by Dan O'Brien
He looked at the tapestry plastered against the wall just above the bedposts. Winged warriors dancing through the sky with swords of glistening silver, creatures of darkness, deformed things that crawled from the earth: it was the dreaded army of Eigershuht. The tassels at its edges were golden and frayed, as were the edges. It was something from an age long gone, a time before time. With tears in his eyes, he began to sing the Rite of Passing, the Song of Kings:
The fields of old rise and fall to greet the men of lore,
May they find passage through the terrors of this world,
The Light shines upon them as they walk alone.
Nicholia paused. Swallowing hard as he did so, he began anew. His voice rose, reaching deep within him.
Though the Darkness sought to bind them,
They would not fall before,
They walk without fear to the castle walls,
The castle of those that cannot be again.
The wind howled through the chambers. Thunder and lightning danced with each note. His voice dipped as sorrow pressed him on.
May my lord find the peace that he is deserved,
May he find his place among those rocky, distant shores,
Only the grace of the Light can guard him now,
Along the shores of old.
Nicholia reached out and grasped his father’s hand, holding it tight despite the death that stole his father’s strength. He stared at the face that had once held warmth and smiled, the glassiness of his eyes hazing his vision. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. He pushed himself to his feet and bent forward, kissing his father’s forehead and running his hand over his father’s face. Nicholia, now king of Getzenut, turned from the chambers of the king and stalked out into the stormy night that had already taken two lives.
