HE traveled long and he fought hard but his only success was the stream he came upon after tree days of running. The Dali Lama once said something along the lines of this: If you feel insignificant, like your voice is to small to be heard, try sleeping in a room with a mosquito. That was the thesis of his rebellion. It was the message he held in his mind as he stood and cast the seed of dissidence upon the rulers of the kingdom. He drank from the stream alone and knew, alone, that he was wrong. The Dali Lama’s message was an uncooked piece of meat. He, the troubadour, ate it. Now he was to die. It was so nice to believe, he found so much comfort in the words of the Dali Lama but now he was to pay for eating such a nicety.
But the Dali Lama was not completely wrong, just his math. A single mosquito was annoying, this is very true. Sleeping with such an insect is troublesome but the remedy for the trouble is easily found. You kill the mosquito. The troubadour had done it many times. Gods, why had he remembered nothing of his life before the king. His life among rice paddies and hot nights in a concrete room with only a single mosquito for company. If he had thought of those nights before he stuck down his lord and muttered those words of damnation he would have done it all differently.
A single mosquito could be killed with a timed swipe and sleep could come soon after. But, if the mosquito were not alone, if the mosquito had hundred or thousands of others, just as small and insignificant, then his message could be heard and comfort could be disturbed. The troubadour thought he, a single man, could achieve true revolution. Foolish man. He needed others like him to take up arms and fight under his banner.
He laid under the stars and cursed his mind. Was he lazy? The thought of uniting thousands of others like him was daunting, was that the reason he did not think of this snag earlier on? Now, he was doomed to die along a stream, far from all he knew and loved. He would die alone, fed to dogs, his blood was to join the banks of the beautiful stream he laid upon. He lost.
He said for an hour more and saw a meteor shoot across the sky, that made the troubadour smile. Of all the nights to be destitute, without a roof over his head, this was the perfect night. He made a wish. With a flash of inspiration his wish was granted in the form of an idea.
He was wrong. It could be done alone, but he had gone about it in the wrong way. He used words, sounds, like the mosquito. Why? Because he was afraid to die, he was afraid to touch his king and to draw his blood. He was afraid of the hand that swipes blindly in the night. He carried a disease, an idea. He needed to infect, but time was running short. He doubled back to the capital and the kings chambers in the dead of that night. He made not a sound. A torch. He laid with his king and let the torch fall upon the kings sheets and night robes. The troubadour grabbed his king and held him tight. The fire burned around them.