บท 9: The Weight of the Crown
During the days that followed, the preparations for war were more intense. The yards, so quiet up till then, now became a focal point for bustle and activity: the blacksmiths forged arms day and night, while the soldiers trained incessantly under the watchful eye of their commanders. The nobles who, until then, had clearly shown to everyone what little they expected from David now used to say in hushed tones how badly he had taken it; although, of course, there were still those whispering doubts in the innermost rooms of houses.
The views of others meant little to David, however, for he had no spare time in which to dwell on what other people thought. Each day was chalked full of war councils, strategy meetings, and training with his men. He had to be a good example—not only in what he said but in his actions as well.
One evening, as the sun was setting again in the training yard, David was practicing his skills with his sword. Sweat oozed from his brow, and his muscles shrieked in protest, yet he would not stop until he had worked the pent-up frustration out of his system. With every swipe of his blade, he tried to still the insidious doubts nibbling at the edges of his mind. The Seljuks were not some ordinary enemy. This war would not be won by brute strength but by guile and patience—qualities he hoped he was endowed with in sufficient measure.
"Your Majesty," called a well-known voice from behind him.
David stopped, his sword in the middle of a swing, and looked around to his old friend and trusted commander approaching. Ivane was one of the few who had stood by him since his rise to the throne—a man of unwavering loyalty and keen intellect. He pulled back his long, dark hair, and his armour, though simple, showed signs of too many battles.
"Ivane," David said, sheathing his sword. "I wouldn't have thought you'd still be up at this hour."
Ivane snorted. "I might say the same about you. Still, kings can't afford sleep, can they?"
David blew out a breath, running a hand through his damp hair. "Sleep? I think that's something I vaguely remember. There's just too much to do. Too many lives depending on it."
Ivane nodded. His expression was grave. "The men see your efforts, David. They follow you because they believe in you. But even kings need to know when to take a step back."
David's eyes flickered with doubt. "And what if I'm not enough, Ivane? What if I lead them into battle and they die because of my decisions?
Ivane folded his arms, eyes level. "You're not alone in that, David. You've got us. Your council—your soldiers. We fight because we believe in you to lead us, to fight for your people, not because you are a perfect king, but because you are one that fights for them.
It had struck a chord in David's body. All the time, he had been so consumed with being the king that Georgia needed that he had forgotten what had ever made him strong to begin with—the people standing beside him. His people, his friends, believed in him, even when he had doubted himself.
David let out a heavy sigh and felt the load of his responsibilities bearing in on him. "Sometimes it feels as if the crown weighs more than I can bear."
Ivane's features softened. "That is because it does. No one man can carry it. That is why you have us. We bear it together."
David nodded slightly, and the tension inside his chest loosened somewhat. "Thanks, Ivane. I needed to hear that.
Ivane chuckled softly. "It's what I am here for, anyway. Now come: Bishop George wants to talk to us about supply routes. I have the feeling he is going to tell us that we are all doomed if we do not listen to his every word."
David laughed; it was a strange sound after days of tension. "Sounds like him. Shall not keep him waiting.
Later that night, David sat at the head of the great long war table, flanked by his most trusted advisors: Ivane to his right and Bishop George, ever composed, opposite him. A map of Georgia lay between them, upon which were marked both the Seljuk positions and their own.
"We have managed to cut off a big portion of their supply lines," George started to explain calmly, yet with urgency in his voice. "But they're adapting, and we can't keep them that way if we don't do something—and soon—to the point where they will find routes around it, and this advantage will be lost."
Ivane was nodding forward. "We cannot afford complacency. The Seljuks are guileful, and their numbers outweigh ours by so much.
David studied the map, his brow furrowed in thought. "Then we need to strike before they can regroup. But not recklessly. We need to make sure every move we make counts."
"I've been considering our options," George added. "If we attack from the west, we can easily force them into the mountains, where their numbers will work against them.
Ivane frowned. "That terrain is treacherous for both sides. If we get trapped there—"
"I know," George said quickly. "But it's a risk we may have to take. We don't have the luxury of time or numbers. We need to lure them into a fight where they're vulnerable.
David said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon the map. His mind turned over the options, each with its own risk. Yet there was no alternative—war never allowed for an easy option. He could sense the weight of the eyes of the room on him, waiting upon his word.
"We shall take the west route," David finally said, his tone even. "We shall prepare our troops and shift before they can react. If we can encircle them within the mountain, that will be to our advantage."
Ivane nodded, though his eyes betrayed a glint of concern. "It's dangerous, but it just might work."
George smiled, but it was more a gesture of relief than one of triumph. "Then it is settled. We will send word to the troops."
David stood, and the council followed suit. The weight of his decision hung heavy in the air, but he knew it was the only one that they had.
The meeting was dismissed, and David stayed in the room, his mind working at supersonic speeds. War was never a simple matter; he knew that. He had made his choice, and now it was time to live with it.
Later, David walked the darkened palace halls until he was able to make his way to the small chapel that cowered into obscurity in the west wing. The candles danced across the stone walls, casting soft shadows, while the silent air seemed to give him reprieve.
Bishop George entered from behind him, composed in demeanour as always. "You made a hard choice tonight, David.
David didn't turn, his gaze fixed on the altar. "It doesn't feel like a choice. It feels like the only path we have."
George stepped beside him, his voice soft. "That's the nature of leadership. Sometimes all paths are filled with thorns. But the fact that you hesitate and that you care—those are signs of a good king.
David let out a deep sigh; his hand lay on the cold stone of the altar. "I just want to protect them, George. My people. My kingdom."
"And you will," he replied as George laid a hand on his shoulder. "But remember, you don't have to bear this alone. We're all here to help you carry the burden.
David nodded, the words a soothing balm to his actions. But in his heart, he knew that the most difficult trials lay ahead.
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