V – Open your eyes #2

'Open your eyes, Gwion!' he exclaimed, standing up in exasperation.

'There is a logical explanation that follows from deduction, however improbable, whether you will see it or not: forty years and Old Minister’s reign, which Narg shall bring to fruition within a few days, suffice to explain his desperation to obtain this. '

Gregor knew what he had just seen, and it reminded him of when he had split that paralysed soldier’s head in two on the night of Ubberia.

He did believe that Tower could be a messenger, and he knew Gwion did too; his entire body, tense, with the veins in his neck bulging and his fists clenched, sang the song of absolute denial.

Gwion felt it deep within, personally, with a tingling in the palm of his hand that reminded him how peace, honour, and loyalty were slipping through his fingers.

He had to deny it and find the answer that would put an end to all this farce and restore calm.

Yet he did not find it, and that force bubbling within him made him stand his ground.

The messenger should pay. He seized Gregor by the strap of his rucksack.

In one swift movement he drew him near, speaking so close that their noses brushed.

'How can you think that blood blessed by Odín could be a bearer of darkness?'

'What if Narg is not a descendant of Alfredo?' murmured Gregor, and Gwion tightened his grip upon the strap. 'What if that letter was addressed to Windar?'

He raised his fist into the air, but instead of striking him, he went straight for the clasp holding his cloak and ripped it off in a rage.

'You do not deserve to be part of the council!'

'Beware, lad,' warned Gregor, narrowing his eyes defiantly. 'You may be wroth with me, yet I, too, have dedicated my life unto the service of Narg.'

'I have not!' Gwion exclaimed, thrusting him away. 'I have given my service unto Old Minister—but my life is Narg’s. Can you not see that he hath been more than a sovereign? He hath been a father unto us.'

Gregor comprehended the bitterness his comrade was swallowing.

Gwion’s youthful blood might blind him, but he, with his experience, had to be wise and choose which battles to fight.

He bowed his head, to brush aside the argument, and finished translating: 'The forces of light will give us a fight, but trust in our ability to stop them.

I shall remain in Lepontia to ensure that all goes according to your will.

The night shall rise, and we shall crown it in glory.'

Gregor’s voice faded with the final words, refusing to utter the name of the one who signed. A wave of dizziness shook his insides.

The silence, punctuated by a distant croak, reminded them where they were, for within, their souls were screaming in despair.

'Lepontia?' Gwion wondered, striving to hide his face in his trembling hands. He could not restrain the tears. He beheld it plain. Narg, his king, his most favoured figure in the world, crumbled at his feet like wet clay. He was naught but a puppet doomed to lay waste to mankind, a usurper who bore the Raven’s Standard into war to loose a hell of darkness. For Narg had been born in Lepontia.

By a caprice of fate, his mother went into labour two moons earlier than expected whilst they were travelling with Renger to the wedding of Curktron, the king of Lepontia, who, due to the tragic events that had befallen his lands, had sworn to bring unity and peace between the kingdoms. Thus, when Lepontia was left without an heir, it fell under the rule of Old Minister and became the first conquest without a single drop of blood being spilled upon the battlefield.

Gregor drew a deep breath and reread the papyrus trembling between his fingers, for he desired, he required, to discern some error in his translation.

'It is likely that Narg is not the Child of Darkness,' he whispered.

'He may know naught of this, but I do not think it is Halfdan’s doing, though you have no idea how much I wish it were.

Lepontia,' he said, pausing between each letter, 'could it be connected to the fact that they sent Celtión to dwell there? '

'Is there a signature?' Gwion evaded the question.

He felt his cheeks burning; merely to hear the name of Narg’s daughter suffused his visage with melancholy.

'Tregor Bert,' he replied, pausing for a moment, 'my uncle.'

Ashamed, he bowed his head so low that his chin touched his breast and the tip of his beard brushed his groin.

'It explaineth why this lay in Ubberia,' he added to the silent Gwion. 'He served Halfdan—in truth, Miar’s father first, and then Halfdan. If he be yet alive, he must be of the selfsame age as Windar.'

Gwion chose to trust Gregor; what else could he do without feeling as though his whole world was crumbling? He pondered the facts to discern the point where his life had diverged and, as he drew his broadsword, turned towards the horses.

Tower and he beheld each other. Gwion abode, awaiting utterance, awaiting elucidation, awaiting solace. He abode, desiring answer to the hundred questions that beat within his mind and veiled his hope. He abode, yet naught ensued. Unflinching, stoic, he regarded him with a distant indifference.

Had Gwion’s intention been any other, Gregor could not have stopped him—even as he ran towards him in desperation upon seeing the blade rise and fall beside Tower’s head. The leather reins fell at his feet.

'You have asked for sanity, boy!' Gregor shouted, striving in vain to stay his hand.

Gwion loosed Valcon’s reins and, once mounted, said to him:

'If that damned mute horse decides to follow you, go back to him; if not, I shall tell Narg he hath run away from me.' He dug his spurs in and Valcon obeyed. 'If he prefers to keep quiet, I do not wish to hear it.'

'I trust that piece of wood you bear upon your shoulders doth not hinder you from informing Narg,' shouted Gregor as he ran alongside him. 'Ere long, you must confront your lineage.'

He halted, panting, bent double with his hands upon his knees, yet ere Gwion’s form had finished departing, he cried once more:

'Your decisions touch more than your own life—and if not for Móntria’s sake, then think of Maed.'

Gwion did not turn around; he did not wish to, he could not.

He searched his mind for his parents, but the only memory he found was of his father, faceless.

And that was not an image, but a caress, sweet and comforting, which he believed he could feel again upon his head.

'Were they murdered, or were we not enough and they abandoned us?

' he wondered, as he had every time he thought of them since childhood. And a tiny spark of an answer kindled his hope. If aught of truth abode in that writing, it touched not only the empire and humanity—but his own history. With that thought and his gaze fixed ahead, as the first rays of sun peeked out to his left, he hummed the lullaby in his mind that was fading away, and did not cease until he stood before the door to his king’s bedchamber.

He smoothed his robes, cleared his throat, and readied his knuckles, but before he could knock, a voice invited him in. It was not the one he had expected, and the whole tidal wave of thoughts and plans of action he had been carrying sank into quicksand.

He entered with a bow and, raising his head, looked for his king, but it was Windar, sitting in an armchair, whom he found waiting for him with outstretched hands.

'Have you succeeded?'

Gwion felt her green eyes pierce him—and, fearing she might read his thoughts, he played the sweet melody once more.

'You are weary,' said Windar, perceiving that he did not stir. 'Deliver it into my keeping and depart to take rest; Narg may tarry, for he hath gone to the privy.'

'I am sorry, but I shall hand it over to him in person. He is my king and you are his grandmother.'

He was curt, though with an enviable sense of protocol. He would not negotiate; even with his nerves on the verge of collapse, he stood his ground.

Windar tilted her head without moving a single muscle in her face, but just as she was about to speak, the door to her right swung open.

He beheld him enter with a broad smile and a sparkle in his eyes like blue fireflies, yet the soot-dark circles beneath his eyes served as a reminder of how ill he had been for days.

Narg, having spent the night awake, sighed with relief at the sight of him.