The Savage

Part 2: Chapter Eight: Thrayd

Sleep was illusive to Thrayd as an old woman. The storm outside with its booming thunder and flashes of lightning only aided to keep sleep at bay. She sat up in her massive four poster bed with a single candle alight on the nightstand beside her. Her eyes were too tired to read and her fingers could no longer hold a needle. The swelling and stiffness in her fingers had worsened and spread to her knees. Thrayd had always prided herself on taking the best care she could of her body in order to starve of the aging process, but it had come for her. There in her silken night cap and gown she stared into the darkness of her bedroom. She jumped as the silence was broken by an urgent knock at her door.

"Your grace? Mistress?" her maid compelled as she opened the door.

"What is it?" Thrayd asked, her voice hoarse.

"The King is here."

"Nonsense, the King is near two hundred miles away." Thrayd argued.

"No, your grace. The King has ridden into the courtyard of the old keep. He is, he is not himself, your grace." the maid insisted. Her pale face looked stricken with fear.

Thrayd struggled against her stiffness to stand, her maid hurrying over to assist her, but Thrayd waved her off. "Wake the Queen," she ordered.

The late King had always been odd, kind and gentle in his youth, but still odd. Thrayd learned very early on that he struggled with change and required extreme structure throughout his day. Focus and productivity were beyond his abilities, however, for the King allowances were made. Thrayd had been the first victim of his madness. It had been an alteration on his itinerary that had sparked his rage and he had beaten her. She was shocked. The bout of violence was a stark contrast to his sweet nature and passivity that she had grown accustomed to. Unfortunately, this event proved to be only the beginning. Steffan had his father's sweetness but as Thrayd stood at the top of the stairs to the old keep, she saw that wasn't the only trait they shared.

The courtyard was a light and a muddy mess from the rain that still poured down in droves. In the center, surrounded by guards, was her son. He looked haggard. His hair was plastered against his head and his face and clothes were streaked with dirt and blood. In one hand he wielded his sword and the other he had a fistful of Lady Bryallen's hair. Bryallen hung lifeless in Steffan's grip. She too was covered in filth and her eye was swollen and bruised. Steffan rushed the guards that circled him, dragging Bryallen's unconscious body with him, swinging his weapon wildly.

"Kill me!" he screamed, "I am not your King! Kill me!"

The confused guards scattered at his approach with looks of horror and concern.

"Your grace?" called an older guard as he climbed the steps to her. He was Sir Alled, head of the guard. He grew up as a playmate to Steffan and was appointed to his position by him after Steffan was crowned, he had served the family well.

"Sir Alled," Thrayd replied, doing her best to conceal her own terror, "Subdue the King." she commanded.

Sir Alled gave a stiff nod.

Disarming the King was done quickly, Steffan was never much of a swordsman, but he had to be pinned to the ground and his fingers pried open to free Bryallen. Steffan fought his captors with desperation and panic as they dragged him, with as much care as they could manage, up to the keep.

Steffan paused when he saw Thrayd. "You." He snarled, "You lying bitch!" He lunged at her, pulling at the guards that held him.

Thrayd stepped back, hand at her throat, mouth agape. Swallowing hard, she lifted her chin,