The strength of words and of the tongue, saith the ages, do outdo the power of the sword, Said the sage holding a sword and placing his eye near its sharpened edges, examining closely its admixture of metals.
The strength of the words. Do they not rely upon the strength of mine arm? Answered the ruler, young and fierce.
It may. But perhaps, Said the sage, They rely upon the God who made thee, no?
It may? Is it not yes or no? Said the ruler.
Nay. It is but yes and no. Said the sage. He placed the guardian sword of the citadels back into its place, resting in the comfort and embrace of a cottoned surface, reminding one of the delicacy of life as it is and always has been.
Do not the sacred scriptures have within them the words of God, they being called the sword of the Spirit? Asked the ruler.
Yes, my boy, but what of the dark night? The growling of wolves?
Enough. I know the tale.
You do indeed.
I will write a letter then to the man and not dispatch one soldier. Said the ruler.
Will you not deliver it, teacher?
Of course, Responded the sage.
The young prince knelt before his teacher, his trusted sage, who also was the former Catholicos, asking his blessing.
It was a time of peace between church and state, till the dreadful day doth come when this boy would see him no longer, but the face of a kingdom bereft of angelic priesthood and in need of a holy father.
They were both in hiding in a simple cabin distant from the rocky walls and fixtures of the castle, the kingdom being too great to reveal the identity of both, the prince’s identity concealed from the people, the sage in hiding from the masses. So they controlled the kingdom, as the young ruler’s father had taught him, his voice in his ears still, If ye seek to rule with your arm, you will rule only for a short time, but seek ye to do so with thine heart, and you will rule eternally, as Christ, yet ruling in hiding.
He remembered him enthroned, untroubled and aged, as a tear formed reflecting the light of the sun peering through the reddened skies.
How grateful I am for this kingdom enthroned upon the clouds, father! How grateful I am to rule as you did. Thanksgiving to you, thanksgiving and praise for the love that was borne in thine heart for me. If only you could be here to see the angels rejoicing over the peace we have instilled in the people and lands. Your smile would reach the heavens and you would hold me by your side as you did before gripping me as you had, before became your fate the sickness that gripped your lungs and mind and brain! Proclaimed the ruler.
His father’s only fear was that his son would not become as wise as he, and that his wife would fail to remember him, so he upon feeling the sickness reach his frontal lobe had taken his life by giving it in war, an emblematic battle won yet with his blood sprinkled as grace upon the Elden Fields.
His statue fixed in gold, taller than the trees, his face gazing in calm to the heavens with sword held at the breast, held tightly and in surety, was the crown of the people, who loved and adored, and nearly worshipped, King Paracletus the Great, Grandson Son of the Lion Bearer.