A Final Rite
the morning sun as the dew rolled down the great white stone walls. Prince Garron stood at a north window of the castle, staring across the rolling hills at the mountain range. If not for its convenient location and obviously man-made angles, the castle would have appeared as part of the landscape. It sat atop an imposing cliff on the northern edge of Whitestone Forest and offered spectacular views from any of its precipices. To the south, sights included the ancient forest and great white stones standing tall and sprawled among the trees, gigantic monoliths breaking the deep green shadows. To the east and the west, views shifted to emerald rolling hills, peppered with more stone monuments of nature. To the north, where the prince gazed, the grand Drelek Mountains would invoke awe, were they not tainted by the knowledge of what lingered beyond.
The Griffin Guard had been highly active due to increased activity of the goblins and orcs, whose homes lay beyond the range. Regular patrols were increased and new routes were planned, but their missions came with a cost. More guardians and griffins were being lost than in many of the previous years combined. The increased boldness and volume of goblin activity was unsettling. It was as if someone had laid logs on the long-dwindling coals of their desire to fight.
King Farrin, the prince’s father, whose health was already failing, had taken a deeper plunge toward death with the overwhelming news that he had lost two of his sons. Both of Garron’s younger brothers had been lost in a skirmish with goblin wyvern riders a few weeks earlier.
The Griffin Guard of Whitestone tried to keep themselves apprised of goblin and orc politics, but goblin politics were confusing, to say the least, and their informants were of questionable integrity at best. Goblins are goblins, after all.
Skirmishes with the goblins had been more and more frequent of late, and more and more bloody. Even the elders of Whitestone couldn’t remember a time in all of their lives in which the goblins had been so aggressive and bloodthirsty.
The cold stone of the window ledge made Garron shudder. He was the only one of his brothers left. Both of his brothers had been lost in skirmishes only weeks prior. Garron himself had narrowly survived a battle near the Drelek Mountains. He had been the only survivor of his twenty-man troop. It had taken him weeks to make his way home. Most thought he had perished because he had been gone so long. But one morning, he walked up to the castle gates looking as though death had spit him out and he’d crawled through mire to return home.
King Farrin had been overjoyed and wanted to have a feast for his son’s return, but his health would not cooperate. And with his health waning, he and Garron had had important matters to discuss. After days of long discussions behind closed doors, just father and son, king and prince, Garron had emerged from the king’s chamber looking no less weary than when he’d returned to Whitestone.
Garron’s gaze shifted from the grandeur of the mountains, the weight of his memories heavy on his shoulders. He rubbed his stiff neck as he looked to the floor. The white stone from which the castle had been built hosted beautiful ribbons of peppered black stone that flitted to and fro within.
He smiled in recognition of a specific spot on the floor. He had found it many years ago as a child when he sat in that very hallway outside his father’s chambers, waiting to receive discipline. His father had forgotten his son was waiting, and by the time he emerged for supper, he couldn’t remember why Garron was in trouble. Garron recalled thinking the spot looked like an eagle and concocting all sorts of stories in his head while waiting for his father. Again, he waited to enter his father’s chamber, but not for discipline .... As reality crept back into his mind, the simple joy in his memory faded.
The door to King Farrin’s chamber opened slowly, and a small man came out silently. The man’s shoulders stooped low, bearing the weight of years of battle and the waning fire that blazed so furiously in younger men. Melkis was an elder of Whitestone and had seen more seasons than most. Garron held an immense respect for the man. Not only had he been a guardian for many years, but he had also been King Farrin’s closest adviser and friend. He had always been around while the boys were growing up. Melkis had personally tutored Garron and his brothers in their training to become guardians. Garron did not know a more loyal and honorable man in all of Whitestone.
Garron waited respectfully for the old man’s weary eyes to turn toward him. Melkis’s familiar eyes penetrated the prince’s own, and Garron feared his face might betray him. Certainly, Melkis would see his sorrow, but what else would those wise old eyes see? With great effort, the corner of Melkis’s lip raised ever so slightly.
“It is time,” Melkis said softly. “He needs to see you now.”
The prince sat in a chair next to his father’s bed for most of the day. The sun had shifted from its throne high above to begin its plodding westward march, and Garron could smell the feast preparations.
Thank you, Melkis, he thought, bowing his head in gratitude.
Garron was sure Melkis had taken care of preparing the castle staff to accomplish their various tasks for the evening. Garron, on the other hand, had been sitting in the same spot all day waiting for anything to happen. When he had finally entered his father’s chambers, he found the king in a deep sleep. His breathing was strained, but still there. So, Garron had decided to sit next to him until he woke.
Throughout the day, King Farrin made different noises and short movements, but never once did he open his eyes. Sometimes he would appear to stop breathing, and Garron feared it was over. A moment later, however, he would resume his strenuous rasping, and the wait would begin anew.
The taxing cycle would have shattered a weaker man, but how can a broken man be broken again? Ever since his return, Garron seemed broken already. He no longer took pleasure in the activities he had before, and he often spent noticeable time in isolation.
He felt especially alone in his father’s chambers. He hated the questions that filled his mind. The more time he spent with himself, the more he hated himself.
Garron tried to distract himself by taking inventory inside the chamber. It was a chamber fit for a king. The massive bed sat in the center of the room. Its wooden structure was carved with images of griffins spiraling to the top. The furs were well worn and smelled of the sickly king. Banners and weapons adorned the stone walls; their vibrancy accentuated by the bold white stone. To one side of the room was a large bathing basin and not far from that a knotty old table with eight chairs highlighted by the rose sunset beams that peaked in through the windows. The other side of the chamber opened to a balcony facing west. It was well chronicled that the kings of old would say their morning prayers on the balcony, keeping a vigilant watch for would-be invaders.
“Father,” Garron broke the silence. “Please, let this end. Either talk to me, or let it be finished.”
He stared at his father’s near-motionless form, waiting, praying for a response to his plea. None came.
Garron threw his head back, his arms up, and yelled at the top of his lungs. After a long moment, he looked back to his father and quietly asked, “Why?”
King Farrin made a soft, gruntled noise and wearily opened his eyes.
“Father? Father, I’m here. It’s Garron.”
The king slowly focused on the prince and took a long look at his only remaining son. His eyes welled with tears, but his face betrayed a smile.
“Garron, my son ..., I have been waiting for you.”
“Well, I’m here, Father,” Garron replied with a chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m here. What can I do for you, Father?”
“When you were young ...” the king started. He took a hard swallow and tried again. “When you were young, you were a very happy child. You used to say that every day was the best day of your life. Every father wishes their children will have such a life. If every day is the new best day of your life ... I think it would be a very good life, indeed.”
Garron squeezed his father’s hand in his own as tears ran into his thick golden-brown beard. He stared hard into his father’s face, attempting to capture his every word and stow them away in his memory. The wrinkles on the king’s face drove deep shadowy crevices into his pale skin. The sickness had taken all of his color. His eyes were bloodshot, and involuntary tears escaped their control.
“I have seen many things,” the king continued. “But the saddest thing I have seen is my son’s loss of joy in life. You ... you are to be the king of Whitestone. You will bear this crest as your own name. You will be the one to lead Whitestone in these trying times. A heavy burden, no doubt. But a king without joy has a hard heart ... and a hard heart leads to a cruel hand. You must find that joy once more. You must find your joy for them.”
The earnestness in the king’s voice was too much to bear.
“How can I find joy in a world that has taken so much, Father? How? I am drowning in loss!” Garron sounded more desperate than he had intended, but the time was desperate.
“My boy ...,” Farrin said, furrowing his brow. He pulled Garron close in an embrace shared only between father and son. He whispered, “There is joy all around you. You just have to see it.”
The king held his prince against his chest for a long while. Soon, the king fell asleep again, and Garron lay as still as possible in his father’s arms. He listened to the faint pounding of his father’s heart and the slow winds that filled his lungs. It sounded like the march of an army headed to war, fading away over a distant hill. It was not long before the king gave one last exhale and both noises ceased.
And so was the death of Farrin the Just, King of Whitestone.
The evening sky’s pinks, reds, and yellows poked through the windows in the hallway when Garron finally exited the king’s chamber. Melkis was sitting on a stool outside the chamber doors. He was prepared to help in any way, but his eyes were far away. His gaze cast through the windows toward the north but seemed to travel further to some distant realm.
Garron placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Melkis,” he said softly. “It is over. He has joined into the halls of Kerathane.”
Melkis looked up and nodded, a silent storm welling in his grey eyes. Garron extended his arm and helped the old man to his feet. With his fist Melkis covered the crest on his chest and bowed low, saying, “The loss of your father is painful, but the hope for our future with you brings me great joy, my King.”
Garron winced at the words. There it was. He was king.
“I have taken the liberty of preparing the castle staff for their various tasks for the funeral feast. The feast itself is nearly prepared, and I have seen to it that the rite stand is ready. I will have the hands retrieve King Farrin’s body, and they will deliver him to the rite stand. The murmurs have been loud today, and I believe all of Whitestone is waiting for the bells to toll. You give the word, my King, and I will ring the bells myself.”
Garron squeezed the shoulder of his mentor and looked at him with thankful eyes.
“You have done enough, Melkis. I could not have asked for more. But if I might extend you further, might I ask that you stand by my side while I address the people?”
“King Garron,” Melkis paused. Looking down, he searched for the right words to say. When he had found them, he looked resolutely toward the new king. “As I have stood by your father’s side all of my life, I shall be glad to finish it standing by yours.”
Soon thereafter, the bells in the high towers of Whitestone Castle rang out across the kingdom. As Melkis had predicted, many of the people had been waiting for the resounding tolls. The people piled in through the gates and made their way into the square that lay at the base of the keep. The square, however, was surprisingly quiet. Painfully quiet. There had been too many funerals in Whitestone of late, but this one seemed to hurt more.
King Farrin was loved by his people. He was a just man and larger than life in many ways. He was not an isolated king, and his sons, while they were young, were often seen playing in the fields while he visited with the people. His openness, generosity, and sense of justice made him well-loved. His death was a sad passing, indeed.
The crowd remained silent, save for a few muffled sobs, as they looked expectantly upon the rite stand at the top of the stairs that led to the main entrance of the castle’s keep. The stand was woven in an intricate fashion out of wood from the southerly forest and stood as high as the average man. The king’s body, wrapped in rite cloth, lay atop the stand, awaiting its final release. Inside the keep doors, the new king readied himself for what must be done.
Garron stood hunched over with his hands on the cold stone wall murmuring something to himself. Melkis stood next to the younger man and prayed. He was a faithful man; he always had been. But such times, he found, required more prayer than usual. An aide came to his side and whispered in his ear. He nodded in response and turned to the new king.
“King Garron,” he said, placing his hand on the younger man’s back, startling him.
“What?”
“I’ve been informed that everything is ready, and all the people seem to be here. It’s time.”
Garron’s hands slowly slid off the wall in front of him as he arched himself upright. He turned toward his mentor and barely raised his eyes to see his face. Without a word, Melkis gave him a nod that said all he needed to hear. He put one foot in front of the other and made his way to the doors. Melkis followed close behind. Two guards opened the doors before them, and they exited under the colorful evening sky.
Before him, on the rite stand, lay his father. Garron paused for a long moment and one last look. He took solace knowing the people in the square could not see him behind the rite stand from their vantage point. He knew as soon as he stepped forward, it would be a different kingdom. He took a few steps forward and placed his hand on his father’s chest and said, “I’m sorry.”
Melkis’s face contorted when he heard the words. Surely, Garron couldn’t think King Farrin’s death was his fault. His health had been waning for some time, and death had been waiting around the corner. Before Melkis could say anything to the new king, the younger man retrieved his hand, took a step back, glanced at his father once more, and moved around the rite stand to the front of the steps.
For a moment, time slowed. As Garron approached the edge of the top step, the entire population of the square lowered to one knee, crossed their chests with one fist, and bowed low to the ground. The people were as one rolling wave of the sea. The reverence and care with which they did so surprised him. He was not sure whether they had some sense of sympathy, heartbreak, or respect for him, but he knew they were with him. At that moment, he realized he was responsible for all of them, and he loved them.
He stood silently, seeking the words to start. He had been deeply moved, but a dark reality loomed in his mind. Weakness lurked, and he could not ignore it. He looked at the precipices surrounding the square. The Griffin Guard squadrons that were currently at the castle lined the tops bearing crest flags. Man and griffin stood in reverent salute to old king and new.
Garron looked down at the stone beneath his feet, and a dark whisper on the air scraped his ear, Go on ...
“People of Whitestone! This is a sad day. My father, King Farrin, was a great man. He loved you all, and you loved him. And I ... I can see why.”
He paused. Thousands of dependent eyes stared at him.
“He is gone now, and I have taken up his charge. We face an enemy we have fought for a very long time. But they are different now .... We face an enemy that has lost its civility. We face an enemy that has taken from us that which we cannot get back. They hurt for the sake of hurting. They take for the sake of taking ...”
Melkis looked toward his new king from the corner of his eye. He could sense a rage building within the younger man.
“Yet we have fought them. People elsewhere call us the lords of the sky, and our Griffin Guard are matched by none. But those people do not fight beside us. Those people do not send their sons to die. Their brothers ... their fathers ...”
Garron stole a glance back toward his father’s body, at first with sadness, but he turned back with a determined rage.
“We are Whitestone! And Whitestone will stand! We have experienced a great tragedy; to overcome this tragedy, we must come together and take care of our own!”
At his words, the people cheered. Melkis, however, did not. He knew the king well, and he had never heard him speak like that. King Garron raised a hand to silence the raging sea of people. When they had settled down, Garron grabbed the torch from the torch bearer and raised it high.
“With a new king comes change, and we will have change.”
He dropped the torch on the rite stand and strode into the keep. Melkis stood motionless as the crowd chanted, “GARRON! GARRON!”
When he composed himself, Melkis took a final look at his old friend on the rite stand and set off in pursuit of his new king.
The south forest wood caught quickly, and the flames grew high. King Farrin’s final rite was complete.