Spoilers for vol 20 of HE. Written because after reading it, I just had to write something.
The title means "Long Live the King." -

I don't remember what I felt. Nothing, I think. There are some times in life when you just don't.

You've been running away, they told me-avoiding reponsibility, chasing foolishness. Why not? I'm the fool king Hacchan, after all.

But I got dragged in anyway. Remade, revamped, my speeches written and my turban straightened for me, high boots polished so I could see my blue-green eyes staring right back at me. My advisors stood on either side, those most important, educated, strongest, determined for the cause, and I presented myself to my public.

"Uh, war is bad."

No, I never would play it their way. You can't make a fool a king, just a fool king. A turban or a coxcomb, belled shoes or high boots, I don't see much difference. One keeps your head warm, the other your feet. Does it matter if you jingle when you walk?

I led the people by being the idiot's idiot. We love peace, festivals, sales, entertainment. Life is for fun-when else should you have your fun, in death? And I never really took anything seriously-or was taken seriously.

Though maybe, I'll admit, I sneaked a look at this or that book. Maybe I got just a tiny bit involved. But I had to, I cared. I'm also a fool the way my dad was-in loving everybody. In trusting. In wanting to protect each and every person from harm.

I walked up the steps, boots clacking. My cape and turban billowed behind me, catching the wind more as I rose up the staircase. Beside me was an old man. Well, not quite beside-he was actually climbing a little ahead of me, faster, though no energy or no will was in it. Just mechanical motions, as if he were programmed or Fated to walk the steps, and had even less energy to oppose that than he did to walk. He loved his people too, I guess. We reached the top and there they were beneath us-shouting, frenzied, confused, hungry. For his death.

I took a deep breath. I hadn't even shaved.

With a swift motion I turned, the tip of the blade slicing through the air. It stopped tensely just beside the his withered white neck, and the people quieted at the intent. The old man just waited with eyes closed, looking almost alseep. His face held no expression but perhaps it had been washed away, like the rest of him. And I said my piece, and I drew back my arm, and I ended the war before the great crowd with one quick, strong, unhesitent stroke of the sword.

His soul burst into the air with great energy, freed finally. I turned to his people-my people-and raised my sword victoriously, to the cheers for the new dynasty, the new fool king and most of all, for the end of a nightmare.

I don't remember what I felt. Nothing, I think. There are some times in life when that's just better.