the burning of whitehall

[Knight of Elken 488]

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THE BURNING OF WHITEHALL
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I: THE GLUTTONY IN DARK

One hundred minas. Seax. Father’s old gambeson. Scarf. Favorite fur hat, woven by mother. Silent as a fox, the pig-nosed, chubby young lad prepared this bundle of small possessions in the dim light of the slowly dying hearth fire set by mother.

 

Enough was enough, and Milonir of Whitehall could tolerate no more. Tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of little Milonir’s life. He would prove to his father and everyone who laughed at him that he was a real man, and a true warrior. Papa would see, they’d all see. But now was the time rest.

 

Not without second supper, of course. See, it had been a habit of Milonir’s for the last few years to collect a second serving of supper after mother and father had fallen asleep. They certainly knew, on account of young Milonir’s drastic weight gain. Mother, at least, said little about it. Father on the other hand, was not so silent about his disdain for Milonir’s weight, and often made sport of the subject. Vegetable soup again.

 

He had done this a million times; harking the leftovers and cleaning plates when no one was looking. Perhaps it was because it was late, or perhaps he was too comfortable with his habit. Milonir, careless as he was, had managed to knock over the pot of soup. While this alone would be cause for some small concern, the loss of second dinner was not what caused the horrified expression overtaking his visage.

 

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II: THE FOOL OF FLAME

He had not only managed to spill his second dinner, but a number of coals too at the base of father’s clan tapestry. And to punish him for his gluttony, gods beyond his control saw it fit that the tapestry was to be set ablaze before he could act. Milonir could only stare in panicked horror as the tapestry that had been in his father’s clan for generations was devoured by intense, contagious flames. What could he do against such an enraged flame? The blaze would claim not only this prized tapestry, but now soared to the thatching of their home. The thatch house began to cough sparks in all directions like an angry blacksmith pounding away at an anvil. Growing, growing, growing.

 

Completely optionless, despaired Milonir hurried out of the shabby little thatch home as fast as his pubescent legs would take him. It was surprising in this state that he was even able to manage that. A good distance away from the home, Milonir froze in abject, paralyzing horror at the sight before him.

Everything he knew, all of his memories, and his very childhood were set ablaze in the inferno.

His family raggedly stumbled outside, awoken from the commotion and smoke. Mother and father, covered in ash and coughing, doggedly made for Milonir’s side. Mother, through her infinite love, appeared confused, betrayed, completely heartbroken. Father’s expression told a different story. The bleeding emotions of righteous rage, betrayal, and a satisfying confirmation that he was right gripped his visage. The family blade gripped within his white knuckles told it all. 

 

 

No words were exchanged, yet Milonir squeaked “No, no,” barely mustering the words.

 

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III: THE COWARD'S WAY OUT

Panic overtook him, and Milonir backed away from his kin, like a desperate, cornered animal. 

 

Run. All he could do was run. With his bundle of possessions under his armpit, Milonir escaped into the pale, cold moonlight. Not stopping to look back at the product of his foolishness, Milonir noticed a much brighter orange glow out of the corner of his eye.

Whitehall burned.

His legs carried him as far as they would. Echoes throughout the valley could be heard; panicked voices familiar to Milonir, and the thundering masses of timber that fell in on themselves. They slowly dissipated until all was silent and dark. Run.

 

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Whitehall burns.

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IV: THE ACCIDENT

It was an accident. He didn’t mean it. What had he done? It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean for this to happen. Young Milonir had proven to Whitehall that their words were right. That Milonir was exactly what they said he was. A useless, fat pile of shit. Reality set in. Milonir stopped only to vomit the vegetable soup he had eaten earlier. Everything he knew and loved was ripped from him that night. He was alone in the dark forest, left with nothing. All he could do was keep running until dawn broke. The bustle of Haense lie before him.

 

A new day.

 

Milonir would make this right. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a year, or even ten. But he would make it right. He swore it. He swore it a million times. 

Milonir would right the wrongs of the past.