The king sits in a room alone anesthetized by suffered vision. With eyes closed he looks up and sees a great man about to die. A man with the ability to kill because he knew how to heal. A man with the ability to steal because he knew how to protect that which was most valuable. A man torn by two worlds that found nobility in each and kept what was most useful to him. Through the mist of panorama the king now sees the mans death...
His procession is one fit for an ancient king. A casket of glass, flowers and music interlaced with stringed instruments. Mourners gather in the hundreds with nothing to say. Nothing to share. Whatever memory they had of him...was private. Why did they mourn? Why were they there? What was he to them? He never knew. He never accepted his impact so as to keep himself steady. He was a shadow behind the greats. A momentary whisper of encouragement in the wind. A moment to remember...
The king now knows his name...Barnabas...
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