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“How does it feel to be a —“ I stopped short. 


He fastened the loop of his bag over his shoulder to his comfort and looked up, “How does it feel to be a what?” 


I hesitated, “You know.”


“I would know only if you spell it out now, wouldn’t I.”


I cleared my throat. “A sovereign, my brother.”


He smiled graciously, “Hah, that,” and replied in the most poetic and gentlest manner, “the sovereign, my brother, is just a man, after all.” 


I grinned. 


“I reckon you envision me in an armour . . . wielding a weapon even, right?” 


My eyes lit up. “Exactly!” 


“A sovereign serves his people,” he said spontaneously, most clearly, gracefully, “and the day the people serve the sovereign is the day the empire falls. Remember that, if nothing else.” 


I rounded my mouth, reflecting. 


“And, yes,” he went on, giving me a thumbs-up, “my armour and my weapon is my imagination.”