The king was drifting, his mind clouded by pain and medicine when the heavy doors of his bedchamber creaked open. Through his half-lidded eyes, he saw the robed figure of the priest stepping inside, the dimly lite room maked his face appear gaunt and hollow. The Queen must have asked the priest to come pray for him.
It was not a good time for him to die. The kingdom was on the edge of chaos, and if he slipped away now; it would mean war; both within and without. The kingdom would fall into chaos and no one could tell what will happen.
The Queen sat stiffly at the other end of the bed, her hands clenched so tightly in prayer that her knuckles turned white. Her heart hammered against her chest for she knew what her husband’s death would mean. Her first son was now marching toward war. Her younger son lay injured, still too weak to rise. And the only other royal blood within the capital was the king’s bastard; the child of his favored mistress.
A boy of uncertain loyalty. A threat to her and her children.
War had a way of shifting alliances, and she could not trust the nobles. Some among them had royal blood. Some had ambition. And all of them had eyes on the throne.
Her only hope was that the king held on. Even if he was slipping into unconsciousness, as long as his chest still rose and fell, as long as his breath still rattled in his throat; he was alive. And that was enough.
So she prayed, she did not dare to ask for his health anymore. She just needed him to remain alive.
At this time the king was already unconscious thanks to the medicine but it was not a restful sleep. It’s was filled with unwanted dreams.
The dream felt so real that he wad covered in swept
King George found himself standing in a thick forest, the scent of damp earth and pine heavy in the air. A familiar clearing stretched before him the same place where, years ago, his brother had died.
A low growl rumbled from the darkness. Fresh chapters posted on novęlfire.net
The word carried on the wind, both distant and close, curling around him like a snake.
From the shadows, his brother stepped forward. His tunic was torn, soaked in dark blood. Deep gashes split across his arms and chest, and his throat, his throat gaped open, a jagged, glistening wound. His lips twisted in a bitter smile.
"You were attacked by a bear," King George said quickly, stepping back. "Your death had nothing to do with me."
His brother took another step forward, the moonlight casting his features in sharp relief. His once-kind eyes were black as pits now, cold and empty.
"But you led me here," he whispered. His voice was thick, wet, like something speaking through a mouthful of blood. "You knew where the beast was. You set the trap. And you left me."
The king shook his head violently. "No."
His brother smiled, his teeth red. "I trusted you."
"It was not me, the royal guards and everyone was taken by surprise. I also got injured by the bear trying to save you," the king showed his had that still had a scar.
"Do you take me for a fool?" His brother question he did not seem to believe him.
He took another step forward, king George panicked and stepped back.
Indeed he had gotten himself injured by the bear so that no one can suspect him. When the guards came and killed the bear he had also put on an act. Claiming that his brother tried to save him from the bear but got injured.
His brother was not dead when the guards came. They tried to rescue him but his injuries were deep.
He also go injured at that time and lost consciousness. He was not sure if what happened but looking at his brother’s gaze he kept stepping back.
The ground beneath the king’s feet turned sofe and warm after a few steps. He looked down. Blood. A thick, endless pool of it, lapping at his boots. He stumbled, his vision blurring as the world around him shifted.
The huntingfield was gone. The forest was gone.
Instead, he was surrounded by wails.
High-pitched. Pained.
Tiny hands clawed at him; small fingers like ice, gripping his skin, his arms, his throat. Babies. Dozens of them. Some had swollen bellies, others had gaping, stitched-up wounds where their chests should have been. They shrieked, their hollow eyes filled with something worse than anger.
Babies were the most innocent humans but this babies sent shiver through his spine.
A woman’s voice rose above the cries.
"Give me back my child."
The voice was not alone. Others joined in, an overlapping chorus of grief and rage. The figures of women emerged from the swirling darkness; pale, gaunt, their bellies cut open, their hands still slick with blood. Some reached toward him, their fingers curled like claws. Others pointed at him, silent accusations dripping from their hollow gazes.
"You ordered it," they hissed. "You spilled our blood."
"I—I had no choice!" the king gasped, thrashing against the infants’ grip. "I am the king!"
But the wails only grew louder. The air thickened, pressing in on him, suffocating him.
He staggered, his boot striking something solid. He looked down.
His own body lay beneath him; his throat slit, his crown toppled into the dirt, his lifeless eyes staring up in horror.
The women melted away, and from the abyss, his brother stepped forward once more.
"I will be waiting for you," he whispered.
The king gasped awake, his chest heaving, the room around him dark and silent. The oil lamp were still burning but their flames were low. Since the king was asleep the room could not be brightly llite. This small little cast shadows along the walls making him think of his dream.
The king felt scared and hugged his chest. At the same time the door to the chamber was pulled open. The Queen stepped inside. She had just sent the priest away and wanted to check on the king before returning to her chamber. She did not expect the king to wake up so soon. After all the medicine should knock him out for a whole night but it was bearly three hours.
"Your majesty, how do you feel," she asked with a gentle smile but her smile in the king"s eyes looked like one of those women in his dream.
"Get out, do not come close," the king roar.