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Warhammer (CH11)
🕑 Added 2024-08-13 10:54:53 +0000 UTCIt was different this time. Something had changed. He could feel it. He didn’t know if he’d come back. If he should. The closer he drew to that fateful moment, the more he felt himself fraying. Coming apart. Like a thread, growing thinner and thinner until…
He didn’t remember falling asleep that night, nor waking up. He was just there, suddenly, at the breakfast table. People spoke. He spoke. He heard their voices, his own, but they made no sense. Then he was in his room, writing. Someone’s hand was on his shoulder. They jostled him, said something in his ear, but he couldn’t respond. There was only the paper, the pen and the ink. And scribbled words, words only he’d understand, about things only he’d remember.
The door was barricaded from the inside. When did that happen? And he was on his bed, knees drawn to his chest. He looked out of the window. It was night. Oh. Why wasn’t he panicking-… he was. He was panicking. He was going crazy. Crazyyy.
It’s coming. I can feel it.
The bedroom door rattled. There were voices. Some of the furniture shifted. But it remained shut. There was a hand on the door. On the doorknob. Holding it closed. It was frail. And thin. And very, very long.
It’s here.
The thread broke, and he fell. Arms and legs flailing, finding no purchase. Crying. Laughing. Into the dark. Into the deep. Into the bowels of madness.
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It wasn’t surprising. Faelivrin was the High Queen, after all. Even if an old friend called on her, even if a favour was owed. It was only a human child. And she was busy. She would come, but she would come when she found time. Soon, of course. She’d promised him. Soon. But it was not soon for Thalion. Because it was not soon for his ailing cub. Already, the child teetered too close to the edge. It could be weeks. Months. And when every day, every hour, every minute, every second counted, that was far, far too long.
Was this how it felt to be mortal? This sense of helpless urgency?
“You should let the girl know. She should not learn this through her own prying.” Morgaine said.
Thalion raised his head, looking at her. “How could this have happened?” He asked. “You said-…!”
“I know what I said.”
There was silence. “No.” Thalion whispered after a while. “You don’t know. You never knew.”
Morgaine sighed. “I didn’t.”
“What do you know, then?” Thalion asked furiously. “Surely you must know something, oh dark maiden? Are you not the prophetess of old? The one they called Phantom Queen, to whom fate was as a well of clear water? Yet, you can’t foresee the fate of this one mortal child? Laughable.”
“Vent your anger on to me, if you must. I had thought-…” She paused, considering her words. “…never mind. That is of no consequence. Regardless, I do owe you an apology. I had dismissed you, but I was trapped by my own thinking as you were.”
“Then why? If you had not known, why not tell me? I would have sought an audience with Her Majesty far sooner!”
Morgaine shook her head. “I am a prophetess no more, and my powers faded. But you know my memory of that time has not.” She sighed again. “The High Queen can do nothing for the boy.”
Thalion was stunned. “Not the powers of sorcery, nor prophecy can aid one mortal child? Tell me, Morgaine, would any believe you?”
“Can not aid him as of yet. Not with what I have learned. There has not been enough time. His condition worsened too fast.” She said stoically.
“Perhaps we should wait longer.” Thalion murmured. “He might wake on his own.”
“The previous incident was no more than a month. The child had told me himself.”
“They will be beside themselves.”
“She already is.”
Thalion’s head was in his hands. “Very well. He’s my son. And they’re my daughters. Not just Beatrice. I should be the one to do it.” He was quiet for a moment. “They will hate me for this. More than they already do. I’m deserving of it.”
“It’s not your fault, Thalion.” Morgaine said. “And the boy has suffered from this before. You were not even part of her life then. Your heir might be more understanding than you realize.”
“I should’ve found a cure.” He whispered. He turned his head, looking at her. He was stricken. “You are very calm. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I had suspected your ‘affection’ was naught but curiosity disguised. You never could help being drawn to a mystery.”
Morgaine just looked at him. “You should examine your own motivations instead of mine, Thalion.” She lingered for a moment, her hand on the door. “Liliana is gone. Gone. And she will never return. You cling to this child, because you still cling to her.” She said. Then she turned and exited the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
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Eli didn’t wake up. Not after a month, nor after a season, nor after a year. He was provided with food and water, and his bodily needs tended to. It only prolonged his waning, his wasting away. He grew thinner and frailer. His skin dried and paled. His breathing weakened and his heartbeat slowed.
Until one day, nearly two years after he’d fallen into a coma, he was found in his bed. Cold. Motionless. Dead.
It was like receiving bad news one had known was coming. In truth, funeral plans had already made. It would be grand. Thalion felt could do that much, if he could nothing else. Many important figures attended. His connections as the High Chancellor weren’t to be underestimated, but perhaps more than that, it was the First Lady Faelivrin’s presence that drew them. What had the High Queen to do with this child?
They would not know. Neither did Thalion, not for sure. His childhood friend had grown more inscrutable over the ages, more so since that mantle was bestowed upon her. Did she feel guilt, or was her attendance, this apology naught but a placation, a way to mollify her influential High Chancellor? He wished it were not so, but he knew it was the latter. She would not care for the child. She had not known him. And she would not have cared, had she.
After the proceedings had concluded, Thalion found himself in the child’s bedroom. It was as Elias had left it, before he fell asleep. It was a tad untidy, as a boy’s room was bound to be. Articles of clothing were left here and there. Books were on the table—he had persisted with his studies, until the end. A training sword leaned against a dresser. Pens and papers were scattered over the desk.
He took a seat, his hand parting his mourning robes. He withdrew a letter, unfolding it and smoothing it against the surface. Elias’ handwriting covered both front and back. It had a jaggedness to it that evidenced his degraded mental state.
He’d known, Thalion realized. That his end was near. He did not know how that made him feel. That such a young child could, even in the face of this, be so collected. That Elias had not thought of himself, did not scream and cry for someone, anyone to help him, nor for Morgaine or he to hasten whatever poorly-concocted, useless plans they had.
His last thoughts were of them. Of Licia and Belle and Beatrice and Hawke—yes, even his antagonistic brother. Of Morgaine and even himself. He, who had ripped his father and mother from him, had promised to care for him and cure him, who had failed.
He shut his eyes. He had made peace with it a long time ago, the pitiless indifference of the gods. But in that moment, in his weakness, it struck him again.
He opened his eyes, and read the letter.
‘Hello, father.
I wish I could be more composed, that this letter was more organized, but I felt it was more important to commit my thoughts to paper before I lost them.
I don’t blame you. I know you cared. Don’t blame yourself. I’ve forgiven you too, you know? A long time ago. I could tell you regretted what happened. That was enough for me.
You promised to look after my sisters, and you did. I think my parents would’ve been satisfied with that. I saw it in their eyes before they died. They just wanted us to be alright.
I know you might feel you failed when it came to me. You can’t be blamed for what you didn’t cause, nor can you be expected to provide solutions you didn’t have.
I’m sorry for burdening you. I was scared. I am scared. I shouldn’t have said that, but I can’t help it. I can’t hold it in. I needed to tell someone. I’m terrified. I don’t want this. Why should it happen to me? That place. That cold, dark place. I would rather die than go back there. I wish I could. Anything, if only it would end.
But it’s never going to end. And I can’t fight. I can’t run. I can’t endure. I’ll always have to go back. I can’t. But I have to. Right or wrong, wise or foolish—that doesn’t matter to me. This is the only decision I can make. By myself, for myself. To go back, and stay.
They want me to stay. They want me to leave. They want to leave. Oh, they’re going to be so angry. I shiver when I think about it. But this is their fault. If I have to suffer down there night after night, week after week, month after month, throughout the years. Forever. Then they will too. None of us are getting out. Not even me.
That thought provides me no comfort. It won’t keep me warm. It won’t make the fear and hurt go away. But it’s enough. It has to be.
I know you will, but still I’d like to ask. Look after my sisters, won’t you? I’ve told you things you shouldn’t have to know, but I ask you don’t do the same to them.
In my letters, I told them I was sick. That the illness from my infancy had never truly gone away. That it had gotten worse and worse. That there was no cure, and that you did everything you could. That I hadn’t told them because it wouldn’t have helped. That I didn’t want their last memories to be of teary goodbyes. That my final wish was for us to be as we’d always been, do what we always did.
Tell them the same, if they ask you.
Thank you for everything, father. You’ve been good to me, and I’ve enjoyed the years I spent with you. I only wish they hadn’t been so short.
Best wishes,
E.
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She stood on the edge of the walled palace grounds, overlooking the drop to the mist below. Sheer cliffs stretched into the distance, thousands of feet high. They grew taller and more jagged, growing out of the mist, into mountains. Were it not for the faded sound of waves breaking and the faint spray, carried on the wind, she’d not have known of the freshwater ocean below, at the bottom of this craterous basin. One so big, its circumference had been sailed only once, a very long time ago.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her palms against the cold opaque quartz, catching and scattering the grey light, casting a faint glow over the courtyard’s carved hallways and walkways. The winds were growing stronger. Clouds built higher. Thunder rumbled beyond the horizon. A storm was brewing.
Beatrice sighed and turned around. A part of her was incensed, having to deal with this now. Another simply couldn’t care. “Do you have need of me, Prince?” She asked, curtsying. Her catlike green eyes, dull, and devoid of their usual lustre, stared at the tips of his boots. The leather was white—not bleached, but naturally white, sourced from the hide of some exotic animal.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Alastor murmured. “I would have attended, had I been able. I am sorry for your loss.”
Beatrice said nothing, but the hard lines of her face softened a tad. He had at least a speck of decency in him, it seemed.
Silence stretched between them. “You must be enraged.” He said after a while.
A sharp breath escaped Beatrice’s lips. She raised her head to look at him. “I don’t understand your meaning, Highness.”
Alastor’s expression was schooled, but there was some… shame in his silver features. In the tilt of his cupid’s boy lips. The slant of his almond eyes. Perhaps she was imagining it. Perhaps he was playing with her, as he was wont to do. “My mother.” He said. “If she had not delayed…”
Beatrice couldn’t help it. She laughed bitterly. “Not at all. Her Majesty, I’m sure, had greater concerns.” She shook her head. “At least she found time in her busy schedule to attend his funeral, didn’t she? How gracious. We were all so very honoured.”
She held Alastor’s gaze before shaking her head minutely, striding past him. Her fingers brushed against the fringe of his coat. “You remind me very much of her.” She said suddenly. She meant it. He was his mother’s spitting image, as Elias had been of theirs.
His expression was like he’d just been slapped.
Beatrice barely spared him a glance, making to leave. But his hand suddenly closed around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. His strength was no surprise. He was the product of generations upon generations of careful breeding, after all.
“Wait.” Alastor said unsteadily.
“Careful, your Highness.” She whispered. “What would the courtiers say if they saw you laying your hands on me? I’m a filthy half-blood, remember? What would become of your reputation?”
His lips thinned. “I see you with my brother often these days, standing just as close. Does that mean you care about my reputation, but not his?”
Beatrice smiled drolly. “I’m am his knight.”
“…what?” Alastor asked stupidly. “Since when-…?” His features shifted to realization. “The tournament. I see. You support him because he is to be the next king. Or is there another reason?”
She raised a golden eyebrow. “What other reason would there be?”
He exhaled. “No, it’s nothing.” He released her, taking a step back. “My apologies.”
Beatrice gave him an odd look. Then she left him standing there, feeling his gaze on her until she rounded a corner, disappearing from view.
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The seasons changed, years giving way to more years as time marched indifferently onward. Elias’s death was naught but a ripple, one who’s effects went unnoticed by all but his closest relatives. He had been a part of fae society for but a blink of an eye, and had influenced pitifully little. Their world had no reason to remember him, and so it didn’t.
And yet, one night, cold and windy, under a sky devoid of stars, a lone figure descended into the estate’s tombs. He had been laid to rest there, together with the members of the family who’s passings had been unnatural. Who’d not disappeared into the forgotten corners of the Lands of the Ever Young, or returned to the realm of the gods when they wearied.
She was tall and dark, clad in a robe as black as her eyes, as black as the feathers that laid flush against her bloodless, grey skin. Morgaine descended the carved, stone stairway, spiralling ever downward, the stagnant, silent air carrying the weight of ages long passed. A wisp of pale, blue light hovered above her head, illuminating the seemingly endless entombed chambers in ghostly light.
She glided over the stones, her long dress brushing against the floor. A slit went up one side, exposing a long, pale leg that grew dark and scaled above her ankle. Her feet were bare, the razor-claws of her toes tapping against the surface.
Eventually, she arrived in front of a sealed room. Its marble archway was kept shut by a tall slab, bearing exquisite carvings of trees, vines, flowers and leaves. A wave of her hand moved it aside, the heavy block sliding over the ground without making any noise. It exposed a small room, the ceiling too low for her to enter without stooping.
A platform rose to hip-level, long and wide enough to support an adult. Elias lay there, looking far too small and frail, clad in pure, white clothes, hands folded over his heart. The lines of his face were pronounced, and his skin was like paper, but his hair shone brilliantly even now—the wavy locks falling over his shoulders, his eyebrows and even his long lashes gleaming red-gold.
“Such a fair child, even in death.” Morgaine whispered, stroking his cheek. She ran her hand through his hair, feeling the silky texture between her fingers. She drew a slow breath. “So many years, yet your mortal flesh does not decay, nor has your scent turned to rot.” She cradled him, their faces nearly touching, and her hand held his, their fingers twisting together. Her featureless black eyes seemed especially inhuman and birdlike in the ghostly light, staring unblinkingly at his corpse.
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