The 8000 Army

Chapter Four

       Prince Gael, it had been so long since that had been a factor in his life. So long since he had been more than the Commander. Now here he stood before the large oak doors of the Great Hall. In that oversized room would be the bleached ivory throne his father had sat on. The ivory throne of the first son of every King since the founding of The Craeg named for the Craeg Mountains that had protected the rear of the fort for generations, a fort built for the soldiers, a fort built for war. The Halloy waters of the mountain had cut deep in the rocks, of the near impossible to climb mountains, creating a gorge so steep it made the fort inaccessible from the river. Only sections of the mountain could be safely ascended and even then it was arduous and had to be navigated a fair distance down the river where it was crossable. There was a worn path to the Halloy Loch but even that was a harrowing trail made by the local folk.
        Gael had seen that throne his entire life. He had watched his father rule from it and witnessed his brothers' enthronisation on to it. That brother whom sat on said polished throne with the ancient carvings of ivy climbing up the solid base. Etched cherry blossom petals drifting down the legs to gather on the marble dais. It was a work of art created by craftsmen long gone taking the methods of their fine art to the grave. A mastery in creating an imposing aura even with the fine delicateness that took closer inspection.

      Aillig's dark hair was covering his eyes as he leaned over the wide arms of the throne to hear the whispers of  a reedy man, Gael did not recognise. Certainly none of the usual militant advisers they had both been raised listening to over dinner. So much for the King sleeping late, there he sat in all his regal glory not even pausing his interaction with this strange man. Gael was happy to allow his men to sleep late after so long on the road but surely his brother should have at least sought him out by now. Gael walked with his customary long gait across the marble floor, the decorative gilding glimmering round the inner circumference and still the murmurs continued like he was below their notice. As he proceeded through the room, feeling the flush of indignation once more at his brothers behaviour, he realised that the murmurs were all one sided. The skeletal shadow dressed in robes of emeralds heart positioned just behind the throne, a puppeteer hidden behind the stage was the only one speaking.
        Gael racked his memories of ever coming across him before, he did not fit in with his memories of his home and the robes were perturbing. Though there was many whom believed in the bounty of Mother Nature there was never the fervent need to endorse Her favour. That was the beauty of Her, there were no favours. Unlike the Falsifiers eccentric need to appease their one God and the higher tiers that served him. Hillaieg had no overly religious leanings, the Autumn Equinox and the Summer Solstice were as devout as they got. You could pray to Mother Nature but it did little good, she gave just as capriciously as she took. Every soldier and farm boy knew to respect Her but not lay all your hopes at Her feet. The people had no need of priests to feel close to Her. Toil long enough in the sun churning earth, planting seeds, cutting trees, hunting, fishing, mining and you felt plenty close enough. Knowing this of his homeland did not alter the initial impression Gael got from the strangers uncharacteristic attire. The man stood awfully near his brother, though retreated enough to be cloaked in the shadows of the three tiered platform drapes. Those shadows highlighted the creamy hues of the throne, its hard angles sitting in stark relief of the gloomy background. Never had Gael known of the top platform being graced by anyone other than the King.

        Gael's father had dominated that excessive throne. The throne was intimidating as a singular entity but when his father had sat on it, he had used it as an extension of his oppressive aura, had ruled justly but fiercely. The crown had rarely graced his head though no one doubted he was King. His brother had been well on his way to continuing King Ferrell's legacy if perhaps, tinged with compassion. There was a quiet strength to Aillig that he inherited from their tender mother. Sadly Gael himself had favoured their father's harsh temperament and at times was condemned for his icy persona, when in truth it was that ice around his heart that kept the fire of his inheritance at bay. It had been his Uncle whom had taught him how to quell that angry fire with ice. His Uncle who had taken him under his wing as a temper infused toddler and taught him to see past that fierce red haze and saved him from himself. His Uncle, the second son, the Commander before him, the father he never had in the King.

     Gael scrutinised his brother and did not recognise the shade that slumped before him, swallowed by the harsh seat he had left him to grow into. The heavy gold crown; melted with crushed diamonds, sapphires, rubies, countless types of precious stones to catch the light and filter their unique tinted radiance back, once sat effortlessly upon his forehead now precariously balanced on his brow. Aillig had always favoured his hair a little longer than their father deemed appropriate, a small act of defiance. The usually well-kept strands of ebony now dipped passed his shoulders, lankly obscuring the familiar knowing smile Gael had expected to be greeted with. After all, seven years Gaels' senior it had always felt like his brother knew everything before him and unlike their father, Aillig had never appeared to blame him for their mothers death. He had never resented his baby brother's life at the expense of their mother's life.

      Instead a ghost sat on the throne.