"Prophecy Fulfilled" by Darryl J Grossauer

Words of prophecy long forgotten drifted wickedly on the wind, sinister whispers like the premonition of a coming storm. As if nature too could feel the weight of prophecy, not a soul stirred in the forest outside of Ruvean. For all the noise there should have been--the resonating hoot of the owls, the nefarious howling of wolves on the hunt, the incessant song of the crickets--not even the rustling of leaves could be heard under the hushed recital of the breeze. The night was desolate; bleak. A night to give any man nightmares.

Brethan Belayenin had no doubt that if he could have slept through the night, he would have been tormented by the nausea of morbid dreams. Instead, he had leaned weakly against the rail of a ledge which overlooked the whole land,--from Ruvean's own gates to the far side of the river Aurnefalyn--gazing distantly across shadowed woodlands. Lost.

His dull stare was anchored on the spot from which he was sure the Moons would have peered back at him had it not been for the ominous veil of the clouds. Fear churned inside of him, bringing to the surface of his skin a sheer layer of perspiration, cool like the night's breath. The wind was icy and it gnawed hungrily at his bones, ravenous like the foul heart of Despair. Every now and then, an acute shiver wracked his body like the backlash of a whip; he could no longer ignore the feeling which stirred his memories. Fate tugged at his sleeve but he resisted, tried to deny the implications of a Moon ailing so, to refuse the sickness which consumed his very soul, yet his mind recalled the voice of days passed.

'The world will suffer greatly, from the illness of the Sky'

As a child living under the strict tutelage of the Orikalthian Knighthood, he had been given an education worthy of any of the land's nobles. All the usual academics--litterature, caligraphy, philosophy and mathematics--and knightsmanship besides, had proven to be very useful to him, but none had he so enjoyed or appreciated as the lore of the land--this last one had been self-taught. The mythology and legends of the world had captivated him so absolutely that he had taken advantage of every opportunity to lock himself up in the old Libraries where he had brooded over ancient scriptures and abstract writings. It had seemed like he would never satiate his interminable hunger for it. He had studied the prose voraciously for long hours, absorbed every volume as easily as taking a breath, savouring the sense of omniscience which it had provided. And when he could no longer find new texts, he had read them a second and third time as rapaciously as the first until he had known the land's prophecies as if they were his own memories. A part of himself.

Vivid flashbacks jeered at him like phantoms of derision from the past. Haunted by the recollection, he could still feel the rush he'd experienced on a winter day of his twenty second year. He had discovered an ancient leather bound tome amongst dust and cobwebs in a forgotten corner of Ruvean's oldest atheneum. In mint condition considering its age, only a few pages had hung askew within its bindings. Sheets of thin delicate parchment, yellowed from centuries of existence and cluttered with indecipherable scrawls were intermingled with newer ones--inaccurate translations to the New Tongue. From what little the interpreter had successfully decoded, Brethan had glimpsed only vague foretellings of bloodshed and doom, incomprehensible for the most part; but one of the short excerpts had held his attention longer than the others, had screamed at him as if to single him out, as if the words had been written explicitly for him.

It had read,

'When the Diamond City crumbles under the Red Tide's rise; When the Land is torn to pieces because the Moons refuse to lie; When the ancient Orders falter and the championed Knightlord dies; The world will suffer greatly from the illness of the Sky.'

He had read the passage more than once, unbelieving. 'When the Diamond City crumbles under the Red Tide's rise' He was as sure then as he was now that the the verse refferred to Cugrat, already long gone on the Winds of Time. The majestic city and all of its glorious crystalline towers had been swallowed along with nearly all of its inhabitants by layers of molten rock and volcanic ash when a mountain--now invested with the name Firemount-- had erupted violently at the onset of the Wars of Severance, burying it deeply within the earth's crust. Only the broken tips of spires which still braved the earth's surface left any trace of its once thriving existence.

That notwithstanding, it was lost to the world.

The accuracy of that verse was as irrefutable as the ruins of Cugrat itself, --a testimony to its fiery Fate--but still he forbade himself from giving credence to the rest of the passage.

As he studied it a second time, he had become convinced that the implications which followed were confused by translation. Impossible he had contended despite himself. 'When the ancient Order falters and the championed Knightlord dies' Certainly impossible he maintained. He had refused to believe it in any case, refused to acknowledge Orikalth's defeat, or a Knightlord's murder for that matter.

Now he was the Knightlord and it made accepting that truth even harder. But as the clouds broke to reveal the Moons glowering back at him wickedly like two grotesque eyes, he could no longer deny it. The sky was ill. The world would suffer. And he would die before it all began.

'Evil-- Disease, Death and Terror-- comes when Lordless are the Knights-- The Moons' bloody peril, first, leprosy of the Land; Then, the reign of Vampirism, nihilist of life; Agony next, on the Winds of Time, the Storm of Chaos, free.'

Another shiver assaulted the Knightlord and he absently wrapped his cloak more closely about him as if to stave off the feverish chill of anxiety when suddenly, another figure slightly taller than Brethan, emerged from a doorway onto the balcony stopping a few strides short of him. A disconcerted look twisted the man's features into a grimace and he spoke as if he could not feel the malaise of the night.

"What ails you on this night Milord?" A familiar voice inquired softly.

Without turning to face the man Brethan breathed solemnly, "Nothing which you can right Agglen."

Taking a deliberate step towards the Knightlord, the man named Agglen rested a steady hand on his shoulder.

"True as it may be Milord, the comfort of a listening ear may lighten your burden. You need not suffer in solitude."

Spinning on his heel to face his advisor, Brethan slapped the comforting hand away roughly, provoked by sympathy he did not want or ask for.

"The sky ails me!" he shouted rashly. "Prophesy ails me!" Hopeless rage twisted his face into a snarl. "The Lady Fate, comes from the Mists to take me and there is nothing that can disburden me." As he paused to take a deep breath, disheartened tears welled up in his eyes and washed away his rage as if it had never been.

"It is mine to bear and mine alone." he said sobbing. "Please, I beg of you, do not tell me on which terms I must meet my Fate. No man has that right."

"I would never presume to Milord. I know not even the terms on which I would meet my own." His sincerity was obvious. "But the sky you say? Prophecy?" Agglen continued with an air of confusion. "Of what prophecy speak you?"

Without hesitation, Brethan quoted the rhyme like a man foretelling his own doom.

" 'When the Diamond City crumbles under the Red Tide's rise; When the Land is torn to pieces because the Moons refuse to lie; When the ancient Orders falter and the championed Knightlord dies;' "--he emphasized this last one deliberately--" 'The world will suffer greatly from the illness of the sky.' "

Brushing his cloak aside, he continued bitterly. "The 'Diamond City' has lain in its tomb for nearly a century and a half already, consumed by the Fiery Rivers summoned by the minions of Gorath." His words seethed like acid. Lifting his arm to point an unsteady finger at the sky, he went on, " Behold a dark omen friend. The sky ails, diseased and incurable but for the fulfillment of this dark foretelling. For six full days now, the Moons have refused to descend from the heavens and last night...." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat harshly before finishing. " They took ill marking the death of a dear friend"

Mildly flustered Agglen said apprehensively, "Milord...surely you don't believe....Pardon my boldness. I mean no disrespect for your knowledge of lore sire but...I've never heard tell of such a prophecy before. Are you entirely certain that it is sound?"

Ignoring Agglen's uncertainty as if he hadn't heard him speak, Brethan walked to the edge of the balcony and quoted, “'Evil.’”, he paused. “ 'Disease, Death and Terror--comes when Lordless are the Knights--The Moons' bloody peril first, leprosy of the land; Then the reign of Vampirism, nihilist of life; Agony next on the Winds of Time, the Storm of Chaos, free.' "

Agglen gasped in realization as the words sunk in. Brethan was right. This one he had heard before. He echoed the Knightlord's voice on the final verse.

" 'The world unknowing under the Moons' deathly gaze; for seven days. Fifth day, sixth day, seventh, the Knightlords fall; Golinth, Thengorus, Orikalth, all.’”

"I am the Knightlord of Orikalth." Brethan said solidly as if to affirm the fact to himself. "The sky ails and the Moons are restless. My friend, Brauwer Jomeer, Lord of Golinth is already amongst the dead and Lord Norsten of Thengorus will join the slain on this night." He paused and drew a slow, deep breath before continuing resignedly. "Tomorrow night, I will die. By the hands of Shadowsworn no doubt."

"But Brethan," For the first time, Agglen invoked his friend by name rather than by title. "It doesn't have to be you. Resign your Knightlordship. Hand over your burden to someone else and survive. The world will need you in the dark days which come our way."

"The action which you implore me to take is that of a coward Agglen. Do you see me as a such?" Brethan spat defensively.

"You know that it is not so Brethan. I speak to you now as a friend trying to save your life rather than as an advisor protecting your honour. Heed me. The world will suffer more should you leave us in this hour."

As if to protect his honour where Agglen now refused to, he said to no one in particular, "I am not a coward." And then he whispered to himself, "Blood and Darkness, how I wish it were not my Fate to suffer. I can hardly stand to face it now. I haven't the strength."

"Milord," Agglen interjected insistently. "Do not be defeated like this. Go, seek the council of the Prophets of Daar'Suk at the very least. There are no greater readers of Time. Only they can release you from the bindings of prophecy."

"I will not." was all he said, unwilling to betray cowardice.

"Then my hand is forced."

Agglen turned and walked away, hearing no objections from Brethan. When he reached the doorway, he stopped for a moment and said over his shoulder, "Remember, I am your friend Brethan." And he disappeared into the keep, leaving the Knight alone with his thoughts.

Hours passed and the sky melted languidly into a grotesque mockery of the dawn's ususal beauty, a sombre aureole around where the Moons lay, hidden once again by the foul shroud of dark clouds. It reached desperately for dawn, begging the sun for reprieve from the gloomy sickness it suffered. But even as the morning tore through the shadows of night the sky ailed grim and terrible, as if in its refusal of the light it offered to share in the world's pain.

In the early hours of dawn, Agglen came back to him shadowed by a ghostly figure swathed in flowing robes of cypress, rimmed with runes for the length of it and around the cuffs and hood. They fit the man like a second skin, as if they were a part of him rather than clothing.

"The Prophets have sent you one of theirs. He is called Tolveyne. You may ask of him whatever you will." Agglen's voice held a note of solemn insistence, as if he lacked the nerve to order the Knightlord directly. He stepped aside letting the prophet pass to where Brethan leaned against the rail, and fell back to listen in silence.

Brethan pushed himself away from the rail and faced the prophet, staring at him silently for a moment, fumbling for the proper words to voice his question. Before he had a chance to ask it however, Tolveyne pushed back his hood to reveal colourless eyes and long flowing hair, blue like the sky should be, framing an almost featureless face. In a hollow tone he said, "I know already what you would ask Knight. There is no escape from a prophecy so strong."

The words wounded him deeply. And even though he had expected the answer, he had silently hoped for another way out. He was not a coward by any meaning of the word, yet he had to ward off an overwhelming urge to flee. To flee and hide from the land, across the Boundless Waters, somewhere untouched by the Winds of Time. But as reality would have it, he was lost. Doomed. Bound to death by a force far greater than he could even imagine. Destined to die for the sake of warning the world of its peril.

The prophet spoke again, ominous this time. "Knight of Orikalth, hear my words and be forwarned, for another prophecy I bring you on this last day." He continued in a terrible voice, the indisputable voice of Fate. “‘Lordless the Orders: Golinth, Thengorus and Orikalth, the Moon's plight ends; Blood of the Knightlord at the Heart of Ruvean, the world's own begins;’ Make of it what you will.” At that, the prophet turned his back on them and left them alone to contemplate the meaning of his words.

Brethan missed the implications of Tolveyne's foretelling but Agglen gasped. Desperate, he moved beside Brethan, demanding his attention. "Brethan," he started excitedly when the Knightlord turned to face him. "There is still hope. Your blood need not touch the heart of Ruvean.”

Brethan didn't say a word but raised an eyebrow slightly to show that he was listening. "Leave Ruvean at once. Flee across the great Aurnefalyn river and head south to the capital. To Shoren, Brethan. Let the King's Deathblades guard you there."

"Did you not hear him?" Brethan spat. "There is no escape from a prophecy like this."

"It may be so Brethan. Maybe you are predestined to die for prophecy, but as you've said yourself, no man has the right to tell you on which terms to meet your fate. And if not a man, a friend even, then why let Despair dictate those terms?" His tone was grave and he softened it before going on. "You are a great man, Brethan. You have accomplished more in your forty years of life than most men of twice your age. You alone made possible the Covenant of Eastland. It was in your name that Vauldjik was recovered and that not more lives were lost during the Purging of Orofell." The absolute reverence with which he spoke, would have left no doubt in the minds of anyone listening that he held the Knightlord in his highest regards for those deeds. “Civil war would, to this very day, be plaguing the Arnemians if it hadn't been for your intervention. The Red Riots woud have rent Melebia to the ground had you not risked your entire guard to quell it.” Agglen paused for awhile, breathing heavily as if he were out of breath from the effort of his speech. And when a few moments had passed and still Brethan spoke not, he went on again softly. "Brethan. Whenever else you have been faced with great trials, your character, the gait of your very soul has prevailed. You have never failed to take the course of action which provided others with the greatest chance for survival inconsiderate of your own. Now, when your death is sure, why not take the same course?" Brethan was silent still. "I implore you again, Brethan, flee from Ruvean. The prophecies are undeniable. You will die tomorr ow and your blood will stain the Heart of Ruvean. But why not delay this last one for awhile? Grant the world more time. Why not give the people you've sworn your life to protect a greater chance to survive this dismal future?"

Agglen was right and Brethan knew it. Throughout his Knightlordship, he had risked his life and that of his guard time and again in order to preserve the people's subsistence. He had done everything in his power to make sure that justice had been served fairly for all. And from the lowest beggar to the highest of Kings under his ward, all people enjoyed their one basic right: the right to live un-threatened. Why then, he asked himself, was he about to throw it all away for Despair? Why fail the people now, in their time of greatest need, after struggling so hard to provide them with that right? He was loath to admit his weakness in the face of Despair; even to himself. But he knew that this moment of lucidity stemmed from the tenacity of Agglen's belief that hope was not yet lost. He tried to speak, to force words out, but his throat clenched shut as if his body bent to the will of his despair rather than to his own. Painfully, tears streaming down his face, he coerced himself to speak, a miserable croak. "Agglen, I..." He had to clear his throat before he could continue. "You are right, my friend. I had already betrayed my life's work to the darkness of inevitability, to prophecy, to the Shadow. And I thank you greatly, more than the mere utterance of any words can convey, for guiding me back to the natural path of my soul."

With that, Brethan descended to the armory where he strapped on his armor and sword along with an entourage of thirty Knights he assembled on the way. He rode out through the gates of Ruvean that night and pushed on without stopping well into the next morning until the horses threatened to collapse under them. Even with the resting of their steeds, the group of Knights made it to Shoren well before daybreak, and Brethan settled in to the most heavily guarded room in the Royal Palace; the Royal Treasury of Orofell.

Knights and Deathblades alike stood guard as dusk faded to night and all through the night until darkness gave way to the light of dawn once again. The sun stood barely higher than the eastern horizon when the Knights finally checked on their lord. An hour later the tragedy was announced to the people of Orofell and rumors streaked across the land as fast as the traveling peddlers’ wagons would allow for. The Knigtlord of Orikalth has been murdered by Shadowsworn. No, by his own entourage. No, better yet, by the King of Orofell himself. Rumors of every kind floated into the ears of anyone who would listen, but only one person knew the truth, and that one was dead now.

Many leagues away, Brethan’s lifelong friend and advisor sat outside the Chamber of the Fallen in Ruvean, a broken man. There lay the tombs of the greatest of Knightlords of the Order since Odaeis Malluken had founded the Knighthood over a millennium earlier. It was there that Agglen had spent the night, praying to Itaal for the life of his friend and liege lord. It was also there that, as the earliest rays of the sun touched the world that morning, a shimmering hole had opened in the air in the Chamber of the Fallen, the heart of Ruvean, and a bodiless hand had dropped Brethan’s still beating heart onto the altar of the sacred chamber.

The prophecy had been fulfilled.

The world’s suffering would begin.