Pieces & Memories

What Does It Mean To Be King?

What does a king’s crown symbolize?

Sure, it is the pinnacle symbol of leadership, but that begs the question about the nature of leadership—to which, you will receive a variety of differing answers depending upon whom you ask, as well as their level of maturity, experience, and personal philosophy.

Some men wear crowns made of gold.

Others, like the character Erik from Yield, wear their crowns on their backs—a rucksack stitched from fabric, and so heavy with equipment that it requires years of training to effectively wear under sustained duress without breaking the mind or body.

In Yield, Erik and his son (named Sigurt) find themselves navigating the Alaskan wilderness. Erik is on a mission to test some prototype technology on behalf of his company in an effort to secure a multimillion-dollar US military contract.

His son, a teenager, is not officially tied to the United States government as he is both too young and undertrained. However, Erik, as the CEO of the company, brings his son along for the trip anyway—both to teach him as part of a father-son bonding experience—and because Erik had no other choice for other reasons.

While hiking through the icy mountains, Erik and his son start talking about the nature of leadership.

When Erik says, in reference to his rucksack filled with equipment, “This bag, out here? Is my crown,” He’s laying bare a metaphorical truth that many men either forget—or were never taught in the first place—about the burdens of leadership: Why not everyone is cut out to be the metaphorical king of any given people, despite how so many may desire the crown.

And by “any given people,” I mean even the members of one’s own household, as every man is essentially the king of his own home. In this context, then, his people would be the members of his family.

The True Nature Of A Crown

Erik doesn’t glamorize his role. He doesn’t puff his chest or use the word “king” as a bludgeon the way characters like Joffrey Lannister stamped his feet in Game of Thrones while verbally proclaiming that he is the king…

…only to get verbally chin-checked by his grandfather, Tywin, who said: “Any man who must say I am the king is no true king.”

Between these two scenes (either literary or cinematic), you will find at least a partial parallel between Tywin Lannister’s philosophy of kingliness and Erik’s.

In fact, like a Zen master demonstrating the philosophical point to his student, Erik actually offers his son his rucksack—and thus the position of leading their formation that went with it.

Sigurt reflexively declines, passing Erik’s test.

A lesser man—blinded by ego—would’ve accepted it without understanding its cost. But Sigurt instinctively senses it: that his father’s crown wasn’t ceremonial.

It burns. It presses into your bones. It makes your joints ache and your mind never rest, diminishing all dimensions of your health the longer you bear it.

This is what makes the moment so philosophically profound.

Without realizing it, Sigurt embodied a man of noble heart who would turn down the throne before his father explained the symbolic significance of the gesture. At first, Sigurt hadn’t seen a crown; he saw a large, heavy bag—one far heavier than his own that he’d rather not bear.

And why was Erik’s bag heavier? Erik’s equipment was a collection of contingency items meant to increase their chances of survival in various scenarios, such as extra food and medical gear. He had to pack more not merely for himself but for his undertrained son.

In other words, if each potential problem would be metaphorically viewed as a dragon, then Erik was the one equipped to face that dragon—which would also mean that Erik would have to be the first one on the battlefield’s peril.

Who among men would want to be the first to step onto a battlefield to slay a dragon?

So many men would want the glory of slaying a dragon; so few would want to endure the struggle and risk of toiling with it to earn it. So many men want to wear the gold of a king’s crown; so few want to bear the weight of the burdens that come with it.

And Erik never had to flex his rank, because Sigurt instinctively understood why he respected his father. That respect didn’t have to be forced. He respected his father’s unspoken rank because Erik had knowingly positioned himself as the member of the party with the highest risk of injury, bearing extra weight for both others and himself, as he led the way by example toward the completion of their mission.

No one in their right mind would want to swap places with Erik upon internalizing an empathetic understanding of what it would really feel like to be in his shoes.

This is what it meant to be king.

The True Nature of Servant-Leadership

Erik’s form of masculinity doesn’t seek submission. It doesn’t demand loyalty. It earns it without ever actually needing to say a word.

He leads from the front—not because he’s chasing glory, but because he refuses to ask of others what he is unwilling to suffer himself. He breaks trail through deep snow, carries the heavier pack, and shoulders the extra food, medical, ammunition, and other supplies—not for praise, but because that’s what love does when it puts on boots.

Love is the willingness to suffer. He chose to suffer a bit more in order to ensure Sigurt’s safety in the way a good king would choose to suffer because he loves his people.

In that moment, Erik defines firmly what it means to be a “king.” Not as someone enthroned above others he manipulates like chess pieces of amusement—but as someone who sacrifices himself to serve and protect them while bearing the burden of that sacrifice without complaint.

When Erik calls his rucksack his crown, he reclaims what the word “king” was always meant to be: Not someone to be served, but someone who earns respect by his sacrificial service.

“A good king is the first servant of the sovereign. His position is earned by the burdens he bears, and maintained by the respect he earns from his people by the manner in which he bears them.” —Erik (Yield)

What appears to be the top of the pyramid is actually the bottom.

The true king is someone who stays awake longer, walks further, and plans deeper—so the people under his care can sleep easier.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s not easy.

More often than not, it’s a thankless position wrought with those who misunderstand and criticize you, who point out your flaws while underappreciating your strengths.

But it’s the kind of leadership that really holds the world together—one quiet, burdened step at a time.

Do you agree? Why/Why not?

Feel free to reply directly to this e-mail with your thoughts. You’ll really reach me (or one of my staff), and your response may become inspiration for more content we publish.

Yield is filled with layers of symbolism both in what is written in the lines of the book and that which is between them. Don’t miss out on a story that may stay with you for the rest of your life. Pick up the full version of Yield here: