The Exiled King | ✔

Chapter 8 - Death Descends Upon The House

The spring rains poured heavily upon Sanobar. The persistent clattering of raindrops on the ground and the damp scent that permeated every corner and crevice of the castle only served to dampen Lord Rowan Throeyns' mood further.

The aura of death hung around the castle like a stifling fog. It had only been two years since Lord Rowan had welcomed his son and heir into the world, yet his son had been snatched from his arms far too soon.

He sighed, resting his head in his hands. He was slumped in a chair in his study, fighting back fatigue with a generous serving of dwarven firewhiskey. An empty bottle rested against the leg of his chair, the contents deposited into the glass he took another sip of, relishing the scalding fire that burned all the way down to his stomach.

From the room beside his study, he heard harsh coughing and a dim cacophony of voices that blurred together into an unintelligible buzz.

"-Lord!"

Lord Rowan looked up, blinking to focus on the shape before him that morphed into the somber face of his chamberlain, who shook him gently.

"My lord!" His chamberlain repeated, with rising urgency in his voice.

His face was a picture of concern and resigned despondency as he hesitated a moment, then spoke the dreaded words.

"My lord, the doctor has spoken... the Lady hasn't long for this world. If... if there are any parting words you wish to-"

Lord Rowan roughly waved him away and heaved himself out of his chair. As the room around him spun, he staggered and grabbed onto the desk and brushed his greasy locks of hair out of his face. He took a steadying breath and walked over to the doorway to the bedroom with an unsteady gait and a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The room was dark and musty and filled with the scent of sweat and sickness and smoke partially masked by herbs. Lord Rowan nearly physically recoiled from the room, but he gritted his teeth and stepped inside.

It was a well-furnished room with a large four-poster bed that dominated the space. Thick curtains were drawn over a window, engulfing the room in a darkness only illuminated by a scattering of candles that bathed the room in a flickering golden glow. Elegant bookshelves lined the far wall and a dressing table occupied the space to his left.

Lord Rowan stepped closer to the bed, the doctor stepping out of the way to let him pass. There lay his wife, her sunken skin as pale as the sheets she lay on and her dark hair fanned out on her feather pillow. Her cerulean eyes were glassy and unfocused and Lord Rowan felt a part of him crumble as he beheld her in this state. Her suffering was long, unlike their son, who had passed a mere day after his cough worsened and his fever wouldn't break.

"Aylusa..." He whispered, kneeling by her bedside and taking her clammy hand in his.

At the sound of his voice, she turned her head ever so slightly towards him and drew in a rattling breath with great difficulty.

"Ma... ma? Is... that you?" Aylusa wheezed.

He grasped her hand tighter and said softly, "N-No, it's me... Rowan."

Whether she heard him or not, there was no indication as she rambled on, "I-I'm sure... there w-were two..."

Rowan looked at the doctor with a quizzical expression, but the doctor shook his head—whatever Aylusa mumbled was something that probably only she would ever know now.

Aylusa drew in another rattling breath and mumbled with a vacant smile, "Lir... ya- you've g-grown... so much..."

She drew in another shallow breath.

The doctor moved over to Lord Rowan and said quietly, "The Lady is too far gone, my lord. The fever has taken hold of her mind."

Lord Rowan nodded mutely, gently caressing her hand with his. He could not think of any final words he wanted her to hear before she passed, so he simply sat there in silence as her breathing slowed.

Briefly, he felt her hand respond to his touch, twitching ever so slightly, then she drew in another rattling breath and her hand went limp and a stillness overtook her. Lord Rowan just sat there numbly, still as a statue, as a maid leaned over and gently closed her eyes.

Dimly, he registered the doctor murmuring the ritual prayer for the dead.

Eventually, Lord Rowan released her hand and slumped against the bed. She was gone. She'd been a part of his life for well over half of his life now, but she should have stayed until they grew old together. A part of him couldn't quite process the fact that she was gone, and yet the aching pain in his chest was a testament to his grief. Silently, he grabbed a fistful of the sheet in his clenched fist as he fought back a wave of sorrow that washed over him.

He felt a warm hand on his back and a whispered apology as he was pulled back from the bed.

"I'm sorry, my lord. This room is tainted and we must burn the linens and bedding to stop it from spreading. We cannot risk you succumbing as well, my lord," The doctor said apologetically.

"Burn?" Lord Rowan said hollowly.

Yes, that's right... everything needs to burn to be cleansed.

They are to be burned.

Burned.

Lord Rowan raised himself to his feet and gave a humourless chuckle. He straightened his rumpled vest and ran a hand through his hair and took one last glance at his wife, who looked to be asleep.

Then, he said, "Burn everything they touched—be it the linens or the silverware or a chamberpot. Everything."

The doctor nodded and said solemnly, "My condolences on your loss, my lord."

Lord Rowan turned to leave the room, then paused and said over his shoulder, "And burn the bodies too."

The doctor hesitated and repeated, "The... bodies, my lord?"

"Yes, burn the bodies too," Lord Rowan said coldly.