The Raven Girl

Chapter 36

"How I like it." Asta grinned, backing away from the fireplace with a certain uneasiness and caution. A pang echoed in his chest when he was reminded of the time Eirik had threatened her with fire in the dungeons, yet there was something else to her hate for it, something that had come before her time here. Her smile faltered. "Are you nervous?"

"Unbearably so." Rickard admitted, sheepishly. "I always thought I was ready for the throne- I was practically doing Eirik's job for him- yet back then, eyes were on him, not me. He would speak the words I told him to, but now I have to do it all. Have you seen them? Every noble is eyeing me up, working out how wise it would be to try and overthrow me, working out the odds that they would succeed."

"That's paranoia for you. They say kings and queens are always the ones to suffer from it the worst."

Hours later and Asta was stood in the freshly blanketed grounds of the cemetery, head bowed out of respect for a man she could never feel anything for, despite the forgiveness she'd granted him. Forgiveness had merely driven away the raging hate she felt, replacing it with a strange indifference, a nothingness. He was nothing to her anymore. The man who'd sought to see her broken beyond repair meant nothing, in the end.

Everybody around her followed the friar's lead, uttering the hushed words that the friar put in their mouths of Eirik's testing journey to the afterlife. It would certainly be testing, if there was any justice at all in their harsh world, and that was putting it lightly.

Rickard was stood wringing his hands at the friar's side, repeating the words without even hearing them. His mind was fixed on his speech to come and would remain so long into tonight's feast. He had to show an unwavering strength and control, whilst remaining slightly withdrawn and thoroughly shaken by his brother's death else they would accuse him of weak leadership or, worse, being a power hungry tyrant. Perhaps Asta was right. Perhaps he was already paranoid. Who could help it though when there were so many people out there waiting for him to slip up so they might declare him an unfit ruler in a time of turmoil?

"In times of darkness may we look to another for strength and for guidance." Said the friar, putting an abrupt end to their prayers. Rickard gulped as the bowed heads were raised in unison, their sombre eyes drawn not to the man of god but to him. This was not a funeral, he reminded himself, but a way to assert his rule. Mourning would come later and much more privately. "With his successor, let us pray comes prosperity and hope."

Rickard cleared his throat. Meaningless words passed his lips, words that made him cringe to look back on, but they pacified the crowd and so suited his purpose perfectly. That was all anybody wanted to hear now. Never mind the truth, never mind how you really felt inside- the world didn't want to hear it, didn't have the time to sit and listen. Society was superficial and outwardly appearances was all anybody was concerned with and one man could not even think to upturn such an archaic value.

Fresh snow began to plummet from the bleak skies above them, acting as an excuse for the majority to head inside and take their fill of the wine provided. Rickard hung back and caught the friar's eye. Tradition had it that the ceremony was taken outside amongst the other dead, so they might also be present when another was about to join them, but the body had yet to be placed in its grave, awaiting the final preparations within the walls of the chapel. Usually, there was none present at this point but the monks and undertakers, but Rickard wished to help and the friar obliged.

He followed the old man inside, the musty incense burning in the backs of his nostrils as soon as the doors were flung open.

The chapel was dark. Any passageway for light had been blocked before Eirik's body had been hauled in, except from the small window at the back, and the room was lit only by candles scented with rue, perhaps to symbolise the people's non-existent sorrow or the sincere regret and repentance Eirik needed to have in order to be saved.

In the middle of the room, Rickard could see Eirik's body draped over a table, the only thing separating the two being a sheet of a coarse white fabric. He didn't know what happened now, didn't know what it was that had to happen before his brother was put to rest in his grave, for the chapel had always kept the process hushed. It had been a surprise when the friar had permitted Rickard to watch.

"You," said the friar, his voice gentle yet shattering the peacefulness that seemed to resonate within the plastered stone, "my king, are the first ruler to ever witness what you are about to see. I hope that the knowledge we grant you may move us into a new age."

Rickard raised an eyebrow. What was the man speaking of?

"You'll see." 

His eyes drifted from the balding head of the friar, caught by a movement at the only open window. A quick glance was all he needed to see who it was; from his angle, only a snatch of silver hair was in view. Perhaps she'd figured nobody would see her, that her curiosity would go unnoticed, but he had. Still, he would keep her secret.

Before long his dark gaze was drawn back to the body because, gathering in a fair number, were the monks, black hoods pulled so they might cast shadows over the entirety of their faces and mask their eyes.

"May I ask a question, your majesty?" Said the friar, and Rickard nodded his consent, eyes never drifting from the circle of monks. "How did you imagine we dealt with the dead?"

"Washing them, perhaps? Dressing them in finery so they might be buried with dignity?" The very question itself made Rickard doubt himself, but he answered truthfully enough. That was indeed what he had imagined, after all. How much could their preparations differ?

The friar shook his head and chuckled to himself. Clearly, they differed quite a bit more than he'd first thought.

"That's what they all think." Said the old man. "When your grandfather was buried, so was the knowledge of what had to be done after death. You'll find the monarchs used to play a much larger part in all this and bared a great knowledge, one they used for purposes you would now find unspeakable, your grace. It does not have to be used as they used it though. In fact, that is why I am choosing to share it with you- in the hope that you might use it for good and not evil."

His enigmatic words were both intriguing and infuriating, but Rickard stayed calm and unfazed, awaiting clarification.

Around them, the monks began to chant in a language Rickard had not heard since childhood and couldn't have hoped to translate. Why, he did not even know if they were speaking words at all. The friar merely watched on and when they stopped, despite nothing changed, he did not appear confused.

"They've done nothing." Rickard stated with a frown. What had he even expected? What had he even wanted them to have done? He wasn't sure he liked the idea of these strange men messing about with his dead brother's body.

"No, my king." Said the friar. "A blind man does not think nothing in the world has happened just because he cannot see."

"Then what have you done?"

"We have eased your brother's path, your grace. He will not live another life but rest wherever he ends up."

"How is it that you know this? You speak as if you have some unworldly knowledge of the afterlife, a knowledge that conflicts with what you tell the people. If what you say is true, you lie to everybody at every chapel service."

"Extensive research, I suppose," said the old man, "carried out by your ancestors. Patterns found in history. We do not tell the people because the people wouldn't react well to the magic. They would call it 'unholy'."

"Maybe it is." Rickard frowned but then he shook his head, clearing it of any prejudice he might've felt. "Earlier you said this was misused by the kings of the past, yet for the life of me I cannot see how."

"I'm afraid this I cannot tell, your grace." The friar said, looking over to that singular window, to the silver hair just peeking up from the stone. "Not when those it should have once hurt are so close."

Rickard's gaze followed the friar's over to where Asta stood, completely unaware that she was the subject of his puzzling words. When he finally pieced together a question for the old man, however, he found that everybody had left and the opportunity was lost.

Sighing, he dragged his mind away from it all and picked up the shovel by the door. This was how he was to help: he would dig his brother's grave and see it that Eirik could finally rest.