The King Who Forgot His Name

📍 Kingdom of Aramoor – Year Unknown

They found him by the river, soaked in blood and silence.

No one knew who he was—not the farmer who dragged him from the current, not the midwife who stitched the gash on his head, not the children who giggled at his royal bearing while he slept on straw.

And he didn’t know either.

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The man they saved was tall and broad-shouldered, with a strange authority that clung to him even as he limped and winced. He had no memory, no name, no clue of who he had been. But something about him whispered he was once someone important. They called him “Jon,” after the farmer’s dead son. He nodded in silence. That was enough.

He never asked for more. And the villagers never asked for less.

Jon stayed.

He chopped wood. He hauled water from the well. He repaired broken carts and fed livestock. Slowly, he became part of the village rhythm—unremarkable, yet respected. People said he had the hands of a laborer, but the eyes of a man who had seen too much war.

The midwife said he was a soldier.

The old butcher said he was a runaway noble.

The tavern owner whispered he might be cursed.

Jon didn’t care. The name didn’t matter. The past was a fog he could live without. Or so he thought.

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Every Sunday, he walked to the village square where a blind bard sang songs of history, love, and war. Jon always sat in the front row. Not for the music—but for the pieces. Each verse felt like a mirror with cracks. He couldn’t explain why, but his chest tightened at certain names: Aramoor, Alaric, The Burning Night.

It was as if the stories belonged to someone he had once loved. Or betrayed.

One day, the bard sang:

> “And the King of Aramoor, proud and cruel,

Burned his brother in the midnight duel.

Took the crown and cursed the land,

Built his rule on a bloodstained hand.”

The villagers clapped. But Jon? He trembled.

---

As seasons passed, Jon became one of them. He played with children. He planted wheat. He even fell in love with the quiet baker’s daughter, Elia—a kind soul with flour-streaked cheeks and laughter that softened him.

He thought perhaps this was his fate. Perhaps fate had rewritten his story, offering him peace instead of power. Maybe forgetting was a blessing.

Until the storm came.

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It happened on a cold autumn night. Thunder cracked open the sky like a drum of war. Rain fell in sheets as Jon stood under the twisted elm near the fields, staring at the lightning as if daring it to strike him.

And then, it happened.

One blinding flash.

One scream of thunder.

And everything returned.

The crown.

The palace.

The war.

His brother's scream.

The fire that swallowed the eastern provinces.

The blood on his hands.

The people who knelt.

The people who starved.

He was not Jon.

He was King Alaric of Aramoor.

---

He stumbled back to his hut, breathing heavily. The mirror showed a different face now—older, colder, broken not by wounds, but by choices. He remembered everything. Every order. Every execution. Every gold coin snatched from poor hands to build statues in his name.

He sank to the floor and wept.

Elia found him at dawn, sitting silently, staring at his hands. She asked what was wrong.

“I used to be someone,” he whispered.

“You still are,” she said. “And you’re good.”

“No,” he said. “I was a king who thought he ruled the world… but never understood it.”

---

By noon, he was gone.

He shaved, washed, and dressed in his best tunic. Then he walked toward the capital road—the golden path that led to his palace. Soldiers would find him. News would spread. The lost king had returned.

But as he walked, the voices of the villagers echoed behind him—the boy who called him “uncle,” the old man who shared stories, the children who climbed on his back. And Elia, who smiled without knowing his past, and loved him anyway.

He paused.

Then he turned around.

---

Two days later, royal guards arrived in the village.

They stormed into the square, banners raised, voices booming:

> “His Majesty King Alaric has returned! He was found alive! The true king walks among us again!”

The villagers looked at one another.

An old woman stepped forward.

“We don’t know any king here,” she said calmly.

“He was here!” a soldier barked. “He lived among you!”

“Many have,” she replied. “But none who forgot how to be human.”

The soldiers searched every home, barn, and hut. But Jon—King Alaric—was nowhere.

---

In the great palace of Aramoor, the nobles prepared the throne. The red carpet was scrubbed. The crown was polished. Ministers rehearsed speeches.

But the king never came.

Instead, a scroll arrived—sealed with the royal crest.

It read:

> To the People of Aramoor,

I have ruled your lands without walking them. I have demanded loyalty without offering love. I have sat on a throne built by fear, not faith.

But I have walked your fields. I have eaten your bread. I have laughed with your children. And for the first time, I have lived.

I am no longer your king. I do not deserve that honor.

Let the crown find a wiser head. Let the throne be earned, not inherited.

As for me… I choose peace. I choose silence. I choose to be a man—not a myth.

– Alaric, son of no name

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No one ever saw him again.

Some say he lives deep in the woods, helping travelers. Others believe he sailed west to a quiet island. Elia never spoke of him again—but every morning, fresh bread appeared on the old wooden table outside his empty hut.

The kingdom crowned a new ruler—a scholar-king chosen by the people, not by blood.

And somewhere, in a village forgotten by maps, the wind still carries the voice of a king who remembered what it meant to forget.

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🖋️ Written by Muhammad Riaz

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