No Laughing Matter

     He and Boris immediately dissolved into laughter, leaning against each other and barely noticing that King Skarl wasn’t smiling. If anything, the Skeith’s frown had deepened, and he gripped the armrest of his throne tightly as he regarded the two youngsters.

     When they finally stopped laughing long enough to look at him, Skarl stood up and growled, “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard! You promised me a funny joke, and that was not funny at all!” He pointed dramatically to the exit of the throne room. “Get out, both of you! Get out of my kingdo – “

     “Your Majesty, wait! They’re Lisha’s friends, they helped us during the war, remember? You can’t banish them!”

     A Blue Lupe burst into the scene, clad in a homespun brown tunic, his sword strapped to his side. He remembered to bow as he emerged into Skarl’s presence and then placed himself in front of Morris and Boris. He met the king’s eyes and stayed where he was, waiting for Skarl to slowly but steadily relax, and then slump into his seat.

     “Hmph. Fine, Jeran.” The king settled for a dismissive wave toward the door. “If you have nothing else to report, you may go. All of you.” He glared at Morris and Boris, who were still hiding behind Jeran, prompting the latter to usher the Green Quiggle and the Blue Blumaroo out of the throne room.

     “Well, we thought it was a good joke,” said Morris mulishly once they had turned a corner into a different corridor.

     “I wonder how the court jester stands it,” Boris wondered. “Does he also get yelled at to leave Meridell when his jokes don’t land?”

     “Every now and then,” said Jeran drily. “Though usually King Skarl doesn’t mean it. And I don’t think he meant that toward you two, either.”

     Boris sighed. “I thought the king liked hearing jokes. Why is he almost always grumpy instead when he hears one? Is he still hung up on the Orb breaking apart? And Lord Darigan’s gone, doesn’t that mean we won…”

     At the mention of the Orb, Jeran bit his lip. “He does, he’s just…uh…”

     The Lupe glanced around, and gestured for Morris and Boris to follow him into a modest banquet room which looked like it could only hold up to fifteen occupants. The chandelier was not lit over the round table with a platform in the middle that could be rotated, and the chairs had all been pushed toward the walls. A shelf behind a glass case held several leatherbound books and a few scrolls with writing. All the paintings on display seemed to have one common theme: a heavyset pink Skeith with a bright, almost impish smile and a gold circlet on her head.

     “Wait,” said Boris, nudging Morris, who was trying to spin the circular platform and dislodged several dust motes in the process. “Isn’t that…”

     Jeran nodded sagely, his face melancholy.

     “Yes. That’s Queen Claret.”

     * * *

     The room was heady with incense smoke and the smell of varied herbs. Skarl looked at a shut window as though pondering whether to open it or not, but instead, he focused on the emaciated pink Skeith lying in the four-poster bed surrounded by sheer curtains, pulled up a chair, and sat next to her.

     At first, neither of them said nothing.

     As Skarl leaned down, he gasped softly when the pink Skeith reached up a hand, with some effort, and touched his face. Her hand was cool this time; the fever had gone, but it wasn’t enough to save her.

     “Claret…”

     Claret smiled ruefully and shook her head, her tousled hair spread over her silk pillowcase like a Spyder web.

     “Don’t give me that look,” she whispered hoarsely.

     Skarl held her hand, which was still on his cheek, and sniffed. “But you’re…” His voice caught on that word, his lips parting into a gloomy grimace. “You’re going to…”

     “I’ve written up my will, spoken to my family and representatives from Fief Dunhall. My affairs are in order, all that’s left is for me to, well…be a little selfish, and ask you for one last thing.”

     “What is it? You know I’d give you anything.”

     Claret paused, wincing as she adjusted her position under the covers.

     “Don’t be blue,” she said. Then she let out a short, barking chuckle. “Then again, it’s probably too late for that.”

     Stifling a laugh, Skarl immediately rearranged his expression so he could properly and incredulously stare at her. There was a twinkle in her eyes that he had not seen in a long time. Not since the illness, he surmised.

     “What – Claret, did you just tell a joke? Now? Of all times?”

     “I want the last thing I see…to be your smile, Skarl. And I’m not going to stop…until I see it.”

     * * *

     As he walked through the halls of his castle, King Skarl lifted a hand to his cheek and sighed sadly. It had been years since he lost Queen Claret to one of the sicknesses that had struck Meridell along with the blight, but sometimes, old memories – and the miserable claw of pain over his heart – would return afresh.

     They’re just kids messing around. It’s not their fault.

     He stopped outside a banquet hall at the sound of voices. Gingerly he placed himself against the wall, strained his ears to listen, and quietly peered around to see who were inside.

     “The king hasn’t been the same since Queen Claret died,” said Jeran, who was pacing around the table. “He laughed at every joke she made…even the corny ones.”

     Skarl bristled but didn’t say anything or move from where he was.

     “Oh,” came the subdued voice of Morris. “I…we didn’t know.”

     “Do Lisha and Kayla know?” asked Boris.

     “When Lisha came across Queen Claret’s books of poetry in the archives, she asked me about her. I think both of you were training at the time.” Jeran cleared his throat. “Anyway…while King Skarl was a bit hard on you, I hope you don’t take his outburst personally. He still mourns her.”

     Instead of sticking around to hear the rest of the conversation, Skarl finally turned from the banquet hall and walked quickly away.

     Should I apologize to them? Or maybe…if Jeran tells them not to take it personally, they’ve already moved on from it. I guess I’ll see what happens.

     Claret wouldn’t have liked the face I made at them, though.

     * * *

     The next day, Skarl was surprised to find Morris and Boris back in his throne room. They bowed somewhat clumsily but the Skeith paid it no mind.

     “What is it?” he asked them.

     “Your Majesty,” Morris began, reaching up to adjust the Lupe headband he still wore every day, “Boris and I just wanted to say…we’re sorry, if you didn’t like our joke yesterday. Or if it made you feel…”

     Skarl waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, think nothing of it.” He gave them a small smile. “That wasn’t the worst joke I ever heard anyway, I didn’t mean that.”

     “We still want to make it up to you, though,” said Boris.

     “You really don’t have to, but…what do you mean?”

     Both boys beamed, like twin rays of sunshine – or perhaps, more like the warning glow of one of Kayla’s dazzling potions.

     “We’ll keep working on our jokes so we can get better!” The Blumaroo drew himself up to full height, standing on his tail.

     “We’ll make better jokes for you, just you wait!”

     The Blue Skeith opened his mouth, but then closed it, shaking his head in amusement.

     “Very well. I promise not to threaten to throw you out of Meridell, then. But if you’re going to work on your jokes, I suggest reading some books on comedy by the late Queen Claret…”

     The End.