It happened slowly. Too slowly. Unlike one might expect – there was no flair or drama to it. Or... Perhaps there was flare and drama to it. After all, the epics would often come to a slow conclusion, and the best comedy came to a slow punchline, leaving the cogs of your brain spinning to connect all of the minute details carried in the joke.

Jokes, or drama, or highborn men. That which tests the intelligence or recognition. Some would name it a thing one must be witty to understand, just to feel superior whether they understood the thing or not. Some would just laugh as if to indicate they did, while being thoughtless toward its meaning.

Tyr couldn't figure out which kind of person he was in this situation. Perhaps the former. It was funny, after all. He realized that. He was, or so he thought, fairly self aware. Nobles often thought they were sharper than they actually were. Tyr was no exception, as the events unfolding would reveal. There was always a bigger fish, so the proverb of fishermen went. Take what you can get, and do not tempt the deep with what else it might offer. Better a full stomach of your own than a full stomach down there, because it won't be. Your own, that is.

It was unclear how long the men had been waiting to make their appearance known. Whoever had commanded these men, they had a taste for dramatic flare. A ridiculous notion. If all men were to die, and no gain could come from letting their deaths linger, why savor it? Why wait? Only sadism could be the answer behind such an act. It was all well and good for one who deserved it. Then again, Tyr was aware that he probably did deserve it. It would've come, one day or another.

Tyr could name only one man capable of such a thing at first guess. A suspicion he had long had, but could never confirm. Could never chase down the facts. Not yet. Not until today, where all of his questions had been answered. Now he knew, but knowing had made him a target.

Eight knights at each door, swinging them open, loud and proud. Shiny and fit, armaments befitting the stereotype. Chests puffed out and no heraldry present on their armor. Only one reason for that, knights usually loved to show off their colors. Twelve bows on the roof. Old Harry killed before their approach, no doubt. More men beyond each knight, nobody could say how many. A lot. Unarmored for the most part, with all sorts of weapons. Thugs, self proclaimed weapons for hire. 'Weapons' was an arrogant name for those tools, carpenters hammers and implements of craftsmen commonly available in the average general store.

No surprise though. Not really. Thugs were thugs. Cheap and easy meat, easily disposed of if a job went sour, and nobody would come asking questions about their deaths. Twenty of them on either side, likely to be more beyond the dim light that made their number visible through the open doors. Not much of a word was shared between men. It was what it was. A killing, just as Tyr had done. Only this time, he was the target.

Fennic took four bowmen with him – even at such a range. A feat of skill that few could match. That Fennic. Problem was, a man can only carry so many axes. He went down under a hail of arrows. Tyr shouted for him, mourned his death. They heard him, too. The brothers. Knew theirs would come quick if they were lucky. Never cried for living longer than they needed to. This was their way, a death in battle was just about all these lost men could ask for.

Mikhail went down next. Took two knights with him in a brutal feat of arms, that Mikhail. But Mikhail was a blackguard, and the hoods wore just that and a cloak. Not much in the way of armor. Took a kitchen knife in the gut. A rusty thing. Tyr saw the fight leave the mans eyes as it was wont to do, looking back briefly before being pushed aside.

Fennic and Mikhail and Joshua and Ernst. They all hit the ground like wet sacks of potatoes. The bowmen above struck a deadly toll, with no real answer for their elevation, poor in the aiming of their strung weapons or not. But the others left standing did the work. At least at first. Lag with his hammer, a quick thing despite its bulk. Took another knight down and a fingers count of those thugs. Would've made his late father proud, a blacksmith and man of the hammer though put to different purpose. The last knight that got him was gotten right back, through the eye, Lag hooked that hammer around his neck and squeezed until the arrow cut clean through his back gored the knight dead.

Roger, too. A stronger man Tyr hadn't found in the capital. Rog they called him. Rog of the lodge, the pronunciation had a funny rhyme to it. Had a father who owned a hunting lodge to match his name. Not a hunter, though. Built like an axe man, he was, wide in the hips as he was in the shoulder. Ate a lot, but it was worth it for the strength of the mans limbs. They didn't fail him now. Not when a crowd of lesser men swarmed him with rusty hammers and paring knives, each barely reaching the big mans clavicle. Took a fair few, before they got him. A good showing for a good man. One of their best. Honest beyond honest, if a bit simple. No criminal was he, at least in the minds of rational men. Only guilty of having an attractive sister, when she'd been alive.

Tiber and Tyr though, they were different from the rest. Like gods of war, if some drama was allowed. Training yard forged as same as those knights, with enchanted blades carrying that wicked sharp edge most plate couldn't stood little defense against. They took a score between them, it seemed. Before the arrows bought him down, Tiber was covered in red. Bloody Tiber. A sweet man, though stern in his lessons. Tyr mourned him. Felt the rock in his gut even before the last arrow was loosed. Saw him fall, too. Reached out to him, made a pincushion by the bowmen.

Too late, the arrow caught Tyr in the gut as well. He felt it. Thought he was smarter than he was. Hadn't even bothered to wear chain this time around. Felt the hammer and the arrows and the swords all, chewing at him until little more than pulp remained on the stone floor of that warehouse. They said this thing. 'Watch your back'. Tyr hadn't. A lesson for all you prospective blackguard out there reading this in the future. Always, and we mean always watch your back. Don't ever count on somebody to do it for you, or you'll take a nice pointy few inches of metal in it.

–

Quiet. It was quiet. Too cheerful though, not as morose as one expected a funeral to be. A young man gone, at the hands of bandits so near the capital. Astrid hadn't cried. Not at first, not until she saw how his father refrained from doing the same. No emotion at all present on his face. Dark and brooding, just as his son had been. Worse, though, because where Tyr was filled with thoughts and anxieties plain on his face, Jartor was cruel in his apparent apathy.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

She had then, though. Unused to such a lack of familial bond. Not crying because he was dead, not really, but more along the lines of weeping where the others refused to. It was incredibly sad how little they all cared. A family member was worth mourning, especially a son.

They couldn't look more different, those men. Primus Jartor with his dark hair and dark brow and dark beard. Almost uniform in its blackness. And then his son, who was only white. Like snow. She didn't cherish or love Tyr, but she hadn't hated him either. But if she liked anything, it was his hair. Northblood hair, even more vivid in its coloration than her own.

She understood then. Why things the way that they were. Her husband, rest his soul, had never explained it. Never asked for forgiveness even when confronted by others with their accusations. Had seen her reticence on their wedding day and had never forced her hand. Seemed to love the poor. Gave to them. Haran was wealthy, but poverty existed in every nation under the sun. Astrid had watched, she had sharp eyes. Enigmatic was her late husband.

Gave to the poor, and hated the nobles. Not all of them. Most of them. Hated her, maybe, she couldn't tell given a hundred years to guess at his behavior and expressions. She had realized she had been unfair, and wept. Sigi too, although for different reasons. Sigi and Tyr had, in Astrid's opinion, a kinship she had never been able to obtain herself. Not one to force herself on a man, Astrid had simply watched and waited for a sign.

Charlotte wept too. None knew why, least of all the nobles. A Harani woman should know the benefit of the heir apparent passing, leaving room for a new heir. But she did so, regardless, and with honesty. She mourned Tyr more than anyone else. None knew why. Even Alex attended. No crying, but all mourning. One could see it on her face. She left before the ceremony was finished though, stalking away through the palace to parts unknown.

Astrid had not met the woman in some time. A free spirit, that one, and a mage. A strong one, if rumor held true. With the features and dark hair of a Harani. Long hair, well oiled and as manicured as her appearance. An attractive woman. She felt jealous, with no idea why. She had heard of Lady Alex of Riven's beauty, but the skalds – or bards in this land – had not done it justice. Not by a half measure, and a half beneath that.

Worst of all were the nobles. There was no nobility in Oresund. Title and deed that a man earned with his own blade were worth everything, heritage or not. They seemed in a celebratory mood even. A notion that Astrid could not understand either. Refused to. Though, as was usual, she refrained from comment. That was her duty. Simply mourning in her black Harani lace as was expected.

She didn't speak until long after the proceedings, until summoned to council by the primus alongside the other two women. Sigi and a returning Alex.

He was a simple man, Jartor, all told. Quick to the point of things. Typically, one could appreciate the candid nature of his words. But not today.

“A boat is coming. The two of you will leave for home upon its arrival. Your status as my daughters by matrimony shall remain intact, as per oath. Alex, you may return to your duties when you are ready. Four weeks you'll be given for mourning, more if you need it. You have my condolences.

Flat. The words sounded... Flat. Without emotion.

Sigi was silent, a strange thing for a woman who had so much to say in any other situation. It seemed like Alex might be the first to speak, a furious curve to her brow. But it was Astrid who would do the thing, surprising them all. Perhaps even herself.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.” The primus arched an eyebrow at that, but said nothing for the time being. It prompted Astrid to do the opposite. “He was your son, your heir. How could you behave in such a way--”

There was a response then. Not one of a primus, angry at being rebuked. Not of of an emperor, indignant at the idea of being questioned. One of a father. Cold in the eyes, dead in the tone – but impactful nonetheless. Such was the rawness in his simple response.

“You will never understand how I feel. Never.”

As true as the stone to a miner. It would take countless strikes of the pick to chip away at such a thing. Two hundred and a quarter again of life. Jartor had seen much, learned much, known much. But he'd never known love. Only once, or twice by relation. None had ever known it, and few would ever understand it. Two centuries of life. Not as a human, but a primus. One who sees that which mortal men do not. One who feels that which mortal men cannot. Four lifetimes by the imperial average.

He had never felt more in his entire life. None would ever know it. This was the way of the primus, they couldn't know it. He had to be steel.

Astrid certainly couldn't. It was in the tone. How could an eighteen year old girl understand the significance of anything spoken by a 'living god'. Like her own father. Her father, who was four centuries old himself. Over two hundred daughters, and a son. Her brother, already one hundred and fifty years old. Not her peer. Old enough to be her great great grandsire. She could not understand the significance of their thoughts, actions, and sacrifices.

Some men craved immortality, but only madmen. Eighty winters was a long enough life for most. A century was beyond that. To pass an era or two in solitude. Alone. Her own father was a somber man at times, but she supposed all primus' were bound to be. To be born among a generation and see their friends and family fade away as they remained the same. Their children, too – the daughters. To watch forty or more children grow old and gray as a mortal did, and wither.

Surely there was a shadow on that life, to continue to exist, denied the rest given to others. To see the world turn hundreds of times and nothing change in the self. Perhaps that was why the mythical lich made their home beneath the earth, to ignore the changes above. Every primus was a living relic. And incomparable loneliness was in each of them across all the kingdoms who possessed such a mighty being.

She felt it in those words. Knew it vicariously, in a sense. A deadness of spirit. A yearning to pass and be free of duty. But they could not, for the path of a primus was absolute. The shield that watched over the realms of all men, held their hopes and dreams and wishes with both hands. That was a truth, a truth she had thought she understood once. But she didn't.

Maybe the loss of a son, to a normal father. The loss of a promise of peace to another. The long peace, endless peace. Now he'd have to start again, attempt to make another when the first had taken so long, lest their house fall to ruin.

They retired without further words. Sigi moped, Alex departed again sullenly, and Astrid wept. Not just for the son, but for the father as well – for she knew his pain in the briefest instant. She wondered where the future would bring them. Nobody could tell her that, and though Sigi tried in her stoic way to relieve that anxiety, she would fail.

As Haran would, most certainly. No true empire blessed under the gods could exist without a primus. Without the son it would crumble. All she could hope for was a new son, one only Charlotte was capable of providing now – lest he took a new wife. His eyes, Jartor's eyes, said that he wouldn't. Said that he was done with loss. Done with watching the sands turn before him.

His eyes were dead. And so was the empire of Haran.

There's a feeling of mortality in that as well, she understood. A turning of an era that even a mortal such as herself could understand.

According to the old texts, one hundred and twenty primus' had walked the land alongside their lesser kin. Eventually, when Jartor departed from the lands of men...

One hundred and twenty would become four. And four would become three.