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

Chapter 13: Battle of Harlech

Gideon
It's not long before midnight that the scouts see something. The first glimpse of magic far in the distance. And so we all go to get in our positions. King Henry goes and joins his infantry men inside the ward. Elis, the Duke of Bedford, and Prince Harry all go out to the ramparts. I go with them, but I'm going to hop off here pretty soon.
"Your father will be fine, Harry. God would not take his life," the Duke of Bedford is a kind, if completely off base, support system for his nephew.
"I really think, no, but I do not wish him to die. I am not ready for him to leave me," Prince Harry whispers, clearly still crying.
"He will not," his uncle says, patting him on the shoulder through the armor.
"Just like old times," I say, quietly to Elis.
He winks at me a little, "Something like that. Let's hope for a better outcome."
"We are stronger now," I say.
"Sometimes I do not feel it."
We make our way to the top of the ramparts, to stare out into the night. The Middle Ages nights  are dark, and cold. There's snow swirling in the air, and I can just hear the choppy sea. But it's a cloudy night. There are no stares overhead, just more darkness. I stare out, through the fog and the lightly falling snow.
And then I see it.
Glowing like an ember, blue soft magic pouring out of him, as he hovers above the sea.
"That's my cue," I say, going to the edge.
"Gideon," Elis says, locking eyes with me, "Stay safe."
I smile, and then leap over the edge of the wall. I summon my dragon beneath me and it flies out over the sea.
Kit is hovering over the middle of the ocean, freezing it with magic. He lowers himself to the ice, white robes billowing around him.
I land, sucking the dragon back into my skin and rolling to a perfect three point landing on the ice. Kit's eyes glow hot and blue with magic. Behind him, a ghost army is slowly forming.
"What are you doing? We only need to kill one man," I say, approaching him, carefully.
"Yes, and this will make it easier, I thought you were on my side," he says, his voice bubbling with magic.
"I am on your side, but I'm also on the side of not slaughtering innocent people! There's no reason to besiege the entire castle, you only have to get to him," I say, exasperated.
"I don't care. Why do you care so much about them? What do they mean to you? What about me?" Kit asks.
"I'm not playing this game with you. We are here to kill King Henry, let me help you find him," I say.
And then he knocks me all the way back into the walls of Harlech.
I just barely manage to draw magic in time to cushion my fall and stop me from breaking every bone in my body on the rocks. He has unlimited power, the power of the Tomb, behind him. And I'm not powerless but I will wear out. Quickly.
The ghosts fly at the walls, and it's all I can do to raise defenses to stop their arrows from reaching our men an entire wall is knocked in. Damn it, hopefully that's enough to stage King Henry's death and we can all go home.
Kit flies to me, taking hold of the front of my shirt and punching my face as we roll along the ground. I'm using magic to defend the fortress so I'm fighting him hand to hand.
"No—why are you doing this?" I groan, trying to block his blows.
"Why are you fighting? You're saving them. You were never for me. I hate you!" Kit snarls, punching my face, "It was all a trick."
"No, no, I really do want to help you, please Kit just stop. I'm pretty sure the King is dead you knocked down half the wall," I say.
"I don't care about him," Kit says, "It's always been you."
"Okay, then fight me someplace there aren't all these innocent people? Okay?" I struggle, but he's using magic to bind me down. It would appear in our attempts not to underestimate Kit, we severely over estimated Kit and his ability to focus on his actual quest.
"No," he says, raising a dagger and about to drive it into my chest. I struggle to block it, but I can't move.
A sword slices through his neck, and he vanishes, disappearing into smoke. I follow the cursed blade up to the wielder, covered in blood, armor already ruined, and already having lost his helmet. King Henry is entirely recognizable, even in this state.
"You saved me," I say, in shock, scrambling to my feet, "Why? You hate me."
"Perhaps I'm used to you, Saint," King Henry says, almost smiling, "Now go. He's not finished yet, or those ghosts would be gone."
"No, he's not, he regenerates we can't kill him," I say.
"Well, you'd better figure something out then, hadn't you?" he asks, and then turns to rejoin the other knights.
I turn and run to the hole in the castle wall. More and more ghosts are pouring in. My sword is in my hand, but I know I need to confront Kit not help the defenses.
"GIDEON!" Oisin shouts. He's on the ramparts, defending Elis and Prince Harry from an onslaught of ghosts scaling the walls. Our bowmen are keeping them at bay. But not for long.
Oisin points, out towards the water. Kit is in the center of the now frozen ocean, gathering strength as he summons more spirits to join his army.
"On it!" I shout, even though I don't know what I'm going to do.
I summon magic, rising up into the air. His defenses meet me partway and I start battling through them. He's infinitely strong. He's already overwhelming Oisin and I both because he doesn't get tired. We do. And now our plan to have him disappear because he killed the King, isn't going to work. He appears to have completely forgotten about doing that. He wants to do this.
He's pulsing with magic, hovering well above the frozen ice, arms out, hair and white robes whipping in the winds. I'm barely keeping him at bay.
"Now, do you see you're never really going to win?" Kit asks, his voice whispering, thick with magic, and so deep. "You. And every last one of them. You're going to die as you lived. Filled with fear."
And with that I feel the terrible memories surging. The panic rising in my chest. The restraints clamping down on my arms.
But it's not just my own terror.
No.
It's all of us. All of our most terrible memories, our darkest fear. Turning into a pulsing hive mind. I can barely see Kit in front of me as the memories fill my brain. I desperately claw to get them away and then start freeing the others. But it does no good.
Fear is the biggest thing. Just overwhelming, mind numbing fear.
Then there's worse, below it, an undercurrent of grief.
A hand slapping across a cheek.
A crying child. Screaming and crying and trying to run away as it's dragged backward.
Screaming as a hot poker is driving into soft flesh.
Drowning, shoved deep under water. Nothing to pull you back out. Just water painfully filling the lungs.
And we're all sharing it. All of us. Each thing each memory is happening over and over to all of us, again again. Most are memories, though some are simply nightmares. The dark night closing in. Your throat filling up with smoke.
Hands reaching out in the cold dark as men laugh, pinning you down. Screaming as a child slowly dies. A little boy, blood pouring from his chest. He's been trampled by a horse.
"You're never going to be a knight," Hands shaking you.
"Never come back," pushing you out of a door, "This isn't your home anymore."
"I'm sorry, there's nothing we could do."
"He's dead sir, two years since."
"Why don't you like girls?"
"No one really wants you."
"I wish it were her here instead of you."
"Why are you like this?"
"Freak."
"Never come back."
"It's over."
"You always knew I'd leave you."
"She and the baby are in god's hands now."
"You're not welcome here."
"He won't survive the night."
"I wish you were dead."
"You should have died instead of your brother."
All of it. It fills my brain and refuses to yield. I can't do it.  Each time I try to free someone it just floods right back in.
Special shout out to exactly one person, whose worst nightmare is not traumatic to anybody else but him, in fact it's probably soothing to a whole lot of people. The Archbishop Courtenay, for the first time in his life, doing the Lord's work.
But it's just a drop in the bucket. Good to know Prince Harry and I both have sensory meltdowns where our skin feels like is coming off. So we're inflicting that on literally everyone else so that's great I feel really bad. If all of us survive, which probably won't happen, the knights are going to want to sound off and figure out whom had the tortured memories of their skin turning to sandpaper after a doctor touched their broken arm. I am not much better either with my meltdowns.
Oh, and special call out to the one bastard who somehow survived an arrow going through his whole entire brain and now every single person in this castle feels like an arrow is slowly being drive through their brain. Like, seriously, that is no help at all.
Oisin isn't much better than the rest of us, but he's feeling his mother die. But, like, she's a deer, so besides the sadness I don't think anyone else is getting the full effect so that's almost helpful. Like a dead deer is sad, but they don't know it's his mom.
My head is splitting open. I'm in so much pain from that alone I can't think. And the nightmares keep playing. Over and over. And over. I can't take it. The fear. The sadness. The loneliness. 
I use the last of my strength to try to rip us free. One by one. But the moment I free someone it rushes right back in, and I start to lose my grip on the others. I can't do it.
I feel myself fall back to the ice, blood is running from my eyes. I'm losing them. All of them. I'm losing all of us. And I can't fight anymore.
"Do not cry," God is standing over me, smiling a little.
"I can't do it. I'm not strong enough," I say, blood running down my cheeks, "I can't save them."
She smiles a little at me, staring down. Snow is settling in her soft hair.
"You knew," I realize, "You knew Kit wanted to fight me. It was never about King Henry, was it? Kit was always going to come after me."
"Yes. And you never would have asked your friends to help you fight him, not to save yourself," she says, "But you would for your King."
"But I can't save myself—and they're not doing any good they're dying now too," I say, tears mingling with the blood, "I failed them."
"You do need your friends. And you have all the strength you need," she says, and then she's gone.
I don't. I don't have any strength left. I'm dying. I can feel it. I'm losing. I didn't want to lose. Not like this. Not afraid, in the dark.
But I'm not alone. My friends are here with me. And the fear is still here. But they are all still fighting. And for them I have to try to break free of the nightmares. I don't know if I can. But God was right. I am not alone.
Slowly, I rise to my knees. Painfully, I drag myself up, on the ice.
"You were wrong, Kit," I say, my voice rough with blood, as I kneel there, still not yet strong enough to rise. Blood is dripping from my mouth, and eyes, onto the ice. God, this had better work. "You were wrong. We are full of fear, yes. And terror. And darkness. But we are also full of hope. And love. And joy. Because love is always stronger than hate."
"What are you talking about?" Kit laughs.
"Men of Harlech, march to glory,
Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,
Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye,
Hear ye not her call?
At your sloth she seems to wonder;
Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,
Let the war-cry's deaf'ning thunder
Every foe appall.
Echoes loudly waking,
Hill and valley shaking;
'Till the sound spreads wide around,
The Saxon's courage breaking;
Your foes on every side assailing,
Forward press with heart unfailing,
'Till invaders learn with quailing,
Cambria ne'er can yield!," I sing, my voice is wavering and so weak. But I let it carry, into the minds of the bowmen. Let it fill their heads. As we all remember how we were taught to sing this song of this castle. Our Harlech. Our Cambia. Mothers, fathers, brothers, teaching us the words as we learned to hum it to the rhythm of our work. Rough hands guiding ours on the bow strings.
"Why are you singing that?" Kit snarls.  His grip is loosening.
"Thou, who noble Cambria wrongest,
Know that freedom's cause is strongest,
Freedom's courage lasts the longest,
Ending but with death!
Freedom countless hosts can scatter,
Freedom stoutest mail can shatter,
Freedom thickest walls can batter,
Fate is in her breath.
See, they now are flying!
Dead are heap'd with dying!
Over might hath triumph'd right,
Our land to foes denying;
Upon their soil we never sought them,
Love of conquest hither brought them,
But this lesson we have taught them,
Cambria ne'er can yield!" I finish, and now I have the strength to stand. He's still infecting them. But that doesn't matter. The bowmen sing along with it now, notching their arrows more and more swiftly as they fight back the invaders.
And I don't need to rip away Kit's spell, or cure them of it. I'm just going to use it to my advantage. Because, yes, we all have painful memories. Of fear, and sadness. But there is light too. And that lives in all of our hearts.
I'll go first.
I'm standing on this very beach. It's summer. And the waves are crashing. We brought Lowri down to play, Oisin and I did. And she's running in the waves. She's wearing a bright blue dress. And her feet are bare. And she runs into the surf laughing. Oisin slides an arm around my shoulders as we watch her, laughing, twisting and dancing in the waves. Playing in the water. Saltwater splashing all of our faces. And her laughter, ringing through my mind.
I can feel the storm calming. Everyone has similar memories, playing on the beach, right? Watching a child play.
Warm summer days.
Elis' mind. He's watching as the festival goers go home. The Duke of Conwy has him on his shoulders. And it's the end of summer and he's sleepy but he can still hear them singing. And people in brightly colored clothes are laughing and still dancing. And his brother is holding him up so he can see and it's been a perfect day and the warm summer sun is on his skin.
I reach into Gareth's memories. His mother kissing both his cheeks and fixing his coat. "Your father's proud of you. And so am I," she said, a cool hand going through his hair, "We couldn't ask for a better son." Then she fixed his small jacket and checked his little hands, "It doesn't matter, what anybody else says. We think you're wonderful."
I'm standing in the Harlech courtyard. It's night, and again I lost my sword in sparring. "Nobody's good right away, you're getting better, boy," the Duke of Conwy, his hand strong on my shoulder. "You'll make a fine knight."
Warmth. Warm fires in winter. Hot summer days. Snowball fights in the middle of town. A child's first laugh. A baby grinning slowly as its lifted high above your head. A grandmother's aged hands gently stroking through your hair.  Playing in the mud after the first spring rain. Splashing in puddles of melted snow.
The memories start coming. Quicker now, to everyone. They no longer need ours as their minds latch onto the sweet, warm memories, that start flowing steadily in an unending stream. Because we've all had, so many, beautiful days filled with love. And peace.
Some of the memories are simple. Prince Harry thinks of lying on the floor, a new puppy licking his face while he laughs. Safe and warm locked up in Windsor, with a new wiggly puppy happy licking his cheeks.
Gareth is tugging Dancer back from the edge of the pier, he's taken him and Elis down to look at the water and both boys keep leering to close and then laughing. They'll wind up pushing each other in and he'll have to carry Elis back up all the steps.
Then the memories come faster and faster. I can no longer fully tell whose is whose. And the thing is, it doesn't really matter.
A group of boys playing chase in the tall grass, armed with wooden swords. They laugh as they catch one of them, the leader, knocking him down. All laughing, rosy cheeked and flushed with the sun, suitably dirty. A perfect day.
A woman turns and smiles from across a room, long hair down her back.
A mother scoops up a child and swings them back and forth.
A pair of children slipping, wet and filthy, in the snow, laughing as they stuff snow down each other's shirts.
Standing on top of a peak in the Snowdonia's staring at the spectacular view so near the top of the world.
A grandfather slowly whittling a piece of wood, on porch steps at sunset.
A cold winter's night, and a burning fire, an arm around a woman as they watch the embers. A child with red marks on his face lies curled up like a puppy in the woman's arms.
Soft warm wool sweaters. Christmases in front of one hearth, a whole family packed around.
A little girl smiling as she's given a new pair of shoes.
Racing through a garden with a pair of long legged dogs, and tripping in the tall grass.
Siblings all packing into a closet to hide, giggling and shushing each other.
Riding a horse across an open field, no saddle, leaning forward fingers knotted in the mane.
Hiding under a bed, shushing each other laughing, hands over mouths as they play hide and seek.
It goes on, and on and on.
The boys are forever racing through the tall golden grass, wooden swords in hand. A girl is dancing and spinning in the surf. Your arms around the one you love as you look into the fire.Bouncing up and down, children laughing as they rejoice at your return.
It all goes on forever. For all of us. Time after time. Memory after sweet memory. And all are as soft and gentle as the next. Warmth. Hope. Joy. The gentle touch of calloused fingers on our cheeks.
Oh, and I need to call out exactly one person, who thinks that a cannon going off counts as a good memory. Same person who thinks that a crowd chanting his name is just the ideal memory. If I could think of a way to cut King Henry off from the rest of us I would, but I can't. So occasionally we get to wonder who thinks about explosions as a pleasant little memory and then I think we all collectively know it's him.
I breath again. I'm not tired anymore. I'm not dying. I'm filling slowly with the magic again. And we are growing stronger and stronger. My magic is giving them strength through the memories of hope, and peace, and apparently cannons, Christ, Henry. They are all surviving. More than that, they're winning. And so I let it keep coming.
"I'm glad you're here, you know," Gareth's father has his hand on his shoulder, "I was always grateful, you were my boy."
I can feel Mariah's hands on my shoulders, shaking me, "Huh, do I get a smile? Let me see a Gideon smile, all right." We were at the Met, she stole the car and took me even though we weren't supposed to go out. But it was my pretend birthday so we did. She didn't tell me where we were going.
"Thank you daddy, I'll take such good care of him," a little girl, grinning as she holds a kitten, "Thank you so, so much."
"You're going to be a great King you know," Elis is standing in front of his father, who puts a hand on his shoulder, "I worry about you. But I know you'll do your very best. And that's all that it takes."
The boys are running through the grass. Laughing. One gets knocked over as another tackles him. "No fair, Hal, you always win!" One laughs, as his big brother mauls him. "D'you surrender yet?"  "No!"
"Do you promise to be my friend? Nobody likes me," the Duke of Conwy, hidden in the dark of his room. Gareth crouched in front of him, "Of course I do. We're best friends."
Lowri laughing, and running down the beach. And I realize it's Oisin's memory because I'm seeing myself as I put my arm around his shoulders and lean on him, fist in my mouth. "You're so good for cuddles," I am saying quietly, as he hugs me.
"Of course I'm your friend, you're mine aren't you?" The serious boy, staring down at his books, dark hair nearly in his eyes. "Yes, yes of course, prince," Courtenay sits down awkwardly, fiddling with his hands. "Call me Hal, everyone who's my friend does. And you're clever, you don't think I'm going to let you go do you? I can't stand boring people." "I promise never to be boring." That's Courtenay's memory. They must be at Oxford.
All of my friends hugging me after I fought Kit the first time. "Crush him," Elis ordered, then all of their arms wrapping tight around me.
"Do you promise to take very good care of him?" Owen Tudor, holding a little speckled grey puppy up to a tiny Prince Harry, who nods his little head so hard his curls bounce. It's Harrys' memory. He'd asked for a puppy for his birthday. "Here you are," Tudor smiled, placing the wiggling dog in the boy's arms.
"Look at me. I know you haven't had a home for a long time. But you have one now. And when you're hurt, you come to me, all right? You are not alone," Gareth is saying, binding up my arm with bandages, I'd hurt it falling off a horse. And I hadn't told him all day I thought he'd be cross. He wasn't cross. He took care of me.
"You're going to be a great knight, Owain, I know it," a woman holding his shoulders, her face lined with care, "I love you so, so much. And I'm so very proud of you."
Rhiannon smiling as she tugs me to dance with her at the harvest festival.
Dancer and Sadie and I being stupid in the middle of town, him making me carry him on my back, and Sadie trying to trip both of us.
Chasing a child into the surf and then scooping them up as they laugh.
Running into a man's arms to kiss his cheeks.
A beautifully illustrated manuscript, and lying in front of a roaring fire.
"You're a good warrior, I'm proud of you. Don't know if I say that, often, enough," Fionn, Oisin's father, with a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. "You're a good man as well."
A little boy crawling onto your back and laughing as he puts his hands over your eyes.
Steady hands guiding a boy's as he holds a sword for the first time.
Over. And over. And over. Endless memories of joy, and kindness. A mother's lullaby. A father's hands steadying yours on an ax. Being tucked into bed with your siblings on a cold winter's night. A mother's hands gently cleaning dirt from your cheeks after a long day of playing. A happy puppy. Watching a horse gallop through a field. There is so much good. All of us, have nothing but memories of joy, everyday joys cold water in your hair on a hot day, or a baby's soft hands in yours. And then there's one absolute sociopath who fondly recalls winning a very bloody battle, but we don't talk about him.
We're wrapped up in nothing but good. Falling back onto a bed with a best friend, laughing. Laughing at a stupid inside joke. Laughing at a pair of dogs chasing each other. Laughing as a baby takes its first steps. Laughing as you abuse Welsh teenagers together. Really, though, Courtenay is not souring this experience that much he's been helpful this whole time honestly, even the properly balanced check book memory earlier was weird, but it wasn't bad.
We all have nothing but memories of joy. And so much to live for. And yes the fear is there, but this outweighs it. Not glory or riches (unless you're exactly one person who just likes the sound of money), it's the simple things. Watching a loved one dance in the evening light. Playing with a dog. Riding a horse down the beach. A hand closing on yours. Chasing one another in the cold surf. Playing hide and seek among the orchards. Piling with all of your siblings underneath a bed. Warm apple tarts. Fresh strawberries and cream on a summer's day. Teaching a child how to swing a sword. Everything. And anything. A single soft moment we'll never have again or a sunset we experience every day.
All the good is there. And it gives us the strength to fight away the nightmares.
Kit is still standing, but he's wavering. His strength is still coming.
I step closer to him, carefully laying a hand on his head. He's full of nothing but the nightmares, and the hate. Of course they're still there, they're fueling him. But I'm searching for one good thing. One tender moment.  That had to have mattered. No matter how buried it is.
"You're the most special little boy in the whole world," his mother, tickling his stomach and making him giggle. He can't be more than four or five.  He's wearing a torn little blue shirt, and jeans. And his face is bruised but she's gotten him beaming. They're in a dingy little bedroom with pictures of trucks on the walls. "You know that? You are the most perfect little boy. And I'm so so glad mommy got you. Because you are the kindest, smartest, most important little boy there ever was. So don't mind what other people say, okay? I think you're amazing."
"No," Kit snarls, falling to his knees on the ice.
"You may not want to go there. You may be happy in the dark. But we aren't," I say, fingers arched on his head.
Another memory floods forward. "I made you pancakes, sleepy head," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "You sure you feel okay?" He nods. He's maybe twelve? Dark hair slicked back, pallid. He's bruised, but smiling now when he looks at her. "Okay, I have to work a shift. But do you want to go see a movie tonight? I got good overtime, we can get popcorn." Kit shrugs a little, amber eyes soft.  "Go ahead and think about it, but that might be fun, huh? I know it's not cool to hang out with your mom, but I'd appreciate the escort to the movies, how about that?" She smiles, stroking his hair out of his face.
"Stop it," Kit snarls, hands to his face, "Make it stop."
"Why? Because you tried to kill her? Her who wanted to take you to the movies, who called you her favorite little boy? Or because you tried to kill all of us? Me who wants to walk my daughter down to play in the waves. Or the archer up there whose children all dance and sing when he comes home? Or the the one whose favorite memory is playing chase with his brothers? Or the boy who wants to play with his dog? Because that is what we really are. Not play things for you to crush, with fear and hate. But people, who like walking at sunset, and having snowball fights, and watching children play, and going out for drinks with our mates, who have mothers and grandmothers who kissed our tears away, and fathers who taught us to hold a sword, and brothers who were the first ones to learn to make us laugh. And we're all messed up and yes every one of us has a dark memory or a fear or someone who let us down. But we also have so many people who lift us up. And people like you, don't get to take that away from us. Because we deserve happiness. And we will die for it," I say, tightening a hand on his shirt to drag him to his feet, "And I will fight you till the end of time if it means securing that for them. Not for glory. Not for fame. I am not a hero. I am a man who wants to go home to play with his daughter, who wants to hug his friends one more time. A simple, peaceful life is greatest glory in the world. And that is the riches I want."
Kit growls, deep in his throat, trying to twist free one more time. Then he fades, just fades, collapsing in on himself as the last of the magic leaves him. And I can hear the echoes in the tomb as his spirit leaves.
And he's gone.
His robes fall to the ice. And I myself stagger as I let the magic run out of me. I look back up at Harlech, outlined against the Snowdonia's. It's just dawn and I can see warm purple light glowing over the tops of the mountains.
And I walk slowly back up to the beach. The ice is starting to break up, but I use magic to keep it in place enough to make my way back. I'm weeping blood from my eyes and mouth. But I'm all right. I'm more than all right, in fact.
When I make it back to the beach, limping, the soldiers are still picking up the wreckage from battle. I see no casualties, but they're gathering their own discarded weapons, and bowmen are drifting down to get arrows.
One knight turns, his dark hair matted with blood, as he draws a shield from the sand. I recognize King Henry in an instant, even bloodied as he is.
I frown a little, wondering if he is actually hurt. His dark eyes lock with mine, and he smiles his half-face smile, nodding a bit in recognition.
I smile too. We did it. We lived. And I am glad to see him alive.
He grins, then nods again, a quiet farewell.
I bow, just slightly.
And he turns and hikes up the beach to where a lone sorcerer stands. Courtenay has a hood up, but I know his stance if not the flash of his blue eyes. He waits for his King to join him, and then they turn and just walk away from the castle, off towards the village. 
I smile and then turn back towards Harlech. I tug off my cape to make it easier to walk, wiping blood from my face. I am going home now.  And we will have peace. And dancing. And I'll tell my friends the story of what happened. And we we laugh. Because we made it again. And there may be a day we fail. But not today. We have each other.  Cambia still stands. And we will be ready to fight when the time comes, and another threat rises. And I'm sure my children, and my friends, will bring us plenty of new adventures.
Come and visit us someday. The doors of Harlech are always open to you.

The End