Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
On his deathbed, Ælfric gives a final warning to his family.
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The “Shades of Night” Anthology:
Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
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“Let us away from the frigid peaks of Rodorhíep,” said the Chronicler.
There was a shifting in the audience. When the musicians quieted their instruments, the sound of late summer filled the air. Crickets and cuckoos called, but there was an urgency about their song.
A breeze stirred.
People drew closer. There was a slight witchiness about the evening. It carried an edge that reminded man—unconscious and conscious—that dark days lay in wait. Perhaps it was to be the final warm night for some time.
Stroking his grey and grizzled beard, the old man smiled. “We will return to talk of Byzmor. There are grave consequences for those who strike bargains with blackened hearts.” He paused, eyes sad. Looking around at the crowd, the old man released a heavy sigh. “At times the consequences are borne only by the innocent rather than the wicked. Ah, but what is to be done about it? No true justice among the living.”
The Chronicler added softly—almost to himself, “Only after we’ve gone.”
No one spoke. They remained still, eyes fixed on the old man before them as though under a spell.
Sitting up, the Chronicler clasped his gnarled hands. “Yet it is the responsibility of the living to strive for justice, hm?”
He took a sip of tea, now cold and waved a hand in the air. “Yes. Now, we shall speak of matters of great importance; things that may happen, have happened, or things that may never be. Let us speak of a great man, a man who was almost king.”
The Chronicler began to talk of Hleoholt, their home; of how it was a nation that bordered the High North and how it was the last outposts of human civilisation before the wild, frosted tundras beyond.
Living amongst rolling glens, thickets, and heather, those good people of Springcombe might forget that Hleoholt was a land built upon the tombs of brave men.
The blood of giants drenched the soil and crops so that the harvest grew ten times in size. In turn, those who ate from Holtian lot towered over their neighbours. Bread and battle-sweat of giants turned Hleoholt into a nation of warriors.
Warriors became heroes, heroes became kings, and kings brought an age of harmony.
Yet peace belongs to the constant, scarlet-stained hands that ever feed it. Serenity follows ravens, traded to the strong.
So, the Chronicler turned to the tale of King Averil. The King sired seven sons. When it came time for the throne to pass between generations and Averil I died, his heirs fell into a great civil war.
The war was initiated by an interwoven series of events. Princes Averil II and Wolflan met a tragic end against the Eastern giants. The third son, Obed, was sickly-born.
Whispers and suggestions withered into plans and plans into the black deed that would forever leave a mark upon the House Averil.
Within a month of his crowning, Obed was assassinated by his younger brother, Dracus. This left Ælfric, Michael, and Pavel. Ælfric and Michael took it upon themselves to defeat their brother.
Following their victory, it was decided by Ælfric that it should be their youngest sibling, Pavel, who would ascend for he was clean of bloodshed. From then on, those that remembered would whisper of the great deeds of Ælfric, the almost king.
He would be known most of all, however, for his final words. For they would be of monumental importance…
The Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
Many years after the ascent of King Pavel the Affable, Ælfric was on his deathbed. He served decades as his youngest brother’s advisor, tending to matters of security and warcraft as was his experience.
In his youth, he was great in stature. Within his last hours on earth, however, he had dwindled down to a boney shadow. His thin frame was propped by thick pillows and upon his legs were woollen blankets. Around him stood the many members of his family: fair-haired and fair-eyed, built firm and strong. They dressed in black cloaks and prepared for the sun to set on one of the greatest of their line.
Despite the warm spring that arrived, a chill remained in the air.
A young priest dressed in plain brown robes, attended to the old man when Ælfric spoke. His voice was weak, barely above a whisper so that no one else could hear. “Father Daniel, where is my brother?” asked Ælfric. “My brother, young Pavel?”
Father Daniel replaced the cup of water he was pouring and withdrew to the other room to call the King.
King Pavel sat amongst his seven children, all sons: Aloysious, Averil III, Æthelbeorn, Wolfric, Ælfrid, Aelbede, and Gesund. They in turn were gathered with their own families.
“My King,” Father Daniel called, head lowered. “Your brother requests your presence.”
Hesitating, the King glanced at his youngest son, Gesund, and his wife, Dierdre of Rofric. They waited quietly. Deirdre sat with rigid poise, expression sombre and dutiful. Gesund, meanwhile, played with one of his infant girls on his lap.
King Pavel exchanged a look with his wife, Isolde. Her eyes, an astonishing amber, shone with affection. With a nod, King Pavel rose and followed Father Daniel into the next room.
He knelt by Ælfric’s side. “I am here, brother.”
Ælfric smiled. “There you are, our young Pavel!” he said.
“Brother, I am no longer so young,” said the King with a chuckle.
Ælfric laid his dimming eyes upon Pavel’s aged face. “I can still see the boy that would hang upside down from the eaves of our father’s great hall.”
“That was many years ago,” said Pavel. “We are both now grandfathers.”
Ælfric reached out and squeezed his brother’s hand, wheezing laughter emitting from his chest. “Was it not yesterday? I can hardly believe you to be old. But then, you must be if I am. Is that not so?”
Pavel glanced down at their joined hands, both spotted and wrinkled.
It was indeed so. King Pavel rapidly approached his sixtieth year.
Once again, Ælfric spoke, “It matters not that the sun sets on our time. The Lord has been good to you, brother. I see many children and they, in turn, have had theirs.”
At this, Pavel beamed. “Yes, Gesund, my youngest, has just had his seventh and eighth. Twin daughters, Aelgwynne and Isolde—after my wife.”
“Blessed are they!” cried Ælfric.
“Indeed.”
Ælfric’s grip on Pavel’s hand suddenly tightened. “Brother,” he said, “I will join Michael soon.”
Pavel’s smile slipped from his features. Lowering his head, he whispered, “Brother, I do not know what I am going to do without your council.”
Ælfric waved away his fear. “So long as you do not neglect your borders and prepare the way for your heir, all will be well.”
Pavel was silent.
Sensing his apprehension, Ælfric spoke: “Do not concern yourself needlessly with the past, Pavel. You have sons who are of worthy strength, intellect, and experience. Our time is drawing to a close. We must have a future where Holtians stand strong in their time as we did in ours. They will have their own battles to fight.”
“How can I teach? It was not me,” argued the King. “I accepted duties, but you and Michael were warriors.”
“You can be strong, Pavel,” answered Ælfric. “It is not a matter of fear or worthiness but the same as you accepting the responsibility for the crown as you did as a boy.”
Pavel nodded.
Giving his brother’s hand a pat, Ælfric concluded, “my son… I wish to see him. Pavel, please bring my children.”
As King Pavel exited, Father Daniel pulled back a curtain so that the room opened up into the next.
Ælfric observed Gesund’s eldest son, Drystan. Fresh out of his teenage years, Drystan visibly retained the angst of a young man, sour-faced and silent.
As he took in his family, Ælfric caught a maidservant meet eyes with Gesund before casting them back to the floor. It was only a moment, enough for few to notice, but Ælfric did.
He looked away and folded his hands upon the blankets. There was much to be said and much to be done. Unfortunately, Ælfric knew, he could not see everything to the end.
Pavel withdrew out, nodding to the descendants of Ælfric as he did.
They were noble in their grief, dressed in black, heads held high. The very picture, thought Pavel, of royalty.
When they were called, they stepped forward and the curtain closed behind them.
Privacy allowed for familial affection and the thayne-like countenance fell away. Ælfric reached out for his oldest son as they entered the room. “Come here, my son.”
Cerdic, eldest of Ælfric’s children, knelt beside the bed with tears in his eyes. “Father.”
“My Cerdic,” Ælfric praised, “The spitting image of your grandfather, though you do not know it. It is a glad thing that I should see his face here and hopefully again as I leave for the world next.”
Cerdic bobbed his head, a small smile dimpling his serious features.
Ælfric pointed—with great effort—up at a great oil painting hung above the bed. “Your uncle Michael and I did what we did to protect this nation and its people.”
Cerdic followed the gesture to see the likeness of his father and uncles as young men. They stood proudly side-by-side. There were seven of them, one’s face blotted out: Dracus the Usurper.
Ælfric sighed. “Our people come before anything however you feel about what is owed to you. Do you understand?”
“I do, father.”
“Good. Swear to me that you will uphold the throne whosoever shall be seated upon it.”
Cerdic paused, his breath catching.
“Swear it!” demanded Ælfric.
Cerdic, though no longer a boy, still startled at his father’s tone. “I swear,” he promised.
Ælfric deflated, returning to his resigned posture. “Come closer now, all of you,” he urged in a whisper, “I must tell you things of the utmost import.”
They obeyed.
Addressing his other children, Ælfric said, “Henrietta, Faron, Nia, and Cerdic… You should all bear in mind that when your cousin ascends to the throne there will be unrest. He will hear many whispers. Starting this moment, you should prepare to declare your allegiance—do it loudly—lest you and your family have your tongues torn from your mouths. Do not only keep your eyes on Gesund. It will likely not be he that you will have to fear but those who will counsel him. They are intent upon gaining power by proxy.”
He clicked his tongue against his top teeth and cast a disapproving glance to the drawn curtain. “Your cousin Gesund is a good warrior and has been a friend to us. I’m sure one day he will make a good king, but his past discretions have the power to grow into great adversaries.”
Henrietta and Cerdic shared a look. They understood.
“Finally,” added Ælfric, “I should ask that you speak to your cousin about the border. My love for my brother, the good king, is genuine… It must be said, however, that he is oft more interested in his books and art than the world around him. May God in heaven forgive me for speaking against my lord—you see, he fears the sword. I do not blame him. There are things that he must do. Ah, but perhaps the time for him to do them has passed. Yet he has been blessed with seven capable sons and many, many grandsons that he might use to his advantage. Hleoholt is on the brink.”
Henrietta’s brows knitted. “What do you mean, father? The border is secure.”
“It is not. I worry about the way of Rodorhíep. Its flame is dying and the guards have fallen asleep at the gates. You know as well as I do the darkness they sit upon. Their king is weak. He does not have the strength to remain in the mountain seat. The darkness of the Fringe will eventually leak into our lands.”
“You speak of the warlord, Byzmor?”
“I do and more. Blackwater marsh tribes, the Northern Cyld people. They sense the transition of Hleoholt coming and the weakening of her allies.” Ælfric sagged. “I know I should let go of my role as advisor.”
He paused to chuckle tiredly.
“But I cannot,“ he continued. “There are things you should know. Should a war happen the way it did in the time of your ancestors, we would not survive as we are now. Feed the ravens or become their fodder.”
That was a common saying amongst Holtian warriors. Though it had fallen out of fashion in court, Ælfric’s children were accustomed to hearing it at home. It was a favourite of their father’s.
“Cyldland has men as large as ours,” Ælfric said, “many of whom remember what it was like before the absorption of their country. They are angry. If we do not have Rodorhíep, we do not have Aeburne. Without those nations, who would come to our aid? Rofric? Brimhæfen?” Ælfric sneered. “Their survival is dependent on our own, not the other way around. Other lands are not to be relied upon.”
Cerdic and his siblings lowered their heads.
Faron, his second son, spoke up. “Father, we will do as you say, but I must ask… why the urgency? We are in times of peace. Should we not allow ourselves some time to enjoy Hleoholt’s fruits? We could cultivate the arts and education as our good king wishes.”
Cerdic rolled his eyes at his brother.
Ælfric held up a hand. “Now, now, Cerdic. You are too much like me. The arts are not useless. They remind us that we are men and not beasts.”
Then his eyes fell on Faron and Ælfric’s milky-grey eyes narrowed, a shadow falling over him. “But Faron, my dear son. Do you feel this is peacetime? This is no peace.”
Perhaps seeking comfort, Ælfric turned once more to the painting of his brothers. When he spoke again his voice was weary. “There is no dawn for us. The Earth is old and so are we… No, this is dusk, the beginning of what might very well be the end.”
He looked at his children each in turn. “I do not envy you. Guard yourselves against despair and do not seek what does not belong to you.”
A sudden bout of coughing wracked the old man’s frame.
“Enough,” he wheezed as he waved his children away. “All you good people. I bid thee farewell as I go faring to the land beyond to greet my creator. I wish to be with the priests alone as I do it. Now, go on, go on.”
Read on…
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Wander not where there is no light.
Come rest your head from colouring greys, the shades of night.
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I can't get over how well this is written. This is seriously superb, bravo! 👏
Amazing storytelling!