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Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Sinya Goras
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
A throne over the clouds
Part III
-I’ll wake you when it’s over-
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Treachery, the dagger had whispered.
Glen blinked not expecting its voice to pop in his head, as it rarely did after he’d threatened to toss it in the ocean more than a year back. Sam was talking apologetically.
“He’s a bit uncouth, you know him,” he explained to a nervous Glen. He’d half forgotten about all the stress and fear for the future during the festivities. A bit of talk, people cheering you on and reminiscing of the past while handing out and receiving gifts can do that to you. Also glugging down half a bottle of wine in the quick to steel his nerves for the sake of the girls. He made to glance back towards the thrones, as he just couldn’t get enough of them the last couple of months, but Marlo intervened, both of them anxious he had taken offense with their gruff friend.
Glen hadn’t really.
If he ever wished for a magical power though it would be to freeze up time.
That’s what his instincts were telling him.
Screaming really.
Freeze the moment.
Don’t go any further.
It won’t get any better that this.
This is it.
“Had his head rang back in Raoz by them bandits guarding the silver nuggets,” Marlo explained. “Made the trip after Sibren Maats had retired. Milton, Sibren, Jester Grin and Jingo were a tightly knit bunch like that. Knew them for twenty years aye. Grin bought the farm though on that mission. Am I remembering it correct Jingo? Fuck’s sake man help us out here!”
Glen glanced at Jingo and the half-breed grimaced looking elsewhere. He frowned and then heard something valuable clanging behind him. Glen twisted around fearing the worst and caught Sen’s words through the noise of the crowd.
“My sweet rogue,” his wife said throatily. Glen glanced at his feet and saw her pretty crown there. He stooped to get it and got up again.
“Looks fine,” he told her and walked to the stairs, leaving the adventurers behind. Glen started up the stairs with a sigh. Sen’s head had dropped low, chin touching the swell of her breasts and that rich long hair were covering her face completely.
It looked like she was sleeping and while they had skipped rest the previous night Glen almost lost his footing, because he knew Sen would never do that. Inis-Mir was lecturing Maeriel on weaponry, the crowd lost in their gossip and even the Rokae spread around the podium were relaxed at their spots.
“Sen?” Glen asked rushing up the final steps and headed for her gold throne. He reached her in a breath and grabbed her limp arms to see her face. Sen’s head moved back, the hair parting, those familiar eyes open staring empty and black liquid running out of their corners like black tears.
No.
“Sen?” Glen murmured shaking her gently, trying to feel for a pulse, her body loose on the throne not responding. Lifeless like a doll made out of warm flesh. Don’t do this. “Sweetheart wake up. Please,” he begged, the noise of the hall lost to his ears. A numbness turning into a pain grasping at his heart when she didn’t respond despite his frantic efforts.
“Help,” Glen croaked turning around drenched in sweat. “Someone. HELP!” Sir Delmuth moved from his position with Kirk right behind him. Fikumin jumped from his chair way down at the main hall seeing something was off and Maeriel who was standing nearest to him, stepped in front of his daughter to block her view of her mother.
“Damnit girl. Why would you do that?” Glen grunted hoarsely and tried to lift her up, but he’d no strength in his arms from the severe shock.
“Monarch,” the arriving Sir Delmuth said, the crowd gathered inside the hall stopping gradually their conversations realizing the drama unfolding on the lavish podium.
“Find Soletha now,” Glen croaked rocking Sen’s body in his arms. “Now dammit!”
“Monarch,” Delmuth repeated stooping over him. “What’s that on the Lady’s Sovereign’s face?”
“It’s nothing!”
“You need to step away my Lord,” Sir Delmuth urged him through his solemn mask and Glen snarled back at him angry.
“I won’t leave her!”
“What happened to mum?” Inis Mir asked fighting with a sobbing Iskay to free herself.
“Maeriel,” a manic and wild eyed Glen growled menacingly turning his sweaty face on the numb Ranger. “Get my daughter away from here!”
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She is getting colder, a desperate Glen thought rubbing her shoulders and arms. This isn’t good.
“Let me see her,” a grim Soletha clad in her best dress urged him, Soren’s large head looking over her worried. “My lord please step away.”
“She’s not waking up,” Glen told her, reluctantly taking a step back from the throne.
“Everyone step away from the podium,” Soletha ordered. “Lord Garth you need to clean yourself up,” she ordered trying to get through to him. Glen stared at his hands. That gluey substance on it. He couldn’t think, nor did he understand how it had gotten there. Sen’s face covered in the stuff. It had spilled on her beautiful satin tunic, down the opening at her neck and darkened her jewelry. “It could spread about.”
“Secure the Monarch,” Sir Delmuth ordered and Kirk grabbed his shoulder to pull him away, but Glen roared and shoved him back violently. The sound of Inis-Mir crying from atop the stairs struggling to get free from Maeriel and Iskay piercing his ears.
“Glenavon,” Fikumin said gravely touching his leg. Glen turned around, heart beating in an erratic rhythm. “What is this? Who did this?”
Glen stared at him and then at a sober Jinx numbly.
His mouth hurt and everything inside the hall had turned a blurry incomprehensible series of images.
“You need to save her,” he finally said turning back to a frantically working on Sen Soletha. She had cut open her dress, used parts of her own gown she’d teared out to wipe some of the foul mixture away and had emptied her satchel on the ground trying to find something amidst the chaos that started spreading inside the shocked hall.
“Murder!” Someone yelled. “The Queen has been slain!”
“Sir Delmuth,” a flushed Kirk still without his mask grunted. “You need to clear the hall.”
“Right,” Delmuth replied sounding unsure. “My Lord?”
“Get Lord Anfalon to do it,” Kirk urged him. “Bring the guards from the gates here!”
“Soletha,” Glen grunted hoarsely stooping over the Healer to catch another glimpse of his wife. “Whatever it takes, you need to bring her back. I might have found something to help her.”
Uvrycres brutal solution looking rather merciful now.
There’s another way, the dagger hissed and Glen groaned shaking his head, everyone stepping away from him. But you need to deal with treachery first.
“Arggh!” Glen roared and Soletha collapsed on her bottom next to his unresponsive wife. Glen moved to cover Sen’s exposed breasts with the torn pieces of her tunic and the healer groaned frustrated getting up again.
She pushed him away from her.
“She’s gone,” Soletha told him frustrated and Glen backhanded her. The healer snapped her head away lithely to avoid the worst and a furious Glen moved on the healer blinded by rage, Soren’s massive palm on his chest stopping him.
“Get out of my way!” Glen blasted the towering Nord.
“She’s not lying small Glen,” Soren said in his baritone voice.
“Bullshit!”
“Her lungs are full of it,” Soletha rumpled. “We might all be infected.”
“Who would know?”
“Berthas could tell us.”
“Get Berthas over here!” Glen barked and Kirk gulped down but nodded his face pale. He turned to the Healer. “Try again,” he told her angry. “Use a healing potion. Two. Do it!”
“Glenavon you need to calm down,” Fikumin said and Glen all but screamed in his face.
“Don’t tell me to calm down dwarf!”
“Can Lymsiel offer her assistance Lady Soletha?” A sober Anfalon asked standing a couple of meters away. “She’s very worried.”
Soletha shook her disheveled head right and left. “I can’t… she can’t. It’s not illness or poison Lord Anfalon.”
“That leaves very few possibilities for what I’m witnessing,” the ancient Elderblood commented sourly. “I’ll tell her to vacate the hall,” he said with a glance at a shell-shocked Glen that stared at his wife’s face in disbelief. “She’s with child Lord Garth.”
Glen nodded and stared at his stained hands. The oily substance smelled of wet coal.
“Soletha,” he finally said. “Just bring her back for a few moments. Whatever you want I’ll give you. Anything. You can ask for anything.”
Soletha gulped down her eyes sad. “I wish for my daughter’s life be returned Lord Garth, but I know in my heart that she’s gone. Apologies, but so is Lady Sovereign. I’m a healer, I can’t mend what’s not there.”
“You’ll refuse to help?” Glen grunted, a tick appearing in his left eye. “AFTER ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU?”
Berthas arrival defusing the situation as a desperate Glen grabbed the white-haired young mage and dragged him forcefully over Sen’s body.
“Find a way,” he urged him hoarsely. “You can do it.”
An ashen-faced Berthas nodded and gathered the long sleeves of his blue robes.
“Don’t be an idiot!” Soletha blasted him. “You can’t do that! It’ll jump into you!”
“SHUT UP!” A furious Glen snapped at her and went to draw his sword. “YOU CLOSE YER FUCKING MOUTH!”
Kirk grabbed his sword arm, Fikumin grabbing the other, but an out of his mind Glen moved both of them forward, until Jinx stepped in front of him, her eyes swollen and smelling of Goras wine.
“They are your friends,” the Gish told him raspingly. “They are doing all they can Glen.”
“They are not,” Glen grunted and Berthas stooped over Sen’s body placing both his hands on her neck.
“DON’T DO IT!” Soletha screamed irate and Soren had to restrain her as well. “You are listening to a madman!”
“Kirk arrest the healer,” Glen ordered the newly minted knight. “Hagen!”
“Milord!” an anxious Hagen yelled from the back.
“Assist him. Sir Delmuth!” Glen barked next loud enough to be heard down the hall. Stupid Voron’s acoustics. He pointed at the three adventurers he was talking with ages ago it seemed. “Keep them here, under watch! Keep everyone here! NOBODY LEAVES THE PREMISES!”
“Aye Lord Garth,” Sir Delmuth replied and moved on the stunned adventurers. Well, Jingo didn’t look surprised. Just saddened.
Motherfucker.
Ruffians.
Glen turned his attention on the chanting Berthas, trying to block Soletha’s warnings from his ears.
“Tell them the truth!” The Healer was yelling while they dragged her away. Two Rokae on her and four trying to stop Soren who wanted to follow after Soletha. “Let the dead lay. Let them rest Lord Garth!”
“Eh,” Berthas said with a shudder and pulled his hands back.
“Well?” Glen asked anxiously. The young mage got up slowly and pressed his pale lips into a thin line. Then shook his head.
No.
“What does she mean?” Fikumin asked looking at the healer and priestess getting removed from the hall. “Glenavon?”
Glen walked next to Sen’s body and collapsed on his knees next to it. He took one of her lifeless hands in his and squeezed it gently.
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Come on baby. You can do it. Don’t give up.
“I know what she means,” Berthas said behind his back to the concerned dwarf. “But whatever she had inside is dead now. There’s nothing there. Unfortunately.”
Glen wiped his eyes and stared at him from the floor.
“Where did it go?”
“It turned to this,” Berthas showed the dwarf his dirty hands. Glen got up with Sen’s body in his arms and walked to her throne again. He lowered her there carefully and spent some time trying to mend her ruined tunic. When that failed, he used his shirt. Glen just ripped it out of from under his armour to clean her face up and neck from the foul substance. He then covered her chest with it. Fikumin’s hushed conversation with Berthas not interesting him, nor the sound of protests from the guests his guards were instructing to remain inside.
But then one of Fikumin’s questions broke the veil of numbness that had engulfed him.
“What killed the curse?” Fikumin had asked.
And he felt something under his boot, at the leg of the gold throne. Glen stooped under it, a hand caressing Sen’s cold ankles, the other picking up that cheap pendant from the floor.
A piece of plaguin’ wood.
Trinkets, she had told him back in Eikenport. Brought from the Plague Isles. Made out of Wyvern’s bone.
Ah.
“I have no idea,” Berthas admitted. “Nor why it decided to die along its host, when it had behaved differently.”
“When was that?” Fikumin probed interest in his voice.
Glen got up and looked at Kirk. “Guard my wife,” he told the knight and Kirk nodded with a small hesitation. “Berthas,” Glen said next. “You say one more word, you’ll never see the light of the sun again. This is not your business to discuss!”
“Apologies Lord Garth,” Berthas said quickly. “I’ll never—”
“Just shut yer mouth!” Glen grunted and marched down the stairs of the podium.
I knew it, he thought getting angrier by the moment.
Treachery, the dagger goaded him on.
Fucking ruffian.
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Sam looked distraught. “Lord Garth you have my deepest condolences. Everyone is in shock,” the adventurer told him. Glen just growled under his breath instead of answering and went for Jingo. Sir Qildor who stood in front of the half-breed made to step away, but Glen bulldozed his way through the Rokae and punched Jingo in the mouth. The adventurer stumbled back, but Glen kneed him in the kidneys next and sent him sprawling down.
Jingo groaned and rolled on the ground saving his head from Glen’s stabbing boot that came down with a thud. Glen kicked him on the chest as he was trying to escape, the crowd nearest to the scene gasping in horror at this sudden explosion of violence. You don’t see the king trying to beat a man to death inside his hall every day. There were mercifully a lot of guards present, Rokae and even Hoplites in full gear between them and the guests, sort of concealing some of what was going on before the thrones.
But not everything.
Jingo rolled on a knee and got up, Glen moving on him with feverish eyes. He dodged a backhand, but Glen unsheathed his sword next, the cackle of the weapon reverberating inside the hall. Glen hacked at the adventurer, but he managed to escape him again with a minor cut on his leg that bled freely on the polished black tiles.
“Milord!” Marlo yelled and rushed to stop him, Sir Qildor’s sword coming out as well and stopping his advance.
“Garth for the love of Uher!” Sam cried from his spot. “He didn’t do anything!”
“Arggh!” Glen roared grinding his teeth. “Get your weapon out you fucking ruffian!” He barked at Jingo. “Snake! You came to stab me in the back!”
“GLENAVON!” Fikumin boomed from the podium with a mighty voice. It rattled the walls and shocked the crowd, but for the dwarfs who were with him. They just scowled some more. “That is enough!”
Glen turned to glare at the small figure coming down the stairs of the podium.
Fikumin’s shadow that of a much bigger man.
“You don’t order me around dwarf,” he hissed angrily.
“What did he do?” Fikumin rustled approaching fast on his stubby legs. “Explain and I’ll kill him myself.”
Glen stood up straighter and licked his bitter lips, drenched in sweat and curls of wet hair on his face half-concealing it. He reached in his armor and got the pendant out. A groaning Jingo got up on his feet, a silence coming inside the sinister hall.
“He gave her this.”
“Garth… My lord,” Sam protested. “She asked for it. I heard it with my own ears!”
“Tell them what it is,” Glen told the grimacing Jingo.
“Tell him allgods darnit!” Marlo urged him. “Fuck’s sake! Now is not the time to turn mute on us!”
“I’m not your enemy my lord,” Jingo finally said.
“Answer the king’s query!” Sir Delmuth blasted him under his mask.
“It’s an amulet,” Jingo said. “That’s all.”
“Don’t you fucking play this game wit me!” Glen growled and slashed at him. Jingo tried to dodge, but the blade cut a gush on his right forearm that bled down his sleeve freely.
“Good grief!” Marlo gasped.
“I didn’t kill the Lady Sovereign,” Jingo said in a calm voice.
Glen blinked, his hands shaking.
He’s lying. Ask him. Do it, the dagger hissed.
Shut up!
“How did you die?” Glen croaked and Fikumin gasped hearing him.
Jingo’s face contorted, the half-breed aging a couple of years in a moment and he stumbled back.
“What did he say?” Marlo asked sounding bewildered. Sir Qildor lowered his sword. His body-language also showing confusion, despite the mask hiding his facial expression.
“Garth,” Sam said who had understood the query. “We know Jingo.”
“Do you?” Glen asked him hoarsely eyeing the unresponsive adventurer. “Does he appear normal to you?”
“Milord,” Marlo said reasonably not wanting to aggravate him further, but also determined to at least attempt to save his friend. “I’ve known them for years.”
“Let’s ask this Sibren guy. We can write to him,” Glen retorted. “I can wait and he’ll stay locked up until then.”
“Maats was killed up North,” Marlo grunted and then smacked his lips. “But he’d told you that that’s Jingo. He was wit Grin in—”
Jingo tipped his head back and then shook it right and left.
“You have something to say?” Glen asked him.
Jingo smacked his lips and stared at the cut on his forearm. It was the most animated that Glen had seen him in years.
“The amulet killed the curse Lord of Wetull. It’s what it does, it breaks down spells,” he told him in a strange broken accent. Half-Common Half-Imperial with a touch of something completely alien. “But the curse was the only thing keeping her alive.”
Glen blinked. “You’re lying.”
“Ask your healer,” Jingo said and made an uncertain step forward. He stopped after he did as if surprised at the success.
“Where’s Jingo? The real one?” Glen asked.
“He died trying to save his friend,” Jingo replied. “It’s not polite to remind a person of something so traumatic. You did, which means you are a knowledgeable human.”
“Man what are you saying?” Marlo asked him and turned to Glen. “He’s hurt and in shock milord.”
“No. He’s a construct. A killer,” Glen replied.
“Not all are,” Jingo corrected him. “As I said. I’m not your enemy Lord of Wetull. But you have enemies aplenty. One at least, is inside this very Hall.”
“That’s true,” Glen agreed coldly. “You,” and attacked him.
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“Ugh!” Marlo gasped horrified seeing Jingo going down, the slash opening his neck and then cutting down the left side of his chest through the leather armour. “You killed him!” He yelled at Glen, who watched the bleeding adventurer going down on a knee and then collapsing on his back on the granite tiles.
“Theron!” Fikumin barked at someone inside the hall. “Bring your war-hammer here!”
“I also got an axe wit a short shaft?” Someone yelled from the back or hidden behind a taller person.
“Bring that too!” Fikumin retorted.
“Poor lad,” Marlo sniffled wiping his eyes. “He was hurt bad, never the same. Now he’s cut down ‘n bleeding like a pig—”
“That wasn’t Jingo Clinton,” Sam rustled his face dark, cutting the older adventurer’s lamentation short. “The story always struck me strange.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Glen told them and stepped near the bleeding adventurer/construct.
Jingo’s right arm went up, then down with a gurgling sound. He pushed himself up on an elbow, blood gushing out of his neck for a while in thick spurts that quickly turned to a dribble.
“Who told… you,” Jingo gurgled blood coming out of his mouth. “You… wouldn’t know.”
“Game’s up,” Glen spat and hacked at him severing his arm at the elbow.
“Orcs and Ogres!” Marlo cried out seeing Jingo hit the floor again, but keep on moving using his remaining limbs. Glen followed him stepping through the pool of blood and stabbed him through the spine, the tip of the blade hitting the tiles.
He yanked the sword out breathing heavy and Jingo turned around slowly.
“The one who… came from afar,” the adventurer rumbled. “Found… a way,” his mouth opened up wide, the skin tearing at the edges like old fabric showing gore-covered molars and a strange feminine sound coming out of it, like a scream, or a maiden’s cry of horror. “He’s… here. You’re dancing… to a mummer’s—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Glen roared and swung at him viciously taking most of his head off, the cut right at lower lip and the wound catastrophic. The crowd screamed in horror, the adventurer’s bloody severed head traveling in the air for a brief moment and striking one of the black granite columns with a crackling splash right under the lightstones bronze bin.
“Milord,” a shocked Kirk croaked from the podium.
“He went after my daughter first,” Glen hissed and wiped the blood on Jingo’s clothes. “Then my wife. Burn him. Leave nothing.”
He slotted the pendant in his pocket and walked back to his wife.
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Glen carried Sen to her bed and placed her there. He sat at the edge of it and mourned for long holding her cold right hand in his tightly. Her skin turned hard and rigid after a while, but he didn’t mind. Some hours later and well into the night an unknown Cofol appeared at the door of her quarters.
“What do you want?” Glen asked him hoarsely.
“Lord Garth,” the Cofol replied. “We are here for Lady Sovereign.”
“I don’t know you. Fuck off!” Glen growled angrily and the man recoiled at his words. Another appearing behind him. “Who in the allhells are you?”
“I…” the Cofol tried to say, but Iskay appeared and placed her hand on his arm to stop him.
She then moved past the first anxious man and approached the Lord of Morn Taras who was sitting at the dark side of the bed, to keep Sen’s face in the light. Iskay prostrated herself before him and remained there until Glen was forced to speak to her.
“What do you want Iskay?”
“Master Garth,” Iskay whispered her forehead touching the floor tiles. “Per the ancient laws of Greenwhale Peninsula these men are here to present you with an assortment of slaves for you to choose.”
“Are you plaguin’ serious?”
“Master Garth,” Iskay continued. “At least three slaves must accompany Mistress Sen-Iv to her journey. Anything less will be an insult to her station.”
“She doesn’t need slaves now,” Glen grunted. “Get up.”
“Master Garth, I implore you to punish me for failing her wishes,” Iskay pleaded not moving from her position. “I’ll go with her. You don’t have to take any other slaves.”
“Go where?”
“To the funeral pyre,” Iskay replied shaking.
Glen blinked and then stared at the men standing at his door.
“What’s yer name?” He asked hoarsely.
“Rama master Garth.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Mistress Sen-Iv.”
“The other guy?”
“He does as well.”
“Who else?”
“Kamat-Fin and many others.”
“We are not burning my wife,” Glen told them and they grimaced in pain as if he had just punched them in the face. “Nor any slaves. What’s the matter wit you?” He growled seeing their pensive looks.
“You’ve just killed us master Garth. Her brother will never forgive us,” Rama replied his voice shaking.
“Her brother will do what he’s plaguing told. Or to put it in proper context, I don’t give a fuck about Phon’s wishes.”
“It won’t save us master Garth,” Rama pleaded with him. “Better to cut us down yourself.”
Glen got up and almost stepped on the head of the still prostrated Iskay. With a frustrated hiss he stooped, grabbed her by the hair and lifted her up. To his amazement she didn’t protest at all.
“This is my wife,” Glen said in a gruff voice. A lot of pride mixed in it. “I’ll find an appropriate place for her. We are in Goras. She’ll be treated in the Goras manner.”
“As you wish Master Garth,” they both said and retreated with deep curtseys towards the door.
“Wait,” Glen said stopping them. “What else did you do for her?” He asked curious to learn more about this part of Sen’s personal life he’d missed and her people told him.
> The night the Lady Sovereign died, Arguen Garth carried her to their quarters and remained with her until the first light. When he came down the stairs, his hair had turned a pure white and looked like a different person.
>
> He looked, but he wasn’t that different in reality. Perhaps changed is the better word here. An order was given for a period of mourning to start immediately and a decree that she was to be entombed in a lovely place. It was a touching small address to the Council. The King was not seen for many weeks after that day.
>
> Lady Sen-Iv was placed inside a hermetically sealed glass and gold sarcophagus then carried in a large procession from Morn Taras to the Garden of Statues that was still unfinished then.
>
> The large sarcophagus was loaded on a boat in the lake bordering the Garden and ferried into one of the tiny islands at its center. One cannot visit the islet without permission from the Palace. Lady Sovereign’s crystal domed tomb resembles a large intricately carved marble throne at an angle from outside. Its internal walls and columns layered in gold sheets, mirrors and precious stones.
>
> The structure covers almost the whole of the luscious flower trees covered islet that bears her name today. For that fact the small docks to reach it are rarely used despite the large resort area that has been built today near the shores of the lake.
>
>
> If one wants to see a realistic depiction of Sen-Iv today, he can do it once per year, when the Room of Paintings in Morn Taras and the Garden’s gates open to the public. In the latter her white-gold statue stands just after the gates and shows her sitting on the gold throne during the Monarch’s Celebration.
>
> The King removed both thrones from the main hall soon after, which made the large podium appear rather empty. While there’s speculation about the Lady Sovereign’s end, it was never brought up officially. The day of remembrance which coincides with Sen-Iv’s birthday was a day before the first Valimae-Lilt of summer and it still is. Fittingly it makes it a two day and two nights celebration of the coming summer.
>
> Her Royal Highness Sen-Iv Sopat Aniculo, Lady Sovereign of Wetull, the famed Celestial Opal of Lai Zel-Ka was laid to rest on the last month of Spring of 3399 in Goras. She was days shy from her twenty seventh birthday.
Glen put his weary back on the glass sarcophagus and stared at the Wyvern resting under the shade of the sandalwood trees from the open gates of the spacious tomb. He used a cloth to clean the dusty crystal carefully and then reached inside his old satchel.
He found an old wrinkled scroll and unfurled it gently not to break it.
Glen sighed and then turned his eyes on the intricate script he’d learned to read years after the letter was sent to him from Eikenport. Sen’s calligraphy flowing on the aging vellum like a painting in black and white.
“You know this part,” he told her despite the tears in his eyes. Sen had written to him about her pregnancy and the birth of Inis-Mir. About her fears for his life and the future. The stress of bringing a girl into a world that was so hard on them and to him who needed an heir to secure his tittle.
“She’ll be fine,” Glen assured her. “I won’t let anything touch her and I’ll make sure she goes into the world with her eyes open.”
He cleared his throat and tried to read the script through his blurring eyes. “As I said sweetheart, you know this part, but I really like it,” Glen paused briefly breathed out and then continued. “So you sleep now while I go through it. Catch your rest sweetheart,” he told her voice crackling and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “And I’ll wake you, when it’s over.”
My Glen, the letter started and as usual he didn’t manage to read much further than that.
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