The Firstborn's Curse

[Proddy 2415]

The home of the de Bar’s, Geldern, had an eerie, almost disturbing breeze about it. The vineyards had the winds licking their sides, and troops manned the tall walls of the keep.

 

“Oi, Dawnstead. Check up on Ser Richard, aye?” spoke Emery, an arbalest held in a firm grip within his hands.

 

“Aye, of course, Prefect.” the man-at-arms offered a sage nod, descending the ladders and marching into the throne room. The portrait of His Excellency, Adrian was hung on the wall to the right, the heedful Ashford soldier grinning thinly before guiding himself up the stairs. He made his way to the chambers of the de Bar knight, rasping his gauntleted knuckles upon the oaken doors. A weary, disgruntled cough emitted from within, before a hoarse voice stated bluntly.

 

“Come in.”

 

Max’s hand shot forth to take ahold of the doors hand, turning the knob and pushing the door open. His mouth agapened and brows rose as he strode inside, gaze falling upon the bedridden, sickly-looking Ashford.

 

His time confined to the space of his bedchamber and the circumstances of his illness had altered Richard Ambrose de Bar’s appearance considerably. Where he was once fit and lean, he was now much skinnier and frail; unhelped by his refusal to eat and lack of appetite. His complexion was pallid and pale, and dark bags hung prominently beneath his eyes. His green-grey orbs only ever reflected sadness and worry, now; what joy he had once held in life and existence was now gone entirely.

 

Dawnstead loomed at the doorway, the youth entirely unsure of what to say. Richard slowly turned his head so that their gazes met. Light blue stared into green-grey, though neither man greeted the other with a smil. The bleakness and sombrerity of the brazen Ashford knights situation was becoming all too apparent, even to him.

 

“Dawnstead…” Richard spoke up, at last. Tones weak and hoarse, it took the knight some effort to even get his own words out. The soldier at the doorway watched the lordling for some time longer, his shoulders stiffening, arms staying by his sides.

 

“Emery sent me to check on you, my lord… how are you-”

 

“Just fine, Max.” Richard swiftly cut him off, forcing the best smile he could. In truth, he tired of his father’s courtiers and soldiers having to nurse over him, having to wipe his arse for him every time he took a **** and try and spoonfeed him as though he was still a babe in the crib. He wanted nothing more in the world right now than to recover, to be able to fight and drill the yards again. That seemed a distant outcome now, though. An ideal one, but still unlikely; he what was coming next, he knew it was coming soon, and that it couldn’t be stopped…

“Want me to bring you some supper, my-”

 

“No, there’s no need for that.” the Ashford cut Max off once again as he tried to break the looming silence. Quiet settled in once more as Richard shuffled slightly in his bed. Brows drooping as he continued to contemplate; a look of fleeting sadness rushing across his features.

 

“Dawnstead.” the coarse, frail voice of Richard de Bar spoke up as Max turned to leave, stopping the man-at-arms in his tracks. “Aye, my lord..?”

 

“Go and be a good lad. Bring my family here.”

 

Max nodded once. “My lord.” he spoke with a bow of his head, before swivelling on his heel and departing the room. Closing the oaken door behind him.

 

~

 

 

 

 

In the small hours of the afternoon, Ser Richard’s family and friends came to him one by one, to say their farewells and pay their respects.

 

It was Richard’s younger sister, Lucia that had come first. Cradiling her newborn child in her arms. The two had exchanged some words and reminisced on times of old, and Richard held his infant nephew, Athirius, for the very first and the very last time.

 

Richard’s father Denis had entered next, along with his grandfather, Adrian. Worry and fear never escaped Lord Denis as he spoke with his firstborn; even Adrian, typically bold and without an fear, displayed some hint of anxiousness upon his features, though it was hard to tell through those old, blind-grey eyes. The three of them spoke of times long gone, of wars long won and of battles long fought. They discussed promises and pledges of the past that had never been achieved; a tearful and regretful Richard apologised that he could not live to be worthy of them.

 

Richard’s twin sister Aurelia was the fourth to come and see him, along with her husband, Prince Alexander; the couple had rode all through the day from Redmark to see him off. The princeling and the knight made little talk whilst he was there, though Aurelia sat with her brother for the majority of the day, distraught. Richard did what little he could do to ease his twins’ conscious. He urged her to look out for Guy as she had always done for him, and even asked her to name one of her sons after him in the future, so that people wouldn’t forget about him entirely.

 

It was his brother, Guy, whom was the last of his close relatives to come. Richard assured his younger sibling that he was the heir to Peremont now, and the two brothers embraced fiercely. Richard counselled that the youth find a way of growing out of his brashful temper and hot headedness, for a leader full of wroth and envy was not a leader whom inspired devotion and love at all.

 

With his family out of the way, friends, associates and assorted others from his father’s court came to-and-fro. Ser Rhys Roke, a staunch ally and his brother-in-law. Edgar and Kazik de Saltpans, one a distant kinsman and the other a dear companion. Brann of Ashebourne, who had served the Ashford family even before the very day of his conception. Lady Ceriwyn de Bar, his grandfather’s second wife and Richard’s grandmother, not by blood but by bond and surrogacy. Ser Aymer Fournier, his fellow knight and one of Savoy’s most leal vassals. Lady Rhian Roke, a young woman who had been a thorn in his side for many years growing up, though they managed to make peace with one another in Richard’s final hours.

 

When all was said and done, Richard couldn’t help but feel unsatisfied; he’d always dreamed that his death would be glorious. Something the songs would sing about for ages and eons to come, how a brave Ashford knight had brought twenty men down to the grave with him when he fell on the battlefield.

 

Instead, he laid here; in bed, in his bedchambers, in his home. Weak and pathetic, hardly able to move, barely able to speak. A loud fit of coughs escaped Richard as he stirred in his bed, trying to get as comfortable as he could. Arms firmly at his side, the Ashford knight inhaled sharply through the nose.

 

He couldn’t lie to himself; part of him felt afraid. Afraid for what lied beyond death. Would it be God’s kingdom, he’d be taken to, or somewhere else entirely? Some heaven scriptured in the texts of a pagan religion, where devout canonists like himself were not welcome. He frowned a touch, with that.

 

His eyelids began to grow heavy, and all at once, the Ashford saw his very life flash before him, from start to finish. Days as an innocent youth, a young prince of Oren, playing hide and seek around the castle in Felsen with Aurelia and his grandfather’s squire. His father, promising him the world in the throne hall, at the tender age of six. The very first time he rode a horse, training in the yard with Ser Athirius and Rhys.

 

The first time he felt love. He could remember her face as though it were a picture; pale skin, grey eyes, fair hair… the Ashford grew tearful as he mulled on it. Those memories were the ones that carried the most weight for him.

 

It was his fondest memory that he recalled last. Being knighted in the throne room of the empire at the age of sixteen, with his family, friends and all the knights and ladies of the realm looking on. A gentle smile crossed his lips. The best day of my life…

 

Richard de Bar’s eyes finally closed, and all he saw from there on was blackness…

 

At the age of twenty, Ser Richard Ambrose Ashford de Bar, Knight of Savoy and Stonehallow, former Prince of Oren and heir to the Duchy of Drusco, ceased to be in his sleep as a result of tubercolosis.

 

Spoiler

(( Credit to Axel for writing up the introduction for this post ))

 

[Cleggmire_ 130]

                  Ser Aymer peels away from the gathered persons bidding their dearest friend adieu, his cane ushering him along. He'd look up to the scarred skyline, reminiscing the time he and Richard spent in his quarters, where he were at his worst. The ambiguous figure took hold of his family sword, and he laid his trust onto the ashford. He now stood at the bridge of Peremont, his glower driven deeply into the sullen confines below. Aymer spoke with a raspy voice to himself, his words that of extol. He concluded, now castigating himself, his heart bleeding for the dying Ashford, and hobbling along, driven forth by his cane. 

 

                         "Au revoir, my closest friend."

[lawnmowerman 3040]

"A shame that he left us so early."

 

Rhys murmured to himself with a compulsive scowl, raising from his seat in Nessvelt and journeying to Geldern to pay his respects.

 

Meanwhile, Kazik is completely unaware, seeing as he is occupied with business in Al-Wakrah.

[dandan1350 479]

A day of sorrow and mourn was in route for the aged knight, adorned now in his ceremonial armor he wore once before during the late King Olivier's death he remains stationary. Sat beside the fallen Ashfords grave as one hand rested on his warhammer planted firmly in the ground and the other clutching at the Esheveurd symbol pinned to his breast, the Savoy sun. 

 

"And yet another I fail to protect. My service shall not end, as I wait the Esheveurd reaper that comes to make claim of you, lad. Rest easy in the Seven skies knowing I will guard your resting place upon this mortal realm. I will not let him take another from me."

 

 

His neck craned upwards as he gazed onward to the surrounding lands of Savoy in silence. There the knight would stand guard for the oncoming week.

[_Stigwig 1510]

"The sun has set for this one - and he did not see the light of day.."

 

Denis offers a morose frown at the news, calloused fingers running over his son's deceased features. The Ashford rises and turns to face the window, the moonlight paramount.

 

"He'll rest with his namesake, and watch us work."

[Porko 397]

"Farewell, Richard."  Emery murmurs solemnly, turning on his heel to depart from the room. The young man glances over his shoulder as he passes through the doorway, a grim frown displayed on his sorrowful visage.

[Stump 709]

Gentle, soft tones of color embraced the aisle of the cathedral; brilliant shafts of light situated between the pews and drifted in through the sides of the grand structure, all finding a source from the afternoon sun which filtered through stained glass secured by stone and by metal.
 

Although it wasn't time for mass nor was there a wedding or all those celebrated events that could go on in this place of God.
Instead in the most shadowed corner sat upon the wooden seating was the dour Countess of Drusco, head bowed in mourning on the day of a funeral. It was empty in the hall, as all the rest of her kin and trusted had sojourned below the holy site, into the crypts where the dead of Peremont were kept in the peace they deserved. 

Not a word passed the woman's lips as all her prayers were silent, but she brooded there among the pews and knew that the Firstborn's Curse had struck once more to claim an Ashford. It took one of her own now, and for that she could not forgive.
 

Spoiler

 

[Elad™ 560]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.