Morgan Rice: A Fate of Dragons

With that Helena turned her back on him, marched across the room and out the open door, not even bothering to close it behind her.

Gareth stood alone in the stone chamber, listening to the echo of her footsteps and feeling a chill pervade his body that he could not shake. Was there anything stable he could hold onto anymore?

As Gareth stood there, trembling, watching the open door, he was surprised to see somebody else walk through it. He had barely had time to register his conversation with Helena, to process all of her threats, when in walked a too-familiar face. Firth. The usual bounce to his step was gone as he entered the room tentatively, a guilty look on his face.

“Gareth?” he asked, sounding unsure.

Firth stared at him, wide-eyed, and Gareth could see how bad he felt. He should feel bad, Gareth thought. After all, it was Firth who put him up to wielding the sword, who had finally convinced him, who had made him think that he was more than he was. Without Firth’s whispering, who knew? Maybe Gareth would have never even attempted to wield it.

Gareth turned to him, seething. In Firth he finally found an object in which to direct all his anger. After all, Firth had been the one who killed his father. It was Firth, this stupid stable boy, who got him into this whole mess to begin with. Now he was just another failed successor to the MacGil lineage.

“I hate you,” Gareth seethed. “What of your promises now? What of your confidence that I would wield the sword?”

Firth swallowed, looking very nervous. He was speechless. Clearly, he had nothing to say.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” he said. “I was wrong.”

“You were wrong about a lot of things,” Gareth snapped.

Indeed, the more Gareth thought about it, the more he realized how wrong Firth had been. In fact, if it were not for Firth, his father would still be alive today – and Gareth would not be in any of this mess. The weight of the kingship would not be on his head, all these things would not be going wrong. Gareth longed for simpler days, when he was not King, when his father was alive. He felt a sudden desire to bring them all back, the way things used to be. But he could not. And he had Firth to blame for all of this.

“What are you doing here?” Gareth pressed.

Firth cleared his throat, obviously nervous.

“I’ve heard…rumors…whispers of servants talking. Word has reached me that your brother and sister are asking questions. They’ve been spotted in the servants’ quarters. Examining the waste chute for the murder weapon. The dagger I used to kill your father.”

Gareth’s body went cold at his words. He was frozen in shock and fear. Could this day get any worse?

He cleared his throat.

“And what did they find?” he asked, his throat dry, the words barely escaping.

Firth shook his head.

“I do not know, my lord. All I know is that they suspect something.”

Gareth felt a renewed hatred for Firth, one he did not know he was capable of. If it wasn’t for his bumbling ways, if he had disposed of the weapon properly, he would not be in this position. Firth had left him vulnerable.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Gareth said, stepping close to Firth, getting in his face, glowering back at him with the firmest look he could muster. “I do not want to see your face ever again. Do you understand me? Leave my presence, and never come back. I’m going to relegate you to a position far from here. And if you ever step foot in these castle walls again, rest assured I will have you arrested.

“NOW LEAVE!” Gareth shrieked.

Firth, eyes welling with tears, turned and fled from the room, his footsteps echoing long after he ran down the corridor.

Gareth drifted back to thinking of the sword, of his failed attempt. He could not help but feel as if he had set in motion a great calamity for himself. He felt as if he had just pushed himself off a cliff, and from this time forward, he would only be facing his descent.

He stood there, rooted to the stone in the reverberating silence, in his father’s chamber, trembling, wondering what on earth he had set in motion. He had never felt so alone, so unsure of himself.

Was this what it meant to be king?

Gareth hurried up the stone, spiral staircase, rushing up floor after floor, hurrying his way to the castle’s uppermost parapets. He needed fresh air. He needed time and space to think. He needed a vantage point of his kingdom, a chance to see his court, his people, and to remember it was all his . That, despite all the nightmarish events of the day, he was, after all, still king.

Gareth had dismissed his attendants and ran alone, up flight after flight, breathing hard. He stopped on one of the floors, bent over and caught his breath. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He kept seeing the face of his father, scolding him at every turn.

“I hate you!” he screamed to the empty air.

He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter in return. His father’s laughter.

Gareth needed to get away from here. He turned and continued running, sprinting, until finally he reached the top. He burst out through the door, and the fresh summer air hit him in the face.

He breathed deep, catching his breath, reveling in the sunshine, in the warm breezes. He took off his mantle, his father’s mantle, and threw it down to the ground. It was too hot – and he didn’t want to wear it anymore.

He hurried to the edge of the parapet and clutched the stone wall, breathing hard, looking down on his court. He could see the never-ending crowd, filtering out from the castle. They were leaving the ceremony. His ceremony. He could almost feel their disappointment from here. They looked so small. He marveled that they were all under his control.

But for how long?

“Kingships are funny things,” came an ancient voice.

Gareth spun and saw, to his surprise, Argon standing there, feet away, wearing a white cloak and hood and holding his staff. He stared back at him, a smile at the corner of his lips – yet his eyes were not smiling. They were glowing, staring right through him, and they set Gareth on edge. They saw too much.

There were so many things Gareth had wanted to say to Argon, to ask him. But now that he had already failed to wield the sword, he could not recall a single one.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gareth pleaded, desperation in his voice. “You could have told me I was not meant to hoist it. You could have saved me the shame.”

“And why would I do that?” Argon asked.

Gareth scowled.

“You are not a true counsel to the King,” he said. “You would have counseled my father truly. But not I.”

“Perhaps he was deserving of true counsel,” Argon replied.

Gareth’s fury deepened. He hated this man. And he blamed him.

“I don’t want you around me,” Gareth said. “I don’t know why my father hired you, but I don’t want you in King’s Court.”

Argon laughed, a hollow, scary sound.

“Your father did not hire me, foolish boy,” he said. “Nor his father before him. I was meant to be here. In fact, you might say I hired them .”

Argon suddenly took a step forward, and looked as if he were staring into Gareth’s soul.

“Can the same be said of you?” Argon asked. “Are you meant to be here?”

His words struck a nerve in Gareth, sent a chill through him. It was the very thing Gareth had been wondering himself. Gareth wondered if it was a threat.

“He who reigns by blood will rule by blood,” Argon proclaimed, and with those words, he swiftly turned his back and began to walk away.

“Wait!” Gareth screamed, no longer wanting him to go, needing answers. “What do you mean by that?”