Frægerdæg, 10 Ereyule, 2912
Friday, 6 December, 1957
Herelafstead Hall
The Valwoods
Davenshire
north-west Osynstry, Esthursia
about 10h20
"Olafn is coming, dear." Margrethe told her husband Arthur, as the two gently walked out in the winter sun. Even withstanding the novelty of a west coast day with a visible sun, the breeze from the Ravens' Channel out west was bitterly cold. The King dressed relatively modestly most days when he was not put upon to meet with the government or his reeves, therefore he looked almost out-of-place in his regalia, even as stripped down as he could possibly get it.
"That he is. Joy." Arthur replied, coldly and curtly. Margrethe smirked as he rolled his eyes at the comment. "Well, he can wait." She picked out a bluebell besides a wizened oak tree, a seldom area of shade from the rather powerless Sun, and then got back onto her feet.
"You are going to leave him there? What is he to do?" Margrethe responded, feigning horror unconvincingly.
"The old bastard will wait there. It is the least civility he could offer, for a gentleman so... unbefitting of his role." Arthur stopped, to look at a solitary pear tree that stood in front of the fork in the path. In summer, it was a grand arching landmark on the rolling hills that flanked Herelafstead, yet in winter stood a grizzled, deathly husk of straggling branches. Grandfather would much prefer it green, but Esthursia cannot get two summers. It barely gets one as is. "My country did defeat fascism just to elect a fascist a mere generation on, did they?"
Margrethe tried not to react. She knew that his Edward's pear tree always brought out whatever emotion he was suppressing deep down beneath his stubbornness and pride - and that it was usually best just to let him talk it out into words. She simply gave her husband the bluebell, which made him break his frown for a moment to make a sullen remark about her "ripping the ground up." She didn't usually pick them - she usually just stopped for a moment, at that spot, where the stream rounded through the channel created between the roots of the tree.
"I cannot stand by while that man does try to throw his heft at pushing the whole land back hundreds of years. I have not stood by, no, but it has not stopped him, has it?"
"Arthur," Margrethe said sharply, "you have done all you can fucking do. It is not your fault that he governs, nor is it your responsibility to risk your head to stop him."
"Of course it is my duty! I am responsible for their welfare, their safety, and in that, I am failing."
Margrethe shook her head at him, smiling in an almost condescending manner, while staring him down hard. "This will end. He will fall and die long before he achieves a hundredth of nothing. Is that what you wish to hear? You know it as well as I do."
"Bu-"
"Enough. I believe we have left the bastard waiting long enough, no?" She laughed at the King, grabbing his arm with hers and leading them running down the path. The two of them exchanged looks throughout as they attempted to hold each others' hands rather clumsily, reminding them somewhat of the first time Arthur had shown Margrethe the estate of Herelafstead twelve years prior, back when the two were virtually kids and they had his grandfather to grumble after them. It was predictably a hobble of a run, that was for sure - Arthur's regalia was sure to weigh more than even the weights on his own mind, while Margrethe's stately dress was at best very cumbersome - but the two made it down to Herelafstead itself ever so slightly faster, albeit rather flustered and a touch exhausted, nonetheless.
"Well met, your Kingly Highness, my Queen," a dour, Asterland voice twinged with barely veiled scorn hissed from beside the grand oaken doors into the Hall itself. As the two royals rounded the corner, the unfortunate yet familiar sight of Olafn Arbjern in his harsh, black suit greeted them. He wore his usual condescending smile that he reserved for occasions like this - ones where he thought he could seize a moral high ground. "One of your guards informed me upon my arrival seventeen minutes ago that you were on a morning stroll, so worry not, I was aware." We will never worry for you, Arthur wanted to respond, but he chose to be a little more diplomatic.
"Nice to see you again, Hr. Arbjern." The King said, wearing a nearly-convincing veneer of a smile, as he pulled his jacket to. "What business was it that you wished to bring with you?"
Arbjern's head titled slightly. "You know of it as well as I do, your Highness." He then led himself into the Hall, only to make it five paces and be stopped by a guard.
The guard smirked just about imperceptibly as he put himself in front of the old Forethane. He said not a word, his thin lips pursed and his youthful, blue eyes staring at Arbjern with intent. He swore that he saw the grizzled fucker flinch, but Arthur chose not to say that.
Arbjern said something to the guard, that Arthur didn't quite catch. The guard, who the King and the Queen now recognised as Herre Willard Baster, who had arrived at Herelafstead just after the King's grandfather fell ill. The two had bonded well, but with old Edward's hasty illness and the chaos that ensued the following year, the King had failed to keep in any way in touch with him. Yet, when Arthur's eyes locked with those of Willard, a friendly smile broke out between the two of them, straight over Olafn Arbjern's shoulder.
"Could you kindly tell the boy to move?" Arbjern said, and received silence.
"Well?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows and let out an amicable laugh. "I'm sure Herre Willard," the King continued, emphasising that the guard had an identity just in case Olafn forgot again, "will kindly move for us." He turned to Willard, having stepped in front of Arbjern. "Thank you." He said, quietly.
After Hr. Baster had stepped aside, the three of them gradually made their way into the great hall. It wasn't quite Armston House, but the ornate carpet that led up to the throne looking down onto them, the dark, somewhat weathered tables that stretched half the way from the doors in, and the expanse of the room itself - warmed just about adequately by the fireplaces dotted about the place - made it feel quite definitely regal.
"I must apologise," the Queen began, "but Herelafstead is rather antiquated. No television service at all here, and we barely get radio."
"Antiquated is good," Arbjern replied, letting out a toothy smile. Of course you would say that, Arthur thought to himself. Margrethe kept Arbjern's attention on her to avert his gaze from the King's rather obvious expression of disdain.
"Well, the drawing room will be through here," she continued, leading them into a smaller but equally ornate room with plush, deep-blue sofas that sat one opposite the other, flanked to the left by yet another fireplaces. "Make yourself comfortable, Olafn."
"Thank you, your Highness," the old man replied, groaning in the customary fashion for a man of his age as he sat himself down. "Rather a long way down, are they not?"
Arthur sat down noiselessly, and let out a gentle laugh. "I would have to agree, but the exercise is always good."
"Well, to business." Arbjern began, however the sound of the King's sister Edith coming into the room with the four royal children, or rather the sounds of the four royal children dragging Edith into the room out of necessity, interrupted his train of thought. The eldest, Mildred, looked up at Arbjern with the same unfortunate yet familiar sentiment that her parents had evoked, but without the polite willingness to hide it. Llyn did his usual routine for when Olafn visited - walking over and shaking his hand - however the boy had slowly become uncomfortable with Arbjern as he aged, as if something was wrong with shaking the man's hand. The other two, John and Irmen, were just pleased to be in the room, running between the sofas in a figure of eight after one another aimlessly... well, Irmen toddling after John, the latter of whom was twice the two-year-old Irmen's age, making the entire endeavour pointless. They were having fun nonetheless, though.
"I've brought the troubles back to you," Edith said, with a polite smile as she mimicked the handing over of leashes to Arthur as she passed him, the two of them exchanging a mutual laugh. Arbjern took the moment to readjust one of his buttons. "Mildred wanted to practise her archery with you later, if that was alright, while Llyn here," she continued, bending down to squeeze the boy's cheek - much to his embarrassment, which was now plastered red across his squinting face - "has chosen tonight's book for you to read him."
"What did he choose?" The King asked, now letting out an open grin. Talking about his children made his heart warm, and even made him forget that the miserable old man was still in the room opposite him, sat on his bloody sofa.
"The Secret Door!" Llyn replied chirpily.
"... the Secret Door, apparently." Edith reiterated, as she left the room, the four kids following her.
"Excellent choice, son." Arthur added gently. "Thank you dearly for coming at such short notice, sister. I will make sure to return the favour."
"No need at all." Edith remarked, as she left the room.
Arthur turned his head back forward to see that Olafn was still coldly staring at him. A real ray of fucking sunshine, are you not? Nevertheless, Arbjern continued. "Have we spoken on the matter of your cousin, Rudyard? The boy seems fascinated with politics."
That much was true. Rudyard was a boy of "just-about-eleven", and had always been extremely interested in history - the tales of the earls, the Overlords, the grisliest nights of its history, the wars - and although that had perturbed his uncle Edelard, and indeed both Arthur and his father George, they let it be. Fascination could not harm the child, and the spark in the boy's eyes was never a malicious one. Yet, Arbjern had caught onto this early, much to the King's concern.
"Redyard is ten years old. Æþling Redyard also has no place in politics. That much is clear and convention." The Queen said, her voice smooth but no longer quite so cordial.
"Ten is plenty old enough to be fascinated by history, as you very well know." A hint of a grimace showed itself on the old aristocrat's face as he continued. "He, better than any, knows the virtues of tradition, culture, heritage. Would it be wrong of me to suggest that I mentor him?"
Yes, yes, it fucking well would, Arthur wanted to say. He felt almost like vomiting. "That... is very gracious indeed, but I must insist that Rudyard would benefit more from being taught as one of the family." It was all he could come up with. How dare a hate-filled politician ask to take my own cousin, a fucking child at that, under his wing?
"I thought you might say that." Arbjern said, the grimace growing. "I have, however, taken the precaution of asking young Rudyard himself whether he would approve of it. He was very approving."
"How dare-... did you... right, right." The Queen replied quickly, briefly breaking out of her frontage, before retreating back into her civility. "Right."
"Edelard's wife was very approving of the idea too." Olafn snapped.
"Bethan." Arthur snapped in return. "Regardless, you must understand our concerns with your... mentoring of a royal boy. You are a man of politics, not of education."
"A man can be of both. You are a man of education too, are you not?" Arbjern quickly got up, once again groaning as his sixty-four year old's body reacted to the sharpness in equally sharp indignation, as the King and Queen got themselves up hastily too. Both of them looked at each other with a knowing glance - one of both concern... and also gratitude that the bastard was leaving.
"Off so soon, Olafn?" The Queen said, almost a sing-song quality to her voice. She was enjoying his departure a little too much.
"I would love to stay, but I am sure I would be intruding upon you." The Forethane returned, not even turning back. The royals easily caught up to his gait, however, and flanked him by either side.
"It has been a pleasure to receive you, Herre Arbjern, as ever." The King remarked, stopping and beginning to wave off Arbjern just as they reached the doors. The Queen picked up on the King's decision and quickly joined in, waving off a man who had just excused himself without warning, yet whose look that he gave back as he shuffled himself down the stone steps was one worthy of pitying... almost.
They continued to wave for some time, until Arbjern's old Estner - the rickety old thing, somewhere between a hearse and a coach, with a hint of a penny farthing to it - limped its way out of their estate.
"We are seeing Eamer Edelard." Arthur said, hurriedly.
Margrethe hugged her husband, then stepped back and nodded. "We bloody well are. I have some talking with Bethan to do. At Bethan to do, in fact."
"At great length too, I'm sure."
"Is there any other way, my love?"
Meresdæg, 25 Þremmel, 2965
Tuesday, 25 May, 2010
"Keep up, Father. You know how long it takes to get down there." Llywellyn told the King, who kept up a steady but slow pace behind.
"I am doing my utmost, Llyn. You will know how the years add up in your knees soon enough." The King replied, pulling on his fleece - one would be fooled for thinking it was not midspring when they saw him. Llywellyn couldn't help but notice how much older and gaunter he seemed alone, after Margrethe had died the previous summer, the last of the grey in his hair fading to white. The final months had been hard on Margrethe - the hair loss, the endless rounds of intrusive treatments, the sheer tiredness of it all - but they had been scarcely easier for Arthur, who had taken weeks to smile again, and months to laugh again, after he had let her slip from him that final time. It was six months to the day between Margrethe getting her diagnosis, and Arthur placing a bluebell atop her coffin before he watched it recede from view. Maybe Arthur had not developed any of the hallmarks of advanced age that Llyn thought he had fostered over the last year, or maybe he had, but Llywellyn knew that every day since had been spent with his father carrying around an abscess far too large to ignore. Just when he thought Arthur was beginning to rehabilitate himself into his new normal, his only sister Edith had suffered a stroke, then a second, and next thing they heard was the call from her husband Beorn. He supposed it happened in waves, and Arthur's generation were now marching well into their seventies and eighties, but Arthur's eightieth birthday being spent in a hospital room beside his ailing sister, the straggling grey curls that sat atop her colourless face as she breathed raggedly up at him, was something Llyn would never forget.
"Don't remind me about years. I can spend the next year reminding myself I'm fifty-something until I am forced to be old."
"Sixty is nothing, son." Arthur smiled, as they rounded the first corner of the path. A stump marked the rounding of a narrow stream, punctuated by blue specks of light - bluebells. "Me and your mother would come down this way every time we came out west to the Valwoods. She would stop us, unfailingly, every bloody time, right here." He led Llyn over to the small patch of grass beside the stump. "Sometimes, she would pluck the poor things out of the ground. I'd tell her to stop whenever she tried, but you know Mother - insisted they'd still be here when we were eighty and grey. True old, she called that." The King felt a slight twinge of pain as he said the final phrase.
Llyn let out a deep breath. "Well, clearly Mother was right about two things."
"Yes... what would the second thing be?" Arthur asked, inquisitively.
"You are truly old."
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "I have been told of that plenty times enough for it not to offend me, luckily for you, son. It becomes hard to hide when your neck starts flapping in the wind and your ear dangles from the side of your head solemnly... I've heard."
"I'm sure you have." Llyn replied, as the two set back off, leaving the stump behind. "That's the spot... to put her, I mean. If Mother liked that spot as much as we know she did, then it would be right."
Arthur began as if he were to tell a joke, but made himself pull a straighter face. "Yes, yes. She'd like that."
"I have to ask one thing of you." They rounded the second corner of the hall's path, opening out onto a view of Davenbrook in the distance, and beyond it, the Ravens' Channel... if it weren't overcast, which it of course was. Llywellyn rolled the thought on his tongue, trying to think of the best way to put it, but then gave up formulating and started speaking. "Why did you not stand back when you were young?"
"I had a duty, and it was not my choice to make. I was thrust into the position, and I made do as best I could."
"Yes, you and duty, I know." The King's son answered. "Inseparable. Still, I knew from a young age, I couldn't do it. This nation deserves more than just blood's rule. Enough blood, I think."
"Don't you now be telling me that you thought of it all by yourself, now." The older man added, his voice raspy but proud.
"Alright, fine, I knew you were right about the Crown from the outset. Is that good enough?"
"It will do, yes. Four years with old Arbjern taught me enough of that for my mind to be made. Mercifully he is paying the Crown no more visits these days." They came onto a crest, not far from the Hall entrance, where a pear tree which had long given up fruiting stood, yet there it still stood tall and proud, its flowers bright and vibrant against the warm green of the lawns. "Right, son. Inside with you, I do not like the look of those clouds."
"I'm fifty-nine, I can choose when I come in now."
"Not when you're visiting me you cannot. Come, now." Llyn led his father gently down the slope, and back into Herelafstead, as the first drop fell onto the leaves of the tree.
Æþling - prince in Atlish
Eamer - uncle in Atlish
