Author Games: A Knight's Valor

Valor Four: Eleos Eiríni

With every single event that has occurred, Eleos Eiríni is astonished to have such strong a memory capacity as he does. Granted, and unbeknownst to him, some of these memories are rather twisted and do not even correlate to reality. Half of the events that he remembers are mere ideas of what he hopes would happen, have different outcomes to what really occurred. The worst thing of all is that he cannot distinguish his reality to the false pretense of oblivious safety he has created for himself.

-

“Please, Rise for Our Late King Artheur,” a spokesperson announces. He is a priest, Eleos believes. And he reminds him all too much of the godly man who sacrificed himself in order for Eleos to complete his Trial of Mercy. He has not thought of those people in a very long time, although he chose just some weeks prior to today.

Today should be a day to remember the dead, he thinks. It is finally the day of the King’s funeral, after all.

Like the solemn and obedient group that the people are, those inside of the Grand Hall rise to their feet, their final gesture of respect to the fallen King. Almost every single individual has the trademarks of mourning: disheveled hair, either facial or regular; red, puffy eyes; a swollen, tear-streaked face.

“They saw that on me,” he says, mind recalling the memory. But he is elsewhere.

As they stand, almost all of them turn back to look at him and five others. Only six men and women were selected to carry the King’s casket, and Eleos is among them. At the time when he was approached, he believed it to a great honor. He was rather close to the King, after all. But now, walking with the casket on his all too delicate shoulders, he thinks of it as a burden.

He doesn’t want so many eyes on him – he doesn’t want to make contact with any of them.

His reflection is haunting him; he should stop looking at himself. “They were looking at me with something strange,” he whispers. He doesn’t stop; it was pity.

For a moment, everyone stops breathing. They all try to take in their King’s final glory right before them. The casket is a beautiful thing crafted by the most delicate fingers. Eleos should know about skilled hands, he has them himself, though he hasn’t put them to much work.  He didn’t take a part in building the resting place, either – it was too much, having to take his King’s measures as if they were burying a doll and not a man.
With a shudder of thinking so much about the dead body inside, he resumes breathing, as those who accompany him do.

The men who carry the casket are on the left side, and the women on the right. “Men and women” may be too much of an overstatement, since only two are actual adults. The remaining four are children by age, but they have matured in less than a month. It’s the thing murder does to a person: it changes them from their very core. Whether murderer or murdered, it is all the same.

In front of him, Sir Thomas turns a brooding face to the crowd. He doesn’t understand how they can just stand there looking sullenly blank, yet so emotional. They didn’t know the King like he did. They will never know the King like he does. He glances back to Eleos, his comrade in this battle. Once they make eye contact, the Knight looks away as if he is a distraction to his task.

“He has not looked at me at all since that day,” he mutters.

He’s terribly lonely, and he thought he finally found a friend in Sir Thomas the Knight. He thought that after the night of the murder, his fellow Alian would bestow friendship upon him instead of just diplomacy. He no longer even thinks of him as remotely attractive, sure that that is the reason the knight has stayed away.