Weaver & the Wight

Chapter 03 - The Offer

The day was darker, fog thick and wind chillier than the day prior. Gillian had his linen jacket pulled tight, collar up to protect him from the harsh air. He was watching over the slums just past the main rows of the city. Ragged people tended to the dust-grey field, taking long leisters, and digging them into the skin of Muln beneath them, pulling up silvery-white worms in the spear's claws.

Most of the leister-bearers were dressed in muddy-brown overalls, but those that looked less fortunate, wore barely rags.

And why did they deserve that when Gillian was allowed a nice life in the Palace? They were normal people, after all. Didn't they deserve more than a patchwork wight like himself?

A vulture landed there next to him on the balcony, perched on the railing. Gillian eyed the creature curiously. "Hi, vulture," he said. The patchwork cawed and drifted off. For a patchwork, vultures were by far the most passive.

A knock echoed from the door leading back into the hall, and as he went to see who was there, he found a Palace soldier waiting patiently just in the hall. "Yes?" the prince said.

The young woman said gruffly, "The King wants to see you."

Oh no, Gillian thought. "I'll... be there in a moment." He shut the door and heard the soldier's footsteps fade away down the hall. The longer he waited, the more irritated the King would get. And the King was scary when he was irritated.

Finally building the courage up, the boy slipped into the hall, and made his direction for the stairs to the top floor, where both his and his father's room resided. At the top of the steps, he almost decided against it, turning and putting a hand to his own door.

The King wanted to see him, though. He could not deny it. The King was still there, still alive. He was something he had to bear through. Heart thumping, Gillian turned and pushed into the King's throne room.

The room was darker than usual, and the boy could barely even make out the lord's dark shape in the damp room. His raspy voice emanated out from the shadows, reminding the prince he was still there. "Boy." His voice was a hiss of cicadas, a rattle of dying lungs, and lined by a slightly unnatural sound, as if supported by machinery.

"Hello, father."

A hiss of steam trailed from the dark silhouette's hanging form. "You've gotten older since I've last seen you," said the King, his tone unreadable.

Gillian hesitated. "I spoke with you just last week, father."

Silence. "Is that so?" the King hissed.

Gillian nodded. "Yes, sir."

The old man leaned forward. He was barely still a man, barely still alive in the first place. His life of playing dress-up king to his people was coming to an end. His eyes were pale, not fully blind yet, though, and white stubble lined his sagging face. He laughed, long and eerie, voice full of phlegm. "I still can't believe when I told Silas to make me an heir worthy of my position, he made you."

The harsh words didn't even bother Gillian. Hell did he care what the King thought about him? The fading corpse may have been his supposed "father," but that didn't mean the boy needed to listen to him. Once the old man died, he would be free of him. Yet, there was still the daunting task of filling in his place once he was gone.