Faces. Thousands of them staring up at you, their eyes gleaming, their mouths set in grim lines.
Their expectations are high.
Your hands tremble, your lips quiver like a young child about cry.
You open your mouth to speak, but no sound escapes.
You feel as if you are being choked, the air slowly, agonizingly being taken from you.
The fates have dealt you a cruel turn, but you must continue.
You must say something.
These are your people, they look up to you; all eyes turn to you when disaster strikes.
You are the King. You have all the power in the world at your fingertips.
And yet, you carry such a burden; you endure so much suffering, sometimes it feels as if the world has been thrust upon your shoulders, and you are too weak to bear its weight.
Your breaths come in shallow rasps; your heart pounds like an iron gavel in your chest.
You close your eyes; you feel your heels rocking back and forth.
Around you, the seconds tick past furiously; and yet time seems to have stopped as you try so hard to form a sentence.
You stare so hard at that damned paper, analyzing every word with care and preciseness.
In your mind you scream the words, screaming at God to let your voice be heard.
And yet, nothing happens. Nothing at all.
You look around you, a horrid sense of despair welling within you.
Perhaps, the cause is lost.
You see dear Elizabeth, tears welling in her eyes; it is all too painful for her to see you struggle.
You see the Archbishop, his eyes cold and steely-gray.
You see the people, thousands of them staring up at you, wondering what on earth has happened.
And then…then you see Logue. Amongst the crowd, watching like any other person.
But his eyes are not expectant; he is not examining you like an insect under a microscope.
He nods his head and gestures with his hands vaguely, like Handel readying the orchestra.
You look back down at the writing in your hands, the red slashes blood red on the stark white of the paper.
It isn't a speech.
It's a piece of music.
A piece of music meant to be played slowly and melodically.
It is meant for you.
It is your song; within it, you are expressing your emotions.
It is the ballad of a troubled monarch.
Though he struggles, he never stops.
Never stops persevering, never gives up hope.
Let that monarch be you.
So you bravely look up at the crowd, then back at that speech.
You smile at it fondly, as if it is an old friend.
You open your mouth, and you begin.
And you let your voice be heard.