OC October Challenge Day 10
Day 10′s prompt is Parents. To the north of Tal’Kora, across the Mirar Sea, lies the island-halidom of Yhorn. Not all is well in Yhorn, especially with the royal family.
A Shadow Over Yhorn
The old oak doors of the king’s study were thrown open, shattering the peaceful solitude of the lord of Yhorn’s private sanctum. The impact of the wood frame and metal handles against the weathered but sturdy stone of the castle walls echoed down the halls, giving many servants and attendants momentary pause. King Rhone de Lusia set down his tea and sighed. There was only one person in all the Halidom of Yhorn who would dare throw open his doors without invitation.
“Madness! Madness has struck you, father!”
Rhone waited as his furious son marched between him and his hearth. The metal chains and buckles which held fast rugged traveling gear and thick furs glimmered against the flames behind him. He looked as though he had barged right up from the harsh snowfall outside.
Crown Prince Craven de Lusia was by all accounts, the model Yhornishman. In hardships and dangers, he endured and persevered; his firm but fair hand toward both nobles and commoners had earned him much respect throughout the Halidom, if not adoration. Any other father would brim with pride at having sired such a stalwart man, any king comforted that his throne and crown would fall into such capable hands.
The king kept his composure in the face of such a display of disrespect.
“You disturb me in my most private of chambers, hurl insults at your own father after disappearing for days, and you call me mad-struck?”
Craven’s enraged expression remained.
“I’ve seen the temple, father! I’ve seen with my own eyes the blasphemy you’ve wrought! The bridge destroyed, the island defiled, the altar of the Lord of Winter defaced; what else could it be but insanity?”
“You still hold fast to the faith of the pretender-gods, my boy?” Rhone scoffed.
Ever since his youth, Craven had been obedient and pious, a true believer in the Aeosan gods and follower of the Life-reaper, Sethis. For generations, since the Halidom’s formation, the shadowed god of death and cold had been their chief deity. What other god would bless the souls of such a frigid and inhospitable island?
There was a reverence in Yhorn for the cold of winter, and the death that came with it; no other people had so embraced and made peace with their own mortality quite like the Yhornish. While so many of the mainlanders feared the Black God’s grip, the people of Yhorn called him friend, and in return, death became a part of them. Sethis brought to them the ancient art of necromancy, to make death their strength, so long as no Yhornish ever grew fool enough to try and cheat him of his prize.
The soul was to be kept pristine, untouched and pure. The body? The body was a temporary vessel. A box of meat. Once empty, it had other purposes.
Many called Yhorn backwards and barbaric for their unorthodox views on death, but it had kept their Halidom alive for over a century and a half. Craven knew this. His father seemed to have forgotten, poisoned by lies.
“I follow the true gods of this world, father. It was that woman, wasn’t it; she whispered her spell into your ear and ordered you to sack the temple.”
Rhone narrowed his eyes, staring his son down.
“Choose your words carefully, boy. I am your father, your king; none command me. Lady Victoria has shown me the truth. Pull from my eyes the veil of age-old dogma and revealed greater gods than the child usurpers the rest of the world has been fooled into revering.”
“She lies! She has filled your mind with fantasy and…and tall-tales! You are wiser than this father; I beg of you, turn back from this doomed course before it is too late. She means to bring you and your people to ruin. Already you have cut off trade and travel to the south, banished House Wolfram from our shores –our best defense against the orcs that roam our mountains— the temple is only the latest and most heinous of her manipulations, and I fear she is doing much worse behind your back.”
The king shot up from his chair and met Craven. The boy had grown tall, able to look his father eye-to-eye even as they both towered over six feet each.
“A doddering old fool, am I? Blind to the goings on within my own realm?” he sneered. “The south and their corrupt preachers are not welcome on these hallowed shores, nor are those cultish Wolframs, and the temple is a relic of a bygone era. Lady Victoria will help me lead this land to a shining future, an enlightened future. I had hoped you would be a part of that as well, but if you are too blinded by false faith then go! Rot in your precious temple for all that it be worth now.”
Rhone turned to sit once more in his chair, but Craven stepped forward to implore his father one last time.
“There are people going missing, father! Noble and common alike; they vanish without a trace, and all of them good and faithful to Sethis and the gods. There has been…there has been talk in the city…rumors from the mountain towns about strange, hooded figures riding deep into the forests. Cries and screams echoing in the distance and suddenly going silent. I plan to set out in the morrow to investigate.”
“You will do no such thing. You will remain here, in the castle, and cease this pointless interference.”
“Father, the people are scared! I—”
“I will hear no more of this!” Rhone shouted. “Impudent, faithless boy! Leave my sight!”
Craven stood rigid for a moment, seething in his helplessness, before giving his father a curt nod.
“As you wish, your grace.”
Not waiting for a response, the prince marched out of the study and down the hall. Clearly, he had been in error to attempt to appeal to his father’s sense. He was too far gone, too steeped in the witch’s venom. He would have to proceed with more caution; that mysterious woman from shores unknown would surely hear of his open suspicion from the king.
If Craven’s theory was correct, and he was certain it was, then his life was soon to be in danger. The castle was no longer safe, and neither would the city be. He would have to leave that night.
How could he have let it come to this? To where he now feared his father would take his life? It had not always been this way. Craven could recall fondly the days of his childhood, looking up to his father as a symbol to all, the model of the man he wished to grow to be. All that was gone now.
A shadow had fallen over Yhorn.
A darkness, it seemed, only Craven now could lift. Resolute, he steeled himself for whatever he might find in the forests at the foot of the Yhornish mountains, and whatever measures he might be forced to take to ensure the survival of his home.