Death Arrives

December 26,

In the year twenty-nine of my King's reign,
I Marcys, in the days that may be the last of this once great nation, now do write this journal, that others may learn from our mistakes. My father always encouraged me to note down the experiences of my life, but being the obstinate man that I was, I never thought it necessary. If only I had listened to him sooner. Fifty-four is a hard age to learn new ways of doing things. And yet I fear it is necessary if we are to survive, therefore I will tell you of our doings as things unfold in what precious minutes I can set aside. I'm sorry I do not have the time or patience to make this an eloquent retelling of our tale.
Before I begin to share our situation with you, whoever my readers may be, let me first tell you a little of myself. I am the head steward to King Ardythe, the third king of the Island Nation. His great-grandfather, Amis, led us to freedom ninety three years ago and we have thrived since; the oppression we endured under the rule of the Odrarian people was severe. The line of Amis has long fought to maintain our freedom and fought valiantly.

Now though? Now it seems unlikely that Ardythe could possibly stem the tide of change that washes against us, may he forgive me for saying so should he ever read these scrawling notations.

But I digress. I had meant to tell you a little of who I am, that you might judge me honestly. As I said, I am King Ardythe's steward. I have served him, and his father before him, since I was a small lad, though I did not step into the position of head steward until Ardythe was crowned after his father's death, may he rest his peace.

Ardythe's father, Dragoslav, was the very best of men. His son on the other hand. Well, I suppose I better be careful what I write. I prefer my head where it is: attached to my neck.

Again I digress. It is hard to talk about myself. I would rather remember the friends I have lost. But dwelling on the dead will not save us. Then again, I doubt this little journal will save anyone either. Still, I cannot continue without sharing my thoughts and feelings, even if it is only with this piece of paper.

First you should know my life has not been what one would call a happy life. I was married once, a long time ago. Marianne was a beautiful woman, full of life and vigor when we first met. But years of living under Ardythe's rule and in his castle drained her of all joy. The change was slow and I missed the signs until it was too late. I will not go into detail. It is enough for you to know that she took her own life and it is my fault.

During our marriage we had three children. The first, a son and greatest blessing of my life, died after falling from a horse at the age nineteen. This was ten years ago. Now it's hard to even remember what he looked like. Like me, he never had time to sit for a painting despite my wife's urging. Still, the deed is done.

My daughter, a young girl just like her mother, died in the great plague a year after her brother's death. She was eleven.

Lastly we had a son who died shortly after childbirth. Though my wife survived in body, I do not think her spirit survived that dreadful night. Six months later she was dead, found broken at the base of the high tower.

What else shall I tell you about myself? I am short and stocky, but strong. I am in motion all day and couldn't become truly fat even if I tried. My face is long and shrouded with graying hair that had originally been dark brown, long ago. I am wrinkled and soft in my old age, but still vigorous enough to continue my duties to the king.

There, I think that is enough about me. Now I am sure you are wondering what could have brought a middle aged steward to the point of wasting time with a journal.

The prince is dead.

King Ardythe has lost his only child, Prince Fendrel. The line of kings is ended.

At the age of sixty-one it seems unlikely Ardythe will produce another heir even if a woman were to conceive this very night, and unlike the king's of Odrar, Ardythe has no bastard sons to call upon. Here we take our marriage vows seriously enough not to stray, or at least not to leave any evidence of our failures.

What will the king do now?

As if this wasn't enough, our relationship with the main land is strained. Shortly after the prince's passing a messenger came to me.

“Lord Marcys,” he began, though he knows full well I am no lord. “I bring word from the Decenter. It has come in contact with a Odrar ship and it nearly came to full attack. Captain Elis said he did everything he could to keep them from attacking, but that they have remained some thirty miles off the cost of Aempleforth.”

“Thank you. Wait outside,” I ordered as I took the letter handed to me, despite the fact the anxious lad had verbalized all the essentials. Still, I read the letter. It said little I hadn't already heard.

But what could I possibly do? The king was hardly in a position to make decisions of this magnitude. All I could do was pray the situation did not escalate over night. I penned a quick reply to the captain, ordering him to not engage unless fired upon, and sent the messenger back to the trade-cog that would sail him back to the Decenter.

The Decenter is our fastest, and possibly most lethal ship. It would not let the mainland ship out of it's sight.

Tomorrow morning I will discuss it with the king. For now I will rest and hope the king drinks himself to sleep.

Marcys