Death Of An Aetheling

Written By Anton, My Silliest Soldier

Rain was hitting the windows of Berwyn Palace in Wenvoe on the dreary evening of 12th Raysky. The trees outside, in the royal garden, waved about, smacked around by the wind. Not as much as a soul traversed the streets of the city, as lights emanated from many a tenement alike. The long corridors of the palace were filled with cautious tiptoeing and whispering of servants. Standing out from the hushed and smartly dressed staff was a figure sitting awkwardly, deep in thought, in the corridor outside the Aetheling’s bedroom. The gnome, clearly of older age, average build, with a grey moustache and a balding set of silver hair was dressed in a hastily put on vest, shirt, pants, shoes and a wet coat. He looked about the place, staring at the many paintings adorning the walls that surrounded him. If there ever was a worried man, it would certainly be him. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes bore a hint of sadness. Nestled under the coat was a glistening silver pin portraying an acorn. A symbol of Tanistry. Outside the wind continued to howl, causing the gnome’s thoughts to continue down a spiral of disarray and concern for the future. In spite of all this, his exterior stayed composed. Even in his messy clothes, his worried expression and the glum of the situation, he managed to look stately. On the other side of the corridor, a middle aged, but still physically spry man sat, his head buried in his hands. His neatly cut brown hair and beard glowed in the dim light emitted by the lamp on the wall. The expression on his face was one of pure dread and despair. He wore a robe over some pajamas. Occasionally a tear would drop onto the carpet from his cheek. The statesman glanced at him from time to time, with a look of understanding and worry.
The rain would not stop pounding on the windows.
Brynmor knew that this day would come. He was an old gnome, an ancient one. He had seen Empires fall and Empires rise. He had seen thousands perish and thousands be born. He had seen Dyffryu, for the first time free. In the dimly lit room there was only one other gnome. The royal family’s doctor. The smartly dressed middle aged gnome sat in the corner, his head hung low. Aye, he was just waiting to give the time of death. The old gnome’s eyes turned to the window. Outside, in the black night, a rainstorm ravaged the sky. Bright hints of lit windows occasionally powered through the rain to visibility. Homes of average gnomes. The Aetheling sighed, he had always hoped for a better death. A sunny day in his country house, dying as his skin was warmed by the sun. Perhaps in another lifetime…He shuddered at that thought. Yes, he would be getting judged soon. The trial, the great equaliser, awaited him. A prayer, one of many that night, ran through his mind. A prayer asking for mercy, among other things. The royal’s thoughts raced through his life. A childhood devoid of worry. A youth devoid of risk. An adulthood devoid of lull. A seniority devoid of peace. He couldn’t say that he had been a good man. No. His grandest accomplishment was Dyffryu, yet…from the beginning it was a ruse, a scam, designed to protect him and his noble allies. He was an actor, playing a role for the gnomes of the land. A role of a patriot, a man of the people…but…was it really? It started so, yes. It was so for many years…but this land…this land meant more to him now. Yes. The valleys, the hills, the rivers…The beautiful skies…The idyllic villages…Even the common folk…All of it filled Brynmor’s heart with genuine happiness, happiness…and…love. He hadn’t thought about it until now, not at length…but…he had grown to truly love his country, his people, he felt pride ruling and serving them…In spite of how he came to do so! A tear ran down his cheek. He thought of his beloved Olwenna, gone for years now. Oh how he missed her…His son, sitting outside - he had tried to console him as best as his fleeting energy allowed…Oh Hywel…
A pain gripped his chest.
He remembered the poetry of Pelfor o Mann, the verses of fiery defiance and perseverance. As his thoughts ran fast and chaotic, he remembered the green valleys of his homeland.
The pain extended to his limbs. His strength fled.
He thought of his newborn son’s smile and the faces of the commoners who listened to his speeches.
He exhaled, tired.
He thought of the flowing rivers and frontline trenches.
At once, with the exhale, he exclaimed in the last bout of strength he had, a spasm almost:
“My Nation, I could’ve been more for you!”
It was eleven thirty P.M. when His Highness Brynmor the Liberator, Chief of Clan Sayer, by the grace of Gods and will of the people Aetheling of Dyffryu, Father of the Nation and Protector of Rights and Privileges, died.
The wind outside would not stop howling.