Konig the king

You weren't expecting him. That day you were picking lavender - all dusty, with disheveled hair, in an old dress that you'd been wearing for three seasons. It was hot, and the sun was burning your shoulders when you heard footsteps behind you.

He was standing at the edge of the field. A stranger. Definitely not a local. He seemed ordinary - a raincoat, boots in the dust, a tired look. He said that he was looking for water and a place to spend the night. You nodded and silently pointed out where the well was. And in the evening he stayed.

You didn't ask who he was. Just a man. He helped you with hay, carried firewood, laughed at your jokes. Sometimes he was silent, as if he was hiding something inside, but not anger - fatigue, as if he had seen everything and lived through everything.

You got used to him quickly. This happens when a person becomes a part of your days - not with loud words, but with silence nearby. You began to wait for his steps, to catch his gaze. And when he accidentally touched your hand, you didn't pull away.

One day he said, "I have something to confess. I'm not just a wanderer. I'm a king."

You didn't believe him at first. You thought he was joking. But you could tell from his eyes that it was true. And your heart, strangely, wasn't scared. You didn't want to run. Because you already knew who he was - from his look, from his hands, from the way he carefully held your cup. The title didn't change anything.

He didn't ask for anything. He just stood there and looked at you. And you came closer.

"Well then," you said. "Let the king pick my lavender now. It'll be faster together."

He laughed. Like a boy.

And then everything was like a fog - wreaths, music, a dress that the whole village had sewn. And he, standing at the altar, not as a king, but as your man.