana,

Picks up the sentence where you left off.

There's someone out there with a claim to the throne,

Who might be gathering support at this very moment,

Which might put a damper on your dream of peace.

Something awakens in your mind.

Again,

You seem to feel the sense of deja vu brought on by the dragon icon in the cobblestones.

You seem to see,

Swimming to the surface of your mind,

The face that rose to meet your reflection in last night's mysterious dream.

A face so like your own,

You took it as such in the dream world.

Was this,

Then,

The face of your unknown rival for the throne?

The child of the old king,

Whose life yours might have been,

Had things been different?

The bearer of the dragon symbol all these years in hiding,

And yet free of the confines of court.

You can't explain it,

But tears spring to your eyes,

And your chest swells,

As if your heart has somehow become more capacious.

For so long,

You felt unsure about your succession to the throne.

Was it because,

Deep down,

You somehow knew this fate was meant for someone else?

Are you alright?

Morana's voice cuts clearly through the fog of your thoughts.

You lift your gaze to meet hers.

These whispers,

You say,

Brushing past her concern.

Do they speculate as to the whereabouts of the old king's heir?

Nothing concrete,

Says the merchant.

But the same rumors claim that dragons are flying again over the western mountains.

Really,

You say,

Your eyes wide.

But dragons haven't been seen since,

Well,

Since before I was born.

I thought they were extinct.

They are,

Says Brightbuckle.

But I dare say we've seen our share of impossible things on the road.

The companions share knowing glances.

Somehow,

Though they don't say another word about it,

You sense that they've been brought closer together by these impossible encounters.

They've had some great adventure together.

The kind you've always longed for.

The conversation turns,

Then,

To lighter topics,

And the half-elves arrange for plates of food to be brought to the table.

The merchant barters with the landlady of the alehouse for the last of the available rooms upstairs.

And you slide into a sense of comfort with your new friends.

Music travels from the square as the festivities get underway in earnest without.

After a meal,

You follow the merry company out onto the square,

Where the afternoon sun casts long shadows from the clock tower over the crowds.

A troupe of actors are performing on a platform stage beneath a central column.

They are presenting,

It seems,

A dramatization of the great deeds of your father's reign.

You're surprised,

Though perhaps you shouldn't be,

To find that you are also a character in the play.

The valiant heir.

A chip off the old block who's destined to do great things for the realm.

The actor playing you bears a muslin tunic with a golden lion emblazoned across the chest and holds aloft a wooden sword despite the flowery language and bombastic performances.

The action falls flat for you now that you've spent some time among the kingdom's common folk and learned of their everyday struggles.

You wonder how much of your own story you've built upon of fantasy.

The face of your mysterious rival swims to the forefront of your mind again.

It's funny,

You think.

Now that face is so much more recognizable to you than the face of the actor on the stage who enacts your destiny.

All of this,

You deduce,

Is in the service of preparing the festival-goers for this evening.

They'll get to know you in this shining,

Gallant form on the stage.

And then,

They'll cheer for the announcement of your succession.

The announcement.

You turn to the clock tower and wince when you see the time.

You must have gotten carried away in your cavorting with the jolly companions.

Now you've got to get back to the castle right away,

Lest your little escapade be discovered,

If indeed you haven't been found out already.

Whispering a hurried farewell to the lady,

The merchant,

And the half-elves who regard you with bemused expression,

You slip away through the crowds of onlookers,

Careful to watch your step on the cobblestones.

You find a small alleyway that diverts from the square.

This,

You follow to the towpath along the walls of the castle.

You go over Lunette's instructions for the castle's secret passageways in your head,

This time in reverse,

Up the steps from the dock,

Then left the river waters lap the rocks below,

Catching the waning light of the afternoon.

Your breathing steadies as you approach the entrance to the hidden dock.

You'll make it in time,

But as you begin to climb the steps,

Ascending from the dock,

Something tugs at you.

Some part of you resists going back inside the castle that has so long held you at a distance from the world,

From the strange and wonderful people in it,

From the truth.

You take a deep breath and turn on the spot.

There,

Tied up and floating on the surface of the water,

Just as before,

Is the tiny boat.

You just need a moment to think.

You close your eyes and try to conjure an image of the near future,

An image of yourself,

Proud and confident with the strength and loyalty of the lion,

Wearing the crown your father placed on your head,

Sitting on a throne above hopeful petitioners.

You try to see yourself as a great ruler,

Beloved by all from the capital city to the southernmost tip of the kingdom,

From the green forests to the forgotten villages,

But try as you might,

The image just won't form in your mind.

Instead,

You see the face from your dreams,

The face of someone you refuse to believe is your enemy,

For the very thought of this person gives you immeasurable comfort and hope,

As if they are calling out to you across the river and the mountains,

Across time,

Across the alternate lives you might have lived.

By the time you open your eyes,

You know that you cannot go back within the walls of the castle,

Not today.

You reach into the pocket of your borrowed clothes and close your hand around the wood-carved lion figurine.

You run a hand across the natural grooves in its mane and the cleft in its tail,

Then,

Placing it gently on the top stair,

You hope it will find its way into Lunette's hands.

Quietly,

You whisper your thanks to her.

She's done more today than facilitate a whimsical adventure.

She has set something in motion,

Beyond imagining,

And with a full heart and a clear mind,

You step into the little boat and untie it from the dock.

You've never sailed before,

But the river flows west toward the setting sun and the mountains.

With luck,

It may bring you to the feet of this forgotten heir,

The last of the dragons.

You wonder if it was a boat like this,

From the same dock,

Which carried the old king's child to safety so many years ago.

How strangely,

History harmonizes with itself.

Somehow,

You know you will find them.

As if there is an invisible thread that weaves your fates together in a vast tapestry,

It's impossible to see the whole picture now.

Only the smallest of stitches.

Only this choice.

And the next.

You spare a long gaze back at the castle,

Curled atop the city's great hill,

Its walls high and impenetrable.

You breathe in the fresh air,

The wind from the water whipping through your hair.

You taste freedom,

An unlimited possibility,

But also deep responsibility,

Whatever the future holds.

You owe much to the kind company who sat with you today,

To the people of the capital,

To the forgotten folk beyond the city.

Silently,

You make a vow to remember them,

To fight for them.

Whether you wear the crown or not,

The river stretches on before you,

Glistening under the setting sun.

The whole world sparkles,

Impossibly alive with hope and potential.

And so,

On you go,

To meet your fate,

To find a friend.

Allow yourself to settle down into a state of calm,

A flowing serenity,

As if you are adrift in a little boat on a gently moving river,

Letting it guide you,

Intuitively,

Towards sleep.

You don't even need to steer the boat,

Because the river knows where it is going,

Where you need to be.

Bring your awareness to your breath,

Your inhale filling up the lungs and belly with fresh,

Cool air,

Your exhale releasing tension within the body,

Relaxing you deeper.

Know that there's nothing you need to do right now,

But rest,

Trust,

And notice that the river on which you float is carrying you to your destination.

Without effort or complication,

It flows on towards sleep.

If it feels right in your mind's eye,

Peer over the edge of the boat and look into the surface of the water.

Notice how quickly or slowly it moves,

And in what direction.

How does the light of the sun or the moon reflect off the water?

What colors appear in the surface?

Can you see beneath the surface,

And how deep?

Is it clear enough to see fish or river mammals swimming below?

Can you see yourself reflected in the surface,

And how does your reflection shift and change with the ever flowing current?

Spend some time here,

Just noticing the beauty,

The movement,

The natural qualities of the river,

Recognizing the many roles it may play as home to countless plants and animals,

As a traveling channel,

And as a source of nourishment for a community,

But also as a place for contemplation,

A symbol of life,

And the forces,

Often unseen,

That shape our lives and destinies.

Consider how you too might be like a river,

You are ever flowing,

Ever changing,

You are more than meets the eye,

More than what appears on the surface,

And so is everyone you meet,

Each traveling their own path,

Living their own complex,

Beautiful story,

Whether you know it or not.

And though your paths may be different,

And though you may make choices that send you on different forks in the river,

You are still traveling through this life together,

In community,

In relationship,

No one is alone in this.

Imagine for a moment that you float close to the riverbank,

Where the water is shallow and clear,

And see yourself reaching over the side of the boat to pick up a river stone,

No bigger than the palm of your hand,

Feel how smooth it is,

Shaped under the ongoing current,

And now see it glowing gently in your hand,

Emitting a soft,

Warm light.

Think of this river stone as a spark of empathy,

Compassion for all,

A reminder of your shared journey,

Your connected destiny with all other living things on earth.

Carry it with you as the river flows on,

And you drift ever closer to sleep,

The world of dreams and inner truth.

Let the river stone be like a seed that you can plant in your dreams,

In your unconscious,

Cultivating precious empathy within you even as you sleep,

Drift here,

Feeling the ebb and flow of the current,

And how it aligns with your breath,

Calm,

Serene,

Tranquil,

Surrender,

With blessings,

Good night.