Heirs of the Gods

Ch 72: No peace for the wicked

Pov change! Warnings for sickness, death and use of a slur.

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  Mair had always known when someone was about to die.

Death had a certain stench. Sickly sweet, like rotting fruit in the summer heat. It clung to the person and permeated everywhere they touched. The bed sheets, the curtains, the dust particles dancing in front of waning candles. A sticky coldness came along with it, no matter the time of year. Death was always cold.

She'd known since she was a child. She'd smelled it on her mother once. Her death a few weeks later came as no surprise. It had started as tiredness and a sore throat. No one suspected it was scarlet fever until it was too late. But Mair had known. She always knew.

When she entered King Gerald's room, she knew her husband didn't have much time left.

King Gerald was not a small man. He held himself with the composure ingrained into his bloodline for centuries. Head high despite the heavy crown on his brow, stance wide and proud. He didn't need to speak to make it known he held power.

Little could be said of the shadow that had been left in his place.

Gone was the bulk of his shoulders and the slight softness of his cheeks. His hair, once thick and shiny, now hung around his hollow cheeks like heavy drapes. He'd lost so much weight, all his clothes fit him like hand-me-downs. The tailor had stopped coming in a week earlier. What use was there in preparing lavish coats for a soon to be dead man?

Like a sixth sense, Gerald could always tell when Mair was nearby. She supposed it was akin to the way animals could tell when predators lurked. Whatever sense he had, it had done him no good.

Heavy eyelids fluttered open, revealing dull blue eyes. Gerald let out a wheezing cough when he saw her, eyes widening for a second. Despite his haggard state, he heaved himself upright in his bed, thin arms straining and trembling at such a simple feat.

Mair stood motionless by his bed, hands folded primly in front of herself. She made no effort to help him, nor did she turn away to give him a sense of privacy, the way many of the aides and servants that entered his room did. She simply observed, blankly, until he'd finally managed to haul himself into a sitting position against a heap of pillows.

Despite the sweat coating his brow and his chest heaving like he'd run a mile, he still raised his chin and held her gaze defiantly. Even at death's door, proud and unflinching.

"Mair," he rasped, this voice reedy and raw. "Who let you in?"

"I don't need anyone to let me in. I am the Queen and this is my home. You didn't truly believe two measly guards would stand in my way, did you?"

"You may be the Queen, but I am King, and my orders still stand," he snapped, the barest wisp of colour tinging his sallow cheeks.

"Not for much longer," she said simply, no hint of emotion in her voice, not even contempt. "What guard would risk his job for a dead man? After all, they will answer solely to me in brief."

"How dare you? Get out," he seethed, as coughs rattled his frail body. He wheezed for air, fighting against an onslaught of trembles. "Get out of my room, now."

Mair paid him no mind. She folded herself neatly into the armchair by his bed, smoothing out her black gown. To anyone, the scene would have looked like a dutiful wife tending to her ailing husband.

Bony fingers wrapped around a glass of water on his bedside. Fat droplets fell down his chin, as he trembled and the glass jostled. Mair only watched him impassively. When he finally spoke, he was a man resigned.