Chapter 11: Deathmatch
Elfwine brought down the mace with his remaining strength. Once. Twice. The light and much of the structure of his son’s face had long gone, yet he raised the maul one last time before it fell from trembling fingers, and he collapsed in a heap next to the corpse.
Secret’s roar and the cries of the guard sprang burst through the hall doorway, yet it was all too late. The two would-be-kings lay next to each other, cold in death.
This, Elfwine thought, is no less than I deserve.
He thought back, as his vision turned to black, to standing his boy up in front of everyone and proclaiming him his heir. Of the joy and pride in his face, which he knew mirrored his own. The jubilation was doubled when later that week, his wife gave birth to his second son Eadric. What a fine man he turned out to be, in spite of his lineage.
He remembered the day he finally broke Edward upon the floor, watched as the burn and fire he so desired entered his eyes and swore that he would better his father in every way. Elfwine remembered how
pleased he had been. How
proudly he moulded the child into his preferred killer.
By the time he came of age, Edward was a man of ice and iron. He knew, flawlessly, the account books of Lancaster. He knew the weight of gold in his hand, as much as he knew how to crush a skull with it. And he was filled with such yearning for destruction that he gave Elfwine himself pause. Multiple times he had to be confined to bed for injuries upon himself, multiple times punished for his…bloody indiscretions with commoners and House staff.
Eventually, the King of Lancaster had to rein in his monster. The people were talking, and not all of it good. Edward was the Knight of Lancaster, a thug, a brute, and rode about with twelve companions destroying everything they came across, friend and foe. After twice forestalling a decree of excommunication (the last of which for killing a priest in the middle of Mass), Elfwine brought his son before him.
Lancaster was to be the seat of a new and fantastic palace, a wonder of the modern world. Elfwine prepared a great display of feasting and merriment for the people, whilst the breaking-ground ceremony would be attended by all the lords and mayors of the land. It was here, he thought, he could reintegrate Edward.
The plan was scuppered by his own blood. Edward showed up in a flying rage, cowering most of the crowd in fear. He then challenged the king in front of everyone in a duel for glory. In his own anger, Elfwine accepted, and had brought forth his own father’s signature weapon, a great mace wielded by Wigberht on many an occasion in Welsh lands. He remembered seeing his son actually shrink from such a demand. Such a weapon indicated no mercy, no quarter. Had he, in his own heart, ever felt a flash of empathy, of regret or uncertainty at that moment? He remembered standing firm, and his son’s white face fill again with red.
And so, the greatest warrior Lancaster had ever known squared up against his own son, with a weapon designed solely to shatter the bodies of opponents. In hindsight, it was nothing short of a miracle that Edward lost much little more than his eye. He left his boy bleeding upon the ground, upon the hill that was meant to carry his palace of glory. Instead, he changed the plans so the palace would be its own gigantic mound, squatting as a sort of peninsula out to sea.
As the years went on, Elfwine began, slightly, to soften around his family. Or his newer one, in any respect. Eadric was a joy, as he always was. Poor Eadric…
Edward rallied as best he could. Despite himself, he remained a keen rider, even winning several trials and duels in tournaments. It was becoming clear however that his injuries and mental state rendered him unfit for ruling, and Elfwine made the decision to replace him with Eadric.
His son did not take such a thing well. His rage and his fury drove him to greater and greater extremes, deviancy and devilry that horrified Lancaster and the wider world. When he did enter and proclaim his quest for the throne, following Elfwine’s quest for Death, the king had, he supposed now, no right to be shocked.
And so now they were both to die, and be kinslayers together in death. His realm would not survive such a scandal, such a tragedy His line was ended, and his legacy ruined. Hatred and anger for Edward melted away against shame and sadness, before lighting up again in equal measure.
Elfwine supposed it was the bitterest irony of his life that it was then that Death chose to make its long-awaited appearance.
…
“You played an excellent game of Chess, for a complete novice,” Death chuckled. It was quite the hollow sound, yet was somehow as warm as Wigberht’s.
“You…let me win, I am sure,” Elfwine replied, lost in reverie.
“True, but you knew that at the time. One cannot play games with myself, and think to win.”
Elfwine rose from his bow. “How many times must we meet? How many must die for my sins and mistakes? I beg you, not one more. Not this man.”
Death, a figure he had long sought after, and afterwards long been acquainted with, and yet never truly understood, came to sit by Wigberht’s bedside. “You know me, and you know the world, my friend. How many mothers have pled for the lives of their struggling babes, crying out into the night? How many good men have pled for the lives of their followers in exchange for their own? And yet there was never any bargain, no matter the cause. There cannot be. What is, is. Humanity may make its play at Justice, but in this matter, there is none.”
“I cannot accept that.”
“That, my son, was always the problem with you,” a voice said quietly behind him.
Elfwine whirled around and beheld his father, blinking up at him, with a wry smile upon his face. “So, there is hope?”
“Always, my Champion,” Death said softly. “Not even I know what lies in wait for you beyond oblivion. That rather goes beyond my remit. In the minds of Men, you know that death comes to all. You know it as a sadness, a tragedy, and also a release from pain, a mercy as well as a punishment. And so, when it came to imagining Death, the Reaper of Mankind, you see an all-encompassing wind, so kind and yet so distant. You are, to my mind at least, a truly remarkable species.”
“I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you,” Wigberht said, “but I find I cannot just yet. My heart aches for your burden however. It sounds like the worst of all fates.”
“It is what it is,” Death replied, patting the man on the shoulder, bone meeting bone, “I do not mind it. As I said, you made me thus, and I would neither have nor allow another to comfort you in your last moments, and carry you over to the Beyond.”
“I suppose, now I am no longer mortal, I might beg for knowledge of Heaven?” Wigberht asked hopefully.
Death took in his face, earnest and yet fearful of what was to come. “Your heart is one that should never have feared what might await it, to be sure. Alas, I must refuse your request, as you are yet mortal still.”
“I am alive?”
“You are still dying. You happen to be lying next to a being of Time however, who has stretched out your last to far longer than usual.” There was no hint of accusation in the voice, yet Elfwine was amazed to see Amser duck his great head and appear somewhat remorseful.
“I thought it best.”
“I’m sure you did,” Death said. “No matter, for I would speak with all three of you.”
“Then I was right?” Wigberht sat up in bed, aches and pains forgotten. “There is a doom upon the land?”
“Of a kind. In this world, there was no Elfwine. No line of Lancaster to descend from. This world needed such a line to survive, and so a higher power intervened. There is a Seal upon this Earth, of all Earths, that contains within such horrors only hinted at in the darkest pages of sacred texts. A being of Power and Benevolence long ago sealed them away, here and now.”
“The Seal can be broken?” Elfwine frowned.
“Yes,” Amser said. “It is one of Time as well as Space. Through cracks and weaknesses, a demon
will take the opportunity to break through. Humanity is far too easily swayed, too easily tempted, too easily convinced to be adequate gatekeepers. Not without warning. Not without…you.”
“In a trifle of a game of Chess, you played with Death. You quested and searched the realms, battled foes and killed your offspring in search of ultimate power and knowledge. Time and Fate wore you down, that you could safely be granted an equally trifling amount of Power as Death’s Champion. Yet now, through the machinations of a being beyond even myself, you have come to a place of Doom and Dread, and fought for Life instead. Demanded it, in fact, to my face, out of love and respect. In so doing, you have pledged yourself to another.”
“I am freed from being Death’s Champion?” Elfwine breathed, hardly daring to believe it.
Death shifted, “You will always be my servant, for the things you have done, and the path that you walked. Yet you are no longer damned to be only that. Come what may, and I warn you that you are still fully capable of grievous error and judgement, you are the Champion of Life as well.”
“No! You will not burden him with more than he already must carry!” Wigberht said, leaping out of bed and advancing on Death. “My son is a man, a person of conviction and strength like no other. Yet he has been dogged by demons all his life, of his own making and those of the likes of you, that seek to make him your plaything! You speak of his crimes yet enabled him to make more, many more, in your name! And you Amser, who claims to see all of Time, cannot see a better solution than this? Elfwine should not be sacrifice upon the altar of your infernal machinations.”
Death stared at him in silence. Amser turned his head towards Elfwine with sorrow. “In a way, your father speaks true. I see things so differently from Mankind, that I know not what you would truly find acceptable. Know however that I have seen you in your many forms and histories, and know who and what you are beneath the trappings of your crown. If I or my friend selected you for this terrible thing, it was because we knew you could not help but be-”
“-the man that he is,” Death finished. “He set himself on a path to me, gentle Wigberht. He had his chance to turn back. And were you to turn to him now, and ask him thus, he would say much as I.”
Wigberht raised an eyebrow at his son.
“I regret everything,” Elfwine began, “it is true. I made my own path, cutting through others when necessary. I would change that if I could, for I brought such suffering on my own world and family…but I would not allow anyone else to shoulder this burden but I. I am already damned by my own hand. No one but the worst of people would deserve such a punishment, and I would not trust anyone else with such a responsibility.”
Death nodded. “Be it so,” and withdrew from the folds of a cloak two chalices of ornate and carved wood. “I believe you searched for one of these fruitlessly, my Champion.”
Elfwine caught the cup that was thrown to him. Upon the side, he saw the Red Rose of Lancaster, and within the cup, a lining of glimmering gold. “Life…” he whispered. “The Cup of Life.”
“Just so,” Death said. “So, whomever of your blood that drinks from the Cup shall be blessed and cursed with the traits of Life’s Champion.”
Wigberht was passed the other cup. This was of a paler complexion, with a white blossom upon the side. Within the cup was a lining of darkest material. Light seemed consumed by its depths. “And what is this?”
“Knowledge,” Death answered. “So, whomever of your blood that has been chosen, that has drunk from the other Cup, might drink from this and receive the blessing and curses of Death’s Champion. Be warned however, that once taken, this Cup be absolute. As it was in Eden, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.”
Elfwine took the other cup, and nearly dropped it upon seeing the white flower. “Snow drops,” he said, and an image of an empty hill emblazoned with the plant, beneath which his son slept, came to him.
“Just so,” Death said. “A reminder of the cost. This is a burden not just on you, but your family. Whilst any of them might drink from Life’s Cup, one
must drink from the other. This is the price you must pay, for the fate of your world.”
Wigberth and Elfwine looked at each other. They both nodded.
“Then it is so, with Amser as witness,” Death said heavily. “I wish it were not needed.” The figure of Death seemed forlorn for a time, staring up into the cavern ceiling as though piercing the very sphere of heaven. “It is time, Wigberht.”
“No!” Elfwine cried, reaching for his father.
“I must go son, it is over for me,” Wigberht smiled at him, moisture alighting in his eyes. “I will look for you, when your own time comes. May you meet your end as nobly as you ever could.”
“I am not ready!” Elfwine’s voice broke, “I am not capable of being the King in the North any longer, nor do I have any wish to be.”
“You will always be King in the North,” his father said, smiling, “but whoever but you said that was a terrible title?”
“Father I…” Elfwine, so old and yet so young within the moment, held Wigberht close to him one last time, “You were everything I ever remembered. I wish I had known you better.”
“I think, my son,” Wigberht said, tears finally falling down his face, “you knew me at my best.”
Arm in arm, the Lord of Lancaster and Death went onwards into mist, leaving Elfwine behind.
It was a frozen night, so very far from home. Ida sat alone in the cold open air, watching the twisting and shattering of the waves below. Her father and her uncle had been quarrelling now for hours; even on foreign soil, in a hall guarded by giant bears the Karling brothers had a rivalry that shook the earth.
Her husband-to-be was absent, further away still apparently on campaign. And her new father was supposedly on his deathbed, yet had vanished somehow before the party of Franks arrived. So, Lancaster was a mysterious, as well as a foreboding place.
There was wonder too, she thought. The huge and sprawling bear pit, and the Bear Guard itself, were most magnificent. The creatures were as a rule, shy, peaceful and gentle to her ministrations, yet she knew from reputation and from their mighty claws and teeth what dangers they were to Lancaster’s enemies. Both Karling men were determined of course to utilise them against the other.
And so, her own wedding was to be another duelling match between those two strutting cocks.
She had dared to hope of Lancaster, for the man she was to wed and the whole family were, according to talk, of great mind and body. Ida herself was no fool, and desired more than most to be free to pursue her own interests whilst, naturally, fulfilling the duties of devoted wife and mother. She hoped Elfwine would be kind, if nothing else. It was all anyone could ask in a world such as theirs.
Shouting from the hall had grown louder and louder, and a servant ran up to her with cries of “My Lady! My Lady!” Ida frowned and turned her back on the sea front, only to gasp in astonishment.
There, below the hill and outside the walls and gates of Lancaster City, sat an enormous and fearsome dragon, with scales of midnight blue and eyes of flaming gold. She, as well as other onlookers now gawping at the sight, took in the impossible: the white fur of a bear dismounting from the dragon’s back! As the bear grew closer, passing through the front gates, a cry rang out “It’s the Lord Lancaster! He has returned!” and a great cheer rang out from much of the local contingent.
Their shouts of excitement quietened when they saw that a young man did indeed sit astride the great bear, yet carried another wrapped in the sheet of death beside him. Amaudru, a most kind and gracious lady, burst into tears at the sight, and Ida felt her heart to out to her.
“It is Elfwine,” a boy said next to her. After looking at him, she knew it to be Beor, son of Wigberht. So, her husband was not so far after all. “And…father,” he said, quietly. She reached out and embraced him, his sobs as sudden as his outburst.
It was indeed the pair, and Secret, a bear of infamy across Europe, that trooped into the hall before the gaze of three courts. Elfwine gently place the body of his father down upon the dais, before turning to Amaudru. They said few words to each other before sharing their sorrow as only mother and son could.
Then he came to her.
“My lady, I apologise for the circumstances of our meeting,” he said. His voice rang with grief, yet carried still the strength of his character. “I will in short order meet and make merry with you and your good men of Francia,” he said, looking over at her gobsmacked uncle and father in the corner, then wryly back at her. She managed a small smile of amusement, one he shared back with her. “The State, unfortunately, comes first.”
He went back to the shroud and announced the death of his father, the Lord of Lancaster. “We must mourn the passing of a man whom touched the lives and hearts of all whom reside within our realm, and far beyond. We will then go forward together, as one people, under the legacy of Wigberht the Holy, and the House of Lancaster.”