In the twilight of his reign, King Charles III — sovereign of the realm and guardian of the Crown — beareth a burden not solely of state, but of sorrow. For behind the regal mien and weighty sceptre lies the tender heart of a father, longing still for the return of a beloved, estranged son.
Though the world knoweth him as monarch, robed in majesty and bound to ancient duty, those who dwell within the stone-clad corridors of the royal palace speak of a gentler truth: that His Majesty’s soul is sorely grieved. Yea, since tidings reached the court that Prince Harry, once Duke of Sussex, may yet set foot again upon English soil, the King hath grown quiet and gaunt, consumed by memories and hope unspoken.
“He doth not speak oft of his ache,” whispered one close to the throne, “but all may see it in his eyes. His appetite hath waned, and he laboureth long into the night, not for affairs of state alone, but to silence the unrest within.”
Servants in the royal household have marked his altered countenance: meals untouched, scrolls and letters perused by candlelight into the small hours, and oft, in stillness, His Majesty standeth at the great window of his chamber, gazing beyond the garden walls, as though seeking a shadow long absent.
There, in the hush of night, where once laughter rang and sons played beneath the boughs of Windsor, the King remembereth. Some say he beholdeth not the gardens, but the faces of his youth — and among them, the bright countenance of Harry, once the joy of the House of Windsor.
For the bond ‘twixt father and child is not undone by distance nor discord. Though harsh words have passed and many winters lie between them, the heart doth not forget its own. Prince Harry, having forsaken the court and journeyed across the seas to dwell in far-off California with his lady Meghan, hath spoken openly, even sharply, of palace wounds. Yet through it all, King Charles hath never ceased to yearn.
Those well-versed in the annals of courtly life observe that the monarch’s silent grief mirroreth that of any father who hath watched love turn to silence. And though he be King, anointed and crowned, he is yet a man — flesh, bone, and a heart that bleeds as any other.
“He carrieth the Crown with grace,” spake one loyal servant, “but it is fatherhood that weigheth heavier still.”
Now, as whispers rise that father and son may yet meet again beneath the same roof, a glimmer of hope stirs amid the stillness. Will it be a moment of mending, or shall the breach widen anew? None can say. But this much is known: King Charles awaiteth the hour, not with proclamations or parade, but with quiet longing and the silent prayers of a father who hath not ceased to love.
Let it be known to all who read these words: that even in palaces, hearts break softly. That even beneath crowns, tears are shed unseen. And that, amidst all the grandeur of kingship, there is no desire so noble, nor so pure, as that of a father who wisheth only to embrace his son once more.
So let it be writ. So let it be remembered.
