A quest of Heroes - S01 E10

3 years ago

A quest of Heroes - S01 E10

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 10

MacGil sat in the upper hall of his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs. He sat on his intimate throne, this one carved of wood, and looked out at four of his children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrick, at twenty-five years a fine warrior and true gentleman. He, of all his children, resembled MacGil the most—which was ironic, since he was a bastard, MacGil’s only issue by another woman, a woman he had long since forgotten. MacGil had raised Kendrick with his true children, despite his Queen’s initial protests, on the condition he would never ascend the throne. This pained MacGil now, since Kendrick was the finest man he’d ever known, a son he was proud to sire. There would have been no finer heir to the kingdom.

Beside him, in stark contrast, stood his second-born son—yet his firstborn legitimate son—Gareth, twenty-three, thin, with hollow cheeks and large brown eyes which never stopped darting. His character could not be more different than his elder brother’s. Gareth’s nature was everything Kendrick’s was not: where his brother was forthright, Gareth hid his true thoughts; where his brother was proud and noble, Gareth was dishonest and deceitful. It pained MacGil to dislike his own son, and he had tried many times to correct his nature; but after some point in the boy’s teenage years, he decided his nature was predestined: scheming, power-hungry, and ambitious in every wrong sense of the word. Gareth also, MacGil knew, had no love for women, and had many male lovers. Other kings would have ousted such a son, but MacGil was more open-minded, and for him, this was not a reason not to love him. He did not judge him for this. What he did judge him for was his evil, scheming nature, which was something he could not overlook.

Lined up beside Gareth stood MacGil’s second-born daughter, Gwendolyn. Having just reached her sixteenth year, she was as beautiful a girl as he had ever laid eyes upon—and her nature outshone even her looks. She was kind, generous, honest—the finest young woman he had ever known. In this regard, she was similar to Kendrick. She looked at MacGil with a daughter’s love for a father, and he’d always felt her loyalty in every glance. He was even more proud of her than of his sons.

Standing beside Gwendolyn was MacGil’s youngest boy, Reece, a proud and spirited young lad who, at fourteen, was just becoming a man. MacGil had watched with great pleasure his initiation into the Legion, and could already see the man he was going to be. One day, MacGil had no doubt, Reece would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that day was not now. He was too young yet, and still had much to learn.

MacGil had mixed feelings as he surveyed these four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him. He felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance, for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off to another kingdom, she had no business partaking in this discussion of heirs. But his other son, Godfrey, at eighteen the middle one, was absent. MacGil reddened from the snub.

Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey had shown such disrespect for the kingship; it was always clear that he cared not for it and would never rule. And, MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey instead chose to waste away his days in alehouses with miscreant friends, causing the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker, sleeping most of his days and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand, MacGil was relieved he wasn’t here; on the other, it was an insult he could not suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat silently, waiting, until they did.

The heavy oak door finally slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them. They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the door behind him.

His brothers and sister turned and stared. Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half-dressed. He smiled back. Insolent. As always.

“Hello, Father,” Godfrey said. “Did I miss all the fun?”

“You will stand with your siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much less ale—for three days entire.”

Defiant, Godfrey glared back at his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve Godfrey well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.

Rebellious to the end, Godfrey waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the others.

MacGil surveyed these five children standing before him: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day, the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it possible?

It was an exercise in futility; after all, he was in his prime and could rule for thirty more years. Whatever heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but it had no place now.