Halls of the Dead

~Interlude 2~

~Interlude 2~

~1159~

~Seven years prior~

King Denile coughed blood into a bucket they had placed at his bedside. Light shone in through a window, and his family surrounded the grey-eyed old man. He'd been bedridden for weeks now.

His son Whedon sat at one side of his bed, tenderly gripping his hand. His normally neat blonde hair was now disheveled, and he rarely left his father's side.

The young Prince Norton seemed scared to approach his grandfather, sitting a distance away from the bed. The once bright-eyed boy had an air of dread to him. He had never lost a family member before. Denile assured him that he'd be okay, but the boy seemed doubtful.

Commander Ein stood at the door to his quarters, ensuring only those with permission entered his majesty's chambers. While he stood stoic and confident as a commander should, there was worry in him. After decades of working alongside each other, the King's condition had shaken him. Even he couldn't hide that.

At Denile's bedside was a doctor who had been treating him. But the man had an uncomfortable look on his face.

"My King..." he began, "I haven't seen a condition like yours before. With how you've been faring... I would advise getting your affairs in order."

Whedon, Norton, and the rest of the family were heartbroken at the news... but Denile was furious. He picked up the bucket and pitifully tossed it at the doctor. He managed to avoid it as it came.

"Get... o-out. If you can't help me, I'll find a d-doctor who w-will!"

"Sir, I'm going to do what I can, but I don't think I have enough time."

"Get out!" Denile shouted, quickly devolving into a deep raspy cough.

"...As you wish, my King," The doctor bowed his head and left the King's quarters.

Whedon gripped his father's hand tightly, "That doctor is just wasting our time. Don't worry, we'll find another way."

"You've been through worse," Ein added.

"I know. I'm not dying anytime soon." Denile asserted.

Denile spent his time speaking to his family about all manner of things. He told his grandson Norton of his innumerable exploits in his youth. How he, Commander Ein, and the Kingsguard once stormed a nearby town being occupied by ruffians and saved them. That was when the people of Mortel first saw him as a hero.

But the way they looked at him now... they saw Denile as a dead man who hadn't quite died yet. The way they lingered on each of his words as if it could be his last... it made Denile furious. After all the good he had done over the course of his life, he wouldn't die in such a pitiful way. He couldn't.

But Denile's family saw his death as a forgone conclusion, all but Whedon. He carried the same hope that he would pull through. But each day, Denile's condition grew worse.

Until one day, two visitors came to his quarters in the castle. Two monks. A grey-haired woman with bright amber eyes and a younger bald man. Monks from the Hall of the Dead.

"Get out!" Denile sneered at the mere sight of them, stirring himself into another coughing fit. Ein stood in the way of the monks, and Whedon came to his side.

"We appreciate you coming here, but this isn't necessary. We'd like you to leave," Whedon requested.

The grey-haired woman smiled softly, "I understand your reservations. But as King, we must get his affairs in order, isn't it? I'm certain he'll push through this sickness fine. We're merely preparing for the future."

Whedon winced, glancing back at his father before saying, "Perhaps it'd be alright."

Whedon nodded to Ein, and the commander stepped aside for them. Denile scowled as the two monks stood at his bedside.

"I am Barja, head of the Hall of the Dead. This is my friend Felli, and we'd like to ask you some questions."

Denile simply folded his arms, pushed his head back into his pillow, and avoided eye contact.

The two monks glanced at each other, and Felli sat at Denile's side. He drew some documents out of his robes and began, "My King... some of these questions may be uncomfortable to answer. If there are any you're not prepared for, we can circle back to them."

Denile stared at the ceiling.

"Alright then," Felli began, "Upon your death, where would you like to be buried?"

Denile scowled and stared at Felli with vicious eyes, "Get out."

Felli looked back at Barja, and the two monks exchanged a knowing glance. They nodded and Felli stood.

"Now may not be the best time," Barja replied. She reached into her robes, slipped out a single piece of paper, and set it beside Denile's bed. "If the King wants us to return, simply send a message to the Hall of the Dead. Thank you for your time."

Whedon nodded, "Thanks for coming."

Denile eyed that small piece of paper at his bedside as the monks left. As soon as they were gone, he inspected it. Though his eyesight had worsened in his old age, he could still tell that the paper was completely blank. Those monks were a curious group. He left it at his bedside.

That night, Denile was left alone. But he didn't sleep. He was far too consumed with rage for that. It wasn't fair that he should have to die. Especially after all the good he had done. He wouldn't allow death to take him.

Denile swiveled his legs off the side of the bed. He stood... for a moment. He could feel his legs give way to his own weight, and he frantically grabbed onto the bed and pulled himself back on.

Denile gritted his teeth... he was once a young man of great vigor and strength. Now, he couldn't even get out of bed on his own. He cursed the old, pitiful body he had.

Then he noticed a light at his bedside. A faint one. It was that sheet of paper Barja had left him. He picked it up and inspected it. Green words illuminated the page. His old eyes couldn't read very well, but he could identify one statement.

We can save you