He said he was like Aragorn—
which simplifies things.
At once there is a kingdom,
a lineage,
a future postponed for noble reasons,
and a woman somewhere
patient enough to make it meaningful.
And since patience,
then waiting,
and since waiting,
then interpretation—
small pauses examined like artifacts,
silences catalogued,
every delay entered into evidence
as proof of depth.
No throne required.
No witnesses.
No public act of choosing.
The crown exists in theory,
which is lighter to carry.
Not just the scale, it’s also the convenience—
a man may remain unfinished indefinitely,
provided the story explains him.
A man may divide his life into careful sections,
call it burden,
call it timing,
call it the long road.
The road lengthens nicely
when no one insists on arrival.
And I—
placed somewhere along this route,
not quite a destination,
more like a well-lit clearing—
am asked, without being asked,
to understand.
To recognize greatness in restraint,
to admire the discipline of postponement,
to hold the shape of a future
that keeps adjusting itself.
Meanwhile, in less mythic settings,
kings tend to announce themselves,
love tends to appear in daylight,
and decisions, when they happen,
have dates.
Still—
it is a beautiful story.
The hidden heir.
The necessary delay.
The almost.
So what can one say
about men who borrow epics—
the historians of themselves,
the quiet editors of consequence—
if anything fits,
it is this:
that in the retelling,
with enough weather,
enough distance,
enough carefully chosen words—
even hesitation
can be mistaken
for destiny.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 