This, too, shall pass.

An old adage appearing in most middle-east traditions, from the works of the Islamic Sufi poets to the Jewish folklore, tells us about an Eastern King, powerful and rich beyond measure, who attained wisdom at, in my humble opinion, a great cost. Like all stories, it must be taken with a grain of salt, and whatever the author meant, what matters is what you take from it.

There was once a King, years ago and miles away, who had attained all the wealth and power he could possibly need in his lifetime. His realm was prosperous, his subjects happy and his lands fertile. The world marvelled at his righteousness and wisdom, and he tried to do his best in all things. He loved his queen very, very much, and their children had grown happy and strove to follow the good steps of his father.

But no one under heaven is allowed a life of perfect bliss, and chance bows to no man. Bad things happen to us all, and the King, with all his wisdom and his power, was no exception. A bad season would bring famine to his lands, and he would struggle to keep his subjects fed. War would erupt between his neighbours, and he would have to march his armies to stop the bloodshed, losing good men in the fight. Disease would spread amongst his people, and the doctors would be overwhelmed. Even his good queen fell to the plagues, despite all his power and wealth.

People, familiar or unknown, dear or hated, died and suffered. That too is part of life.

But the King was a good man, and his heart already bled with every tragedy he couldn't stop, and with the suffering of those he reigned over. After her death, he grew weary with sadness, and obsessed. He would spend days in his study, trying free himself from the cold grip grief had over his heart. He laboured, twice as hard, for his country, but his heart grew pale and white with sorrow.

The King, tired, called all the wise men in the land, physicians and magi, and told them to find something, be it medicinal herb or magic spell, that could make a man change sadness into happiness. He promised riches beyond measure to whoever brought him such a marvel, and the wise men rallied to the call.

First came the magi, wielders of ancient powers and keepers of unfathomable secrets. They wore cowls and capes, the air around them thrumming with power. One by one they tried, magic words and beautiful talismans, to give their King what he had asked for, but in the end, they all failed, and the kind told them to be gone from his sight.

Then came the physicians and doctors, their robes lined with gold and their bag filled with plants from far-away lands. They concocted strange beverages, and substances that gave off strange vapours. The King threw those away, too, for such things would only delay the inevitable. Neither wine nor exotic plants could but momentarily cast away his sadness and it would always come back.

Finally, an old man came forth, his face rough and leathery. He wore no ornament on his person and no circlet on his brow. His hands were calloused and his robes worn-through. He had a small, knowing smile on his face. He stood before the King respectful, but unafraid, and his eyes had the warmth of a great fire turned to embers.

“Young King. I carry with me a ring, an heirloom from my mother’s family, inscribed with words that will give you what you search for.”

“Another charlatan? I am in no need of magic rings of words of power, old man. Take your ancient bones, your magic tricks and your empty promises to a more guileless man.”

The old man smiled still, for he knew the turn of the world and its secrets. Not medicine or magic, but the secret hearts of people.

“My King, I want no money or riches for it, and I only ask of you that you gaze upon it's carvings, if you so wish. Otherwise, I will be on my way, and I deeply apologize for troubling you.”

The King was astonished. No money or reward? They King had no shortage of enemies, and some had tried to assassinate him already amidst all the attempts at curing his sadness. It might be a trap, and the King was wary.

“Come forth, old man, and let me see this ring of yours. Let me see those blessed words.”

The old man, his steps slow with age, took his ring, hanging on a chain around his neck, and presented it to him.

“I must warn your, though. With the wisdom this ring carries comes a curse, my King, and one that can’t be avoided.”

The king stopped his hand halfway and looked at the old man questioningly.

“This ring carries knowledge, and knowledge always carries a price. In this case, the price is that this knowledge can never be forgotten, no matter what the consequences. This knowledge may lessen your sadness and even turn it into joy, but it will also work the other way.” The old man turned around and slowly limped towards the gates. “I hope, my dear King, that you can bear it. That it leaves you wiser. That it gives you strength.”

The King took the ring in his hand and looked at it. It was a wooden, hand-made piece that could have been crafted by any shepherd in his spare time, and on it were carved four simple words. The King read them and stayed silent for a while, the steps of the stranger still ringing in the halls of his palace. He kept looking at the ring, his face turning from curiosity to despair, then anger, then a pale rictus.

He had realized the terrible, amazing truth in those four words. They would lessen any grief, because no grief would last forever. But they would also lessen any joy, for no joy was eternal either.

The old man turned around one last time and looked upon the mighty King, and whispered, his voice soft.

“I am so, so sorry.”

The King raised his hand, shook his head and looked back, a small, contented smile on his face.

“I thank you deeply, wise man.”

“Will you be alright?” The old man’s words trembled with undisguised worry.

The King nodded, his face wounded but happy, and if his grin didn’t have the joy of a child in it, at least had the wisdom of a sage.

“This, too, shall pass.” He recited aloud, looking at the ring.