Days of the Dead Book 3: The King's Ghost

Chapter 3: Giving up

Gideon
Courtenay deposits me in Elis' room, which is weird, but I guess that's where he figured I belonged? And by 'deposits' I mean, he kicks the door open, five people scream, and he just walks over, drops me on the bed, and leaves without saying anything at all.
"What happened?" Elis, Rhiannon, Sadie, Dancer, and Gareth who is apparently here.
"You need to leave, now. Go back to Wales. There could be war. Henry could try to call up an army I don't care what happens it's a suicide mission, send no one," I say.
"What?" A couple of people say.
"I can't say much more, I'm not super supposed to be involved, as in God told me not to be. I'm telling you to get out of here, right now. I don't care about the funeral and I'm 80% sure they're going to forget about it anyway. Again, if he calls an army up do literally anything to avoid sending them they're not gonna come back alive."
"And what are you going to do?" Rhiannon, who knows me.
"Give up," I say, quietly, "I'm sitting this one out, I'm afraid."
"Why?" Dancer, who knows me too.
"For one, at the moment I can't even move or feel my legs."
"GIDEON."
"I know, I know," I sigh.
"What happened?" Gareth asks.
"Me, using magic. I bought us a few days before the fight. You all can get home, for Christmas," I say.
"Christmas is today," Sadie says.
"Oh damn it, how long was I in the cube?"
"In the what?" Gareth asks.
"Ignore that I just said that. Um—damn it. Yeah. We've got a few days, till New Years then, or something, just go home," I say, "Let's go home."
"You need to heal yourself," Elis says.
"No, I want to go home with you I'll be grand—,"
"Gideon. How about you sit this one out, in another dimension and get better? You're not up for a fight," Rhiannon says, squeezing my shoulder.
That's the problem. I am up for a fight. Well. In my head I am.
"Okay," I submit. She's right. They're all right.
"Go home, I'll come check on you," Dancer says.
"Do not, get them home, Sadie you too, stay with them," I say.
"Don't worry about us. We'll go sit it out in Harlech, we'll be fine," Elis says, patting my chest, "Now go rest."
They don't fully understand dimension or the future, but they get that I can heal better in the other place. And I can. At the moment I might need a hospital. At the very least I need modern medications and to sleep.
And so, with great reluctance, I return to the 21st century.
I'm in my bedroom at Dancer's father's house, lying on the rug. My laptop is charging. Next to it, my cell phone. I crawl over and pick it up. Missed calls and a few missed messages. Nothing urgent though.
I crawl across the floor to my backpack and find some ibuprofen, a liquid-IV pack and a bottle of water, and a protein bar. I down all those, then use magic to tug my weighted blanket off the bed.
And I curl up to sleep. I have fitful dreams. Of boys with bloody mouths, and a crown, and Prince Harry's tears.
When I wake up the clock reads ten in the morning. I feel better though. My limbs still feel stuffed with lead, but I can at least stand and move. I get up and sit on the bed, turning on my laptop even though I don't know what I'm going to do on it. I text Dancer's dad Happy Christmas, I'm home recuperating and Dancer is fine. He texts that he's at a friend's but he'll be home tonight.
I look around the room. On each wall a cork board. And on each cork-board innumerable print outs of articles. A very competent timeline. 1486-1422. Henry V's life, in my world. The famous speeches from the play lovingly taped along with pictures of productions, historical images. The only picture we have of Courtenay, a stained glass that might not even be accurate. A couple of portraits of Henry, including the statue atop his coffin, as well as memes I was using to help explain events to my distractible friends. All information to help us not be colonized by Henry. But now I can't bring myself to take it down. Even though it doesn't matter anymore. I knew this day would come. We should be moving into the War of the Roses. I need to get ready. But I can't. I don't want to.
I sat there, that first night I knew Henry walked the earth, carefully assembling my evidence. I didn't dream I'd meet him face to face. Or that I'd speak to him. Let alone him know my name.
All that got destroyed. My parents ripped it up. So I reassembled it here, with Sadie helping me. I explained Henry's life to her, and she just kept saying "Lord, give me the confidence of a straight white man with a bad haircut", over and over, as well as during the 100 years war bits, "So it's like building the Death Star". And we laughed.
I sigh, staring at my laptop Lock Screen. I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. Yes, I do. Nothing, but I'm not good at that.
I get up and stand on the bed, staring out the window, as I text my step-sister. Mariah. Neither of us have spoken to our respective parents in years. But we keep up. I text her asking if she wants to call. She responds by face timing me.
"I have no clue what time it is there you can hang up," I laugh, I can see it's dark.
"I was not asleep; it's fine. Merry Christmas! Jesus, Gideon, that eye still looks bad," she winces.
"Yeah um, doctors said it wasn't gonna get any better, I'm fine I can see," I smile a little.
"We'll that's what's important, still," she says, she's siting in a darkened kitchen, one of the cats comes to rub against her. "How've you been? Writing much?"
"No—ah, no been busy living actually. I have some stuff, I'll send you a manuscript when I get the chance. I'm—supposed to be doing that now actually," I say, keying into my laptop. Don't look so surprised. You couldn't be reading all this if I didn't write it down. Dancer and Mariah help me edit it, obviously. Apparently I digress a lot. And maybe kept referring to Henry IV as 'that little bitch', it's a blur. "How's Doug doing?"
"Oh good, he's asleep, snoring actually that's why I was up answering emails, a couple more schools want readings, you sure you don't want to go to any of these?" She asks.
"No, ah, not my thing, you do beautifully, and I'm busy getting chased around Wales remember?" I ask.
"Ah yes. How's Myrddin? When are you gonna bring him over here?"
"When I feel like taking a 12 hour flight with a baby, which will probably be when he's not a baby. No, he's a mess, I love him," I laugh.
"Good. I'm sure he loves your wizard stories."
"He does," I smile. She knows like the abridged version. No, she doesn't know all this is real, Dancer's dad is the only one who knows that. It's safer that way, we figure. Also a lot more believable.
"Is something up? You seem low, that's the first time you smiled," she says, frowning, "Usually by now you're telling me some fantastic new thing you read about some dead person."
"No um—yeah something is up I guess. A—acquaintance—ish—of mine. Someone I know, sort of, sort of know. Is going to die," I say, looking at my cork-boards. Specifically the one detailing how Henry died. How he lay sweating in his deathbed, his brothers beside him. In true Henry fashion organizing and scheduling his own death, asking how much time he had, so he could do last minute changes to his account books, write people, and issue final orders. Ever practical. And then he died, his last words commending his soul to god. And they cut him up, buried his entrails in France, and boiled the rest down to bone. His bones were taken back to England, to be buried in Westminster Abby, above Courtenay who had lain waiting for him for seven years.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Mariah says.
"It's not—it shouldn't be a surprise," I say, sighing a little, "It's not like a surprise. He was always gonna die."
"Yeah, but if this person is important to you, that's still upsetting, because you cared about him," she says, gently. I never specify who I'm talking about with this stuff so like, lightly I think she assumes it's mob. Which it kind of is if you really think about it.
"No, like—no. He's—so annoying. And has made my life really really really hard. And has threatened me and my friends, and tried to kill us. And I hate him and I really hate him he's the most conniving, self-serving, arrogant person you'll ever meet," I sigh.
"Okay, back to the murder part. Gideon, that's like really bad—,"
"I know! I know! And he's irritating, and insanely egotistical, and convinced he's smarter than everyone, and above everyone and everything. And he's just—a fucking icon. And he's brilliant and electric. And I can't stand him and I don't want him to go," I sigh, wincing as I hear myself say it.
"Is this the guy you've been working for?"
"Yes," I groan.
"The one who semi-kidnaps you do to shit for him on like a yearly basis and then you drop off the radar for six months at a time?"
"That's the one."
"Who once tried to kill your like, best friend, and is how you got all those scars and you said is a pyromaniac who kills people for fun?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Gideon, I don't see why you like this person."
"Oh neither do I, that's the problem. Who he is is not a good person, but it's who he could or rather who he thinks he is, that's what, troubles the will," I sigh.
"Well, I mean, I guess it's good you get to say goodbye and have some closure," she says.
"I'm literally here avoiding doing that. Because I think being there will be worse," I say, "I don't know. Why am I mourning someone I hated? I didn't feel this bad when I ran away from home. Does that make me evil d'you think? That I didn't feel like this when I knew I was never going to speak to my mother again?"
"No. I know I didn't feel bad when I left home for the last time. But it did feel a little weird. And even with parents, or parent figures, that we have a complicated relationship with, well, that makes the feelings even more complicated," she says, gently, "This person, not living up to your expectations of them, makes it even harder for you to let them go. Because you want them to be something they're not."
"Is this what you're getting in therapy? And why I should go instead of reading about medieval weapons?" I ask.
She laughs, "Something like that."
"Well, you win this round. You're right, thanks for letting me have a moan," I sigh.
"Hey, that's what I'm here for. Glad to help," she shrugs, "Wish I could do more though. You can't tell me who it is?"
"It's insanely complicated, you're better off not involved, for the purposes of me being upset about this we're going to call him Henry," I say, laying an arm over my eyes as I lie back on the bed. "Henry's going to die. Soon. And I shouldn't even be upset. I like—I feel so guilty for being upset."
"You can't control the way you feel. And there's nothing wrong with a little compassion."
"No, shame Henry never heard the word," I mutter, "God, he drives me crazy."
"You sound like you're in love you realize that right?"
"No, my romantic relationships however few are not that complicated, thank you for asking," I say, stuffing a fist in my mouth.
"Good for you," she laughs, "You still with Myrddin's mom?"
"Oh try separating us. She wants the kids, we're fine. The baby's due next year, mid spring. No, Rhiannon and I are best mates, that's it," I say, dismissively.
"Good for you. You deserve it," she says.
"Yeah we do," I smile again.
We chat for another hour, mostly work things about the books, though she tells me what she and Doug have been up to around the house. Digging a garden. The like. All distressingly normal.
I have dinner while we talk. Microwaved pizza never tasted so good, or came back up so quickly. Turns out I'm still hell of magic poisoned. After that experience I crawl back into bed.
When I wake up I feel marginally better. I'm not 100% and I still feel like I've been molded from clay. But I'm a little better.
I limp downstairs to make myself breakfast, which involves pilfering frozen waffles and putting whipped cream on them. I make that up and then stand on the sofa to watch TV, the entire Henriad Portion of the Hollow Crown. I watch this like most people watch sports. Standing up on the sofa or an inch from the TV shouting advice to the players and narrating.
I'm on my second run through of that when Dancer's dad shows up with groceries. Dancer's dad, Jay, is a creepy guy in himself. I know I usually associate with creepy people, but really. His interests range towards the macabre, Dancer thinks he is a serial killer, I think he thinks it's funny to make Dancer think he's a serial killer. It's not a major plot point though because he's nice to me. Kidding. He's not a bad guy. Only fifteen years older than his son, and still handsome, he's insanely rich but spends most of his time funding theater programs and helping us wayward wizards who come crash at his house.
"Afternoon, I can go upstairs if you're having company," I say, pausing it. I'm still standing an inch from TV, eating from a box of Oreos which I'm dipping in cool whip icing.
"No, you're not bothering me. Is this just a marathon then?" He asks, coming over to hug me around the shoulders and steal an Oreo.
"I'm ah, trying to distract myself. And get over something," I say, offering the icing which he accepts.
"I see. Is this an American thing I don't know about?" He asks, dipping the Oreo in the icing which I put chocolate chips and sprinkles in.
"No, these brilliant ideas just come to me."
"You're a brilliant fellow," Jay says, accepting the snack.
"You're welcome to join me if you like," I say.
"While I am always down for Shakespeare I'm unfortunately meeting a mate for coffee in a bit," he says, checking the time, "Are you all right though? You look a bit drawn."
"Over did magic—again. What else is new, right?" I say, "Plus I'm avoiding going home at the moment."
"Never a good sign," he says.
"I just feel like if I'm here I'll — be able to pretend it's not happening," I say, looking back at the glowing TV screen. It's on the Leek scene, and I wasn't even laughing.
"Burying your feelings and disassociating are great coping mechanism, just saying. Want to talk about what 'it' is?" He asks.
"No, thank you though. I'm just—I don't know. I'm mixed up a bit. Look, I think I might go for a run and clear my head. Work all the magic out of me," I say, stretching a little bit.
"Might help, clear the head. Exercise does often make you feel better but at what cost?" He says.
I laugh, "I might be a bit, don't wait up or anything."
"All right, I'm here if you need a chat though, or whiskey I've got some hidden for when Dancer needs a good sob," he says, taking Oreos as I go to put them away. He's a recovered alcoholic, so he doesn't drink though he doesn't mind if Dancer and I show up needing to drown our sorrows in alcohol. We don't do it a lot, but the thing is drinking wine with basically every meal has given us both crazy high alcohol tolerances, so now it takes a lot if we want to get incoherent.
"Thanks, Dancer said I'm not allowed to say this, but, you're pretty cool sometimes," I say, as he hugs me again. I let him because I love hugs and I don't ever say no to a good one.
"Shh, I have a reputation to uphold," he grins, messing up my hair, "Go on then, have your run."
"Don't wait up, don't know how long this'll take," I say, picking up a sweatshirt. It's not too cold out, but I'm used to heavy wool cloaks, plus even in foggy London Town it's better to cover up my face a bit to avoid stares. I'm used to the scars and so is my inner circle, but people who don't know me tend to gawk.
"Make bad choices," Jay calls after me, nearly making me smile.
I leave the posh Kensington mansion and turn my feet towards downtown London. I know for a fact I should just go run around Hyde park and maybe scare some muggers.
I don't.
I just run, pumping up the music in my headphones (Joni Mitchell, obviously) and run. I don't question where I'm going, so naturally my feet lead me towards Westminster Abby. Even in the 21st century I'm pretty good at navigating London, and make my way there on auto pilot. It's a foggy, cool morning, but a jogger in a too big green hoodie, with his head down, doesn't strictly stand out. And soon, a bit sweaty, I reach the glorious Abby. Situated a stones throw from the Thames, Buckingham palace, and the London Eye, a medieval landmark. And the resting place of kings.
I pay my fee to the entrance people and walk in. I didn't even plan this so I'm a bit under dressed compared to the usual tourists. But I walk quietly to the hall of the kings.
Henry's grave is situated behind a pulpit, so it's rather hard to see, and you can't even see the effigy's on top. They've got it all a bit roped off. And there's nothing but a simple marker. Henry V, name and dates. Nothing more. Nothing for Courtenay, who also lies here.
"Well, here we are again," I say, quietly, stepping as close as I can to the cold stone. "I have—so few reasons to be standing here right now. But I needed to talk to you. And this is as close as I'm going to get, for way too long. And this is so, so stupid. You chose your fate. You don't even deserve this. But, maybe that why I want you to have it anyway. We never get what we really deserve do we, Henry? But you always wanted more. The world was never enough."
I reach out and put a hand on the cold stone. An eternity's resting place for England's beloved king. In the end, bones like any other. Even if his ghost lives on.
I kneel down, sliding my hand down to the base. Where Courtenay rests.
"I'm sorry they want to hide you. Because they think it's shameful. When it's not. You're not. You had value too. And he thought that. Even if no one else ever will. He did. That was all you wanted, wasn't it? He was your king, before any others. Forever now, he made sure of that. A man who missed nothing, planned everything. He put you here with him. You—were, let's face it, a terrible Bishop. But such a good friend. And that has value too."
I straighten up, just staring at the unanswering stone. Inside, lie bones. Nothing more. I know that. And I also know a list of accolades, tall tales, stories. Henry immortalized himself, carefully. But at some point he was also a boy, innocent, playing with wooden swords with his brothers. Staying up too late reading, with his best friend. Those moments that shine like stars in all of our lives, were so brief for him. Everything was public, spectacle, all a game, Harry's game, he wrote it and he won it, his life constantly on display. But I don't think he'd have had it another way. He is one of those few who had no idea how to be anything, but great.
And none of that matters. No one who comes here will know anything, beyond the play, or a few notes in history books, half of which is hearsay. A teenager, who got headaches, and wanted to do mathematics and clever schemes with his shy best friend, will be reduced to a wild, promiscuous runaway. His marriage turned into a romance, when the people he loved went to war with him, and undoubtedly were buried with him. All of it. Blurred into history.
"You've been here a while."
I jump a little, and look over. No one has been coming back here, there's little to see. And so I was chatting with the dead and being left alone. But now an old man is standing by me. A posh, Londoner looking, in a nice hat. But he's got an American accent.
"Sorry um—did you want some time alone with them?" I ask, yes I realize I'm the only person who does this, please shut up.
"No, no, you're not bothering me, boy. You look pensive, that's all," the man chuckles, a little, "Understandable. He's still considered one of England's greatest kings, six hundred some years later."
"When I was boy, I read, everything, about him. I watched every version of those plays, and read them over and over. He was my hero. Because he could jump over a French barricade, or quell a Welsh revolt, or stand up to his abusive father. I was scared of mine. I was scared of bullies. And he wasn't scared of anything. And if he could do all that, I could get up the next day and walk into school. But now I'm grown up. And I know he's killed—lots and lots of people. And his wars were for his pride and glory, not honor. And that there's nothing honorable in colonization, and burning down people's homes. And that he was arrogant, and cruel and he killed his own men with his pride and useless wars. And that all the stuff we say and write about him, it's all our fiction, our fantasy our desire for a hero, our human longing for someone to idolize, and we tacked it onto the most egotistical, power hungry warlord England ever produced, because the 'touch of Harry in the night' scene in reality, was him threatening to cut off the ears of anyone who made a sound, and the 'kiss me, Kate' scene was her begging her brothers to get her out of the marriage and telling Henry it made her sick to look at him. I know all that. I do. And so much more about what a self-centered, power hungry, scheming, duplicitous motherfucker this man is," I say, taking my fist from my mouth to gesture at the tomb, "And so why can't I let him go?"
"You said yourself. We need our heroes. They're never going to measure up, that's not the point of them. The point is that they help us. No man could be the perfect warrior Shakespeare describes. Simple men, men of peace, don't get their stories told to be made into heroes. In the end. He was a real man, with flaws, and vices. Who could carelessly order the death of thousands, but wept and held his best friend in his arms as he died. Who was loyal to his brothers. Who probably had a favorite horse, or dog, who enjoyed music, just like any of us, and grew up going to visit his grandfather, and had a complicated relationship with his father which many of us can relate to. Because he was a man, like any of us. Flesh and bone, and angry and proud. We can recognize his mistakes, and we do not need to celebrate them. But we can celebrate the hope he gave us. And what he has meant to generations of men looking for courage, they might not have found without him, and the inspiration of his memory. And while Henry himself would probably not give either of us the time of day, nor would he like half the depictions of his life. I would like to tell him that we are doing our best to tell his story. And what he continues to mean to us. I think he'd like that," the man says, smiling a little.
I nod, tears fresh on my cheeks.
"There is no shame in loving someone. Even if in the end they perhaps didn't deserve it. Your love still had value, because that is who you are. Not who he is. Did Henry, in all his, war crimes, and fruitless campaigns, really deserve the adoration of a little boy? Probably not. But for whatever reason you did need him. Even though he'll never know it. But I'd hope he'd like that," the man says, "Our heroes are what we make of them. Because they can't be that by themselves. They don't deserve it. None of us do."
"No, no we don't. We don't deserve salvation either. But a good friend of mine would point out we're given that anyway," I say.
"You're religious?"
"A good friend of mine is," I nod, staring at the grave, "Ah—thanks, for the talk."
"I'm sure I'll see you again," the man says.
"Ah maybe, I do come here a lot. But, I need to go, there's something I need to do," I say, backing away. I look back only once, and the man is gone.