THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING (PK)

[SimplySeo 6999]

[MUSIC]

Uther panted hard and clutched his fiery longsword in a vice-like grip as his helmeted head flitted to-and-fro, scanning the battlefield for any remaining foes… His body was wrent asunder, carved with half a dozen wounds that were stitched shut only by the roaring white flame that burned inside him. He was dying, already dead, truth be told, he knew that the moment the undead’s spear found purchase under a gap in his chestplate. The decision to make his last stand here on this abandoned stretch of road came easily; all the same though, he would have preferred a more dramatic end. He knew well that one does not choose the time and place of one's ending.

Of the corpses that waylaid him, none remained standing, and still the gouges where his sword had cleft them smouldered and burned with white, smokeless fire. It had begun to fade, though, just as the fire within him began to swell and eat away at him. It did not hurt; he hadn’t imagined it would. He felt… Cold.

That, he imagined, was from all the spilled blood of which his lay in puddles where he fought. It reminded him of Serheim, now well over a century ago. He bled from many wounds there and had begun to freeze also, before he prayed to his Creator for salvation. He did not pray now; he had been sundered from his fear of death long ago.

His gaze turned to the family behind him- The father was wounded, terribly so, but Uther imagined he would live if they got to civilization, the mother and daughter, meanwhile, bore little injury, and that much brought a weak smile to his face. His intervention could not have been more timely. These lowborn refugees would survive thanks to him. The mother began rushing over to help him stand, but he waved her off, choosing to instead brace himself against their wagon as he felt his Patron’s fire continue to eat away at him. A look to the mother and the girl, the younger of whom had tears in her eyes, while the elder simply watched on in astonishment. Uther let out a weak chuckle at that and slumped back until he sat, propping his arm up on the crossguard of his sword. “Right- This is it for me, I think… Is the girl alright? Good, good…”

 

“Take that bag from my saddle, you’ll need it for the ashes when I’m gone… In it, you’ll find a letter; deliver it onto Numenost, along with my armor. Do that for me, will you?”

 

The daughter nodded, while the mother had already set to task- She looked old enough to know what was happening, perhaps a former soldier herself. “Good, good- You’ve my thanks, the lot of you… You’re good people, I think. I hope anyway- It is folk like you that men like me fight to protect. - Thank you for making it worth it.”

 

Then Númenatâr the Great shut his eyes, and of him no more in the tales is said.

---

UTHYR AP GWYNTHRYTH Y PENDRAIC
(Vulgar Adunic)
The Terrible, the Son of Gwynthryth, the Dragon-like Warlord
TAR-NÚMENATÂR FORONATHOR
(Early High Adunic)
King and Father of the West, North-Victor
AR-ADÛNAKHÔR KATHUPHAZGÂN
(Late High Adunic)
King of the West, The Conqueror
URIEL REX ADUNICAE
(Flexio)
The Flame of God, Adunian King

 

Ser Uther Pendragon
Patriarch and Founder of House Arthalionath, First of the Númenedain, King of Númendil, King and Protector of the Adunians, Lord of the Númenaranyë, Númenost, and the Barrowlands, Chieftain of the Númenedain, Chieftain of the Harren’hil, Conqueror of the Sharadûn, Templar of Malchediael and Jophiael, and Knight of the Realm…

 

51 SA - 246 SA.

1847 - 2042 IC.

---

I write this in the year two hundred and forty-one of the second age. It has been several years since our quest to heal the mind of our patron Angel, Malchediael, was met with success, and I came so near to death during that battle, I feel it prudent to update my will. While much of this was written in the immediate aftermath of our Quest, I have seen fit to make a revised version to account for recent political considerations. I charge my daughter, Caraneth Aryantë Númenatâriel, to act as the custodian of my earthly belongings.

 

On the matter of my body and funerary arrangements… Should I be lucky enough to fall in battle, there will likely not be much of a body worth retrieving. If you can retrieve my ashes, I would like them to be spread within a Godswood, and for a new Cirdalas tree of Caladhril’s descent to be planted on the spot. If this cannot be done due to a lack of ashes, I simply ask that a memorial shrine be constructed in the Godswood, so my descendants might recall my memory whenever a new oath is sworn. I charge my daughter Caraneth to see this done, or in her absence, the reigning monarch.

 

On the subject of a memorial service… I request a simple remembrance ceremony, and that it be carried out by either Ugokoyama Atsuko, Ugokoyama Danzen, or, should neither of them be available, my daughter, Caraneth, and Ser Alwyn Glennmaer, should he still live. I do not want a traditional funeral, certainly not one conducted by a priest whose grandfather was a babe when I last reigned as King; I would rather be remembered than mourned, for my death has been a long time coming, and is not a mournful thing, as I go onto my death with surety and eagerness that I might join my Patron.

On the subject of my belongings… I request that my worldly belongings be given out to a worthy scion of my house, as deemed by the Custodians of my belongings. This is except for the Banner of St. Caius Primus. I wish for this banner to be delivered to the head of House Barclay as soon as possible.

 

---

I will not wax poetically. I have said much already, and much has been attributed to me that I never said. Those whom I have come to care for know what I would say to them, and those who are in the most dire need of my counsel would not listen if I gave it. So instead, I shall write this segment in the hope that my message will find all of our folk, that being the Folk of Adunia the Lost. (It is decidedly political that I call us the Folk of Adunia, and not the Folk of Harren. Adunia is the land of our birth, and Harren claims us no longer. My only comment on the matters of politics is that I ask my descendants to cease using the name of Harren, whose misdeeds I labored long to overcome.)

I did not set out to be King of the Adunians, or even Lord of Barrowton. What fate arrayed before me I embraced, aye, but never sought. I think it is right and proper that a man should not fear the hour of his death, for it comes to us all in the end. I am blessed that I have lived as long as I have, even if that longevity has meant that I have outlived many for whom I cared. In being unafraid of death, we are unafraid of hardship, and by laboring harder, we enjoy more hardly won fruits, which in my experience taste all the sweeter. By recognizing it as a natural part of life, we cease to be paralyzed by the cold grip of grief, though never do we wholly shake its hold upon us.

 

We are fundamentally imperfect beings, all of us. I am not least of all. I drank, I cheated, and many times I gave into the sin of wrath, which I see so terribly pervasive among my descendants. But one must always labor to wash away these imperfections and to overcome them with strength of will. It is key to recognize that this is an impossible goal, that everyone, no matter how good they may be, is imperfect, and anyone who claims perfection is a fool unaware of his or her own flaws, or does not count them as flaws at all. The key thing, in my opinion, is the way by which one becomes a better person is by striving to overcome them anyway, no matter how impossible the effort. We may never wholly overcome our evils, but we may lessen their hold over us.

Heed these words well, my kin, for they are the last I shall impart to you until the breaking of the world comes to pass, and it is made anew by our Lord and Creator. I go now to the halls of my patron in the knowledge that I will not be the least valiant among that valiant host.

 

Day Shall Come Again
Ser Uther

 

[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

Arthur Marsyr sat where he often did when he wanted a place to think, in the gardens of Caladril, in among the roots of the white tree. Fitting now, that he sat here beneath its shadow as the news reached him and disrupted his thoughts. The new Brannohtar of his Clan was struck harder than he would have that. He had known that Ser Uther Pendraic was old, he knew that it was bound to happen. But just then, hearing that inevitability come to fruition made his eyes go glassy and a keening of immeasurable loss. And in the throes of grief, his head swam, his body shook and tears fell from his eyes despite bidding them to stop, bidding them for control, telling himself that this was as it was meant to be. Had it not been that he desperately had wished, he and his Kingdom could have made it's father proud. So instead, beneath the White Tree, the anchor upon which his people's souls revolved, uttered the words Tar-Nuementar had left them as a promise:
"Let the deeds I act out now be better than those who came before me. Folk of Harren or Blood of the Middlemen, or the Race of Malin, or any other, I swear this. I reject the designs of the enemy and the doom of men, which is guile and covetousness. Great bounty I have been given here, and it is enough." - "I shall not fear death, for the love of the Creator is upon me, and the Archangel vests in me the courage to see great deeds through until my part is played. Ever that His eyes might be upon me, I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of His love, and the station which He has charged me." - "For this I swear, ever shall I be a foe of His foes, be they Dragonspawn or Betrayer’s Brood, or things beyond the circles of this world. I shall broker no pact with them, and I shall accept no peace save their utter defeat. May Darkness consume my House should I falter in this oath." -

"Creator, remember my vow."

 

---

 

Castamir-Entamar, Blood Royal of Angrenost, silver eyed great-great grandson of the Founder King sat atop the Iron Tower when a serving man came up to tell him the news of his ancestor's passing. The news shocked him, down to his very core down to his truest sense of being sat. And what came out into the world, was deep regret. The young blood royal stood then and reached into his pocket, revealing into the open air an unfinished letter he had begun to write addressed to the Barrowton King. Now and forever after to go unanswered. He thought he had had time, so many other things had happened to him, he was just waiting for the right time to send that letter and speak to him. But now that moment would never come and a part of his family was gone- the first in his life gone. The very first link in his proud family, lost to time. He stared up at the stars, held his arms out to the enormity of what was lost and the knowledge that there would never be another like him. And he prayed to Aeradar that he would have a chance to at least try and do great deeds to equal the Hedge Knight who drew his people back from ruin and still marched along the treacherous road of Redemption.
"Nínion ‘nin gwannad lîn. Savo hîdh neñ gurth, en govado i nothrim în ar i mellen în mi Mannos (I mourn your passing. Find peace in death and may you join your friends and ancestors in the Skies)." He bid to the soul of a man whom he had wished so dearly to etch in memory and history, forevermore.

Edited August 19, 2025 by The Vulgate Cycle

[AstriaS 4988]

Caraneth Aryantë received the news with all of her usual gloom and monotone, having gotten far more used to wearing mourning colors in recent decades than any woman ought to need. Nonetheless, charged with a duty in the wake of her beloved father's passing, she set about the making of the funerary arrangements.

[Otakuu 128]

Somewhere on the continent of Aevos, a woman sat in a library with a book in her hand and her eyes devouring the words upon the pages.

 

For some unknown reason, within the warm confines of the structure she was in, she felt a chill run down her spine, distracting her mind from the knowledge she was delving into.

 

Her mind drifted to Numendil for a moment. Out of all the places to think of, Why on earth would her mind go there?

 

A huff was given through the woman's nose as her eyes drifted back down to the words written within the vast pages of the book she read.

 

Perhaps it was time to seek out the city of Numendil and see what has been transpiring there...

 

Just out of curiosity...

[tasty_cheesecake 2298]

Of the Good Ser Uther

19th of the Amber Cold, 2042

I am forced to retrieve my parchment again to write of similarly grim tidings. I am sorry for your loss, and hope to pay my respects to the man who had a place for me after the Lectorate dissolved. He treated me well, and you all after him. Let me know if there is anything I can do.
 

Signed,

Enrique Cardinal Du Loc Piñieda,
Knight of Barrowton, Lector of Owyn

 

---

Edited August 19, 2025 by tasty_cheesecake

[Two2the 365]

Stinthad approached the Silver Spears Company Headquarters, he quickly reviewed the writing then slumped down into a chair.
Stinthad didnt know the man, but his daughter and grandson weren't half bad. 
"Oi' will get som' flowars ready" He sighed, as he  made his way to the garden.

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 15456]

Father Toni waited patiently in the Seven Skies for his brother in arms from the Harvest Revolt - a brother who was ultimately an aengul cvck but regardless his brother through thick and thin. His partner in crime (crimes of heresy) in life. And still he waited for that brother to join him at his table in the Seven Skies with two plates of seafood alfredo and a nicely lit candle.

 

"Aiii hermano, hurry up and die already what de ****"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oijin smiled being the fortunate of the reincarnations of Shady Tales' roleplay personas to reunite with Uther in the court of their patron amongst his guard. Him and Peter had another buddy in the afterlife.

 

"Hey Petah, get a load of this. An Adunian walks into a bar with an Oyashi and Waldenian...."

 

 

 

 

[Wand 1220]

Once upon a time, before barrows, before kingdoms, two men sat across from each other in a shithole tavern on the side of a muddy road. Both have silver eyes, dark hair, and mutton chops. The older, the elf, tells the Adunian lad Uther a story about heroes of old and the dragons they faced. The elf wonders why the boy seemed so familiar, for there was a fire that burned in Uther's heart scarce like any he had seen before.

✧

 

The elf stands in Numendil, decades later, and well after the Tar, the Father, had abdicated. He speaks with Uther's grandchildren.

 

✧

 

The elf stands alone in a silent temple, and he holds a red tabard in his hand, emblazoned with silver stars. Red for the blood shed, not forgotten yet -

Spoiler

red for the blood they shared.

[Lenny 1615]

 

 

---

 

The flame had gone out.

 

Argelion knew this day would come … how could he not? Uther had lived longer than any

mortals in his station had the right to, serving a century and more past the measure of Kings.
Too, the state he had seen in recent years, it was all a matter of time.

 

It is a … bitter thing.

 

A legend, remembered across our city with statues and through the staples of traditions

which my own blood- father, grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins and all of our people engage and learn from. I could never put into words how much faith I held in you, and I wish even now in the wake, that I had grasped the moments to cherish for my own children and to carry the tale of your quests for our next generation.

Argelion’s hand laid against his temple as whispers continued. A long breath was drawn, with the threat of tears continuing to hang in the air …

You witnessed too many of my mistakes, and still, you exercised restraint and love. I could never forget you and I grieve, O great-grandfather. Yet ... though it is difficult-- I will not mourn, for that I reserve for those lost beyond reach. And you, even if you are now gone from our touch, your spirit will always remain with our people and of that I am certain with our patron.
Where you fell, in the sword you raised, in the House you have established, in the blood we all share, in the stubborn flame that burns in the blood of our kin. I have no doubt that Malchediael and Jophiael shall house you well, perhaps better than any of us ever could.

 

Your spirit shall live on with the Arthalionath and the Númenedain.

 

And yet, knowing this, I still weep. I did not think I would, but when the tidings reached, I felt the breath leave my chest as though a spear had finally made its mark.

Only the young boy who wished he might have sat at your side, and been told a tale or given advice. I think of the stories I had not asked, the wisdom I had not sought, the chance to hear your voice one last time.

 

And to the Númenedain, our House, and Aeradar; our line shall not fall and your memory will not fade. We shall stand, as you once stood, for the helpless and our people, until the very end.

The future will continue to burn brightly in your wake, and your legacy shall continue to be whispered in the very forests of the Godswood, carried with our people till the end of our days.

 

For Idunia

“Rest well, great-grandfather, in name and in spirit.”

“May Aeradar’s blessings continue to stay with you, even beyond our reach.”

“Lothron i Arat car Arthalionath vedui uir.”

 

Tar-Zôrzagar’s hand fell down to the blade at his side, the promise which never saw fulfilled. A deep breath escaped him as he set out to leave the halls of Minas Aranath, in pursuit of both his grandmother, Caraneth, and the call to battle was developing with the mountain and the middlemen alike. Thoughts carried with, and the blood which stained his path was not far behind. 

 

To do right by family and people was the priority now, to see peace and prosperity among the Numenedain, and it would come.

 

[Seva 624]

Spoiler

 

Seojin frowned, her lips curling downwards into a questioning solemnity as she felt the Flame of Courage flicker within her chest. Another soul had risen, carried on silvered wings to the loft of his Creator. In the morning light, her eyes slid upwards, and she thought to wonder: did the light which shone on the ivory towers look. . . softer?

 

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

 

High atop a silvery tower, a Knight stood stalwart against the cold of the night. Not a flicker passed over the helm of the plated figure, and yet a single movement slid over its being. A hand passed over the sword which sat sheathed at its side, and a silver-haired Princess seemed to flicker through its mind. "No. . . They are not ready. . ."

 

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

 

A third figure sits, amidst the dormant coldness of the far north. Though the mountain's influence was great, some small refuge was found amidst a pocket of stone which had long since fashioned into her home. Of late she felt too weak to venture far anyway. She had always wondered why her time had not come, a trick of her blood perhaps, or a testament to her life. In any case, she was not long for this world. It made her think.

 

Orelia of Barrowton, for that was the name which she held most dear, thought of Uther Pendragon, her greatest love. It had been decades since she had laid eyes on his face, a stern brow which looked down with great care upon her and her children. To many he had been a King. To some a conqueror. To some more a Father. But she had only ever seen him as one thing:

 

A Knight.

 

From dunking poor-mannered suitors into the river, to warming her home with mirth and talk, the Code of Chivalry doused the man in every waking moment. No action was thought of in absence to his charge. No greater thought made for his benefit rather than hers. She remembered the day he sank onto one knee. She remember the day he stood before her, with Toni's smile encompassing their whole.

 

And as she sits, in the cold embrace of the north she thinks at last of his hands. Calloused things, worn from battle, ever stained with some new feat or regret. She thinks of their warmth, of their firmness upon her own.

 

She thinks of their tenderness, as he cupped their babes for the very first time.

[HugoAntero 1962]

3 hours ago, Reckless Banzai Screamer said:

 

Oijin smiled being the fortunate of the reincarnations of Shady Tales' roleplay personas to reunite with Uther in the court of their patron amongst his guard. Him and Peter had another buddy in the afterlife.

 

"Hey Petah, get a load of this. An Adunian walks into a bar with an Oyashi and Waldenian...."

 

 

 

 

Peter Stroheim cheered merrily upon the sight of his father in-law, "Uther, they serve UNLIMITED beers! ONE-MILLION BEERS!" The iron-jawed Waldenic screecher said inebriatedly.

[milkyi 1985]

 

 

úliwen remembered him not through closeness, but through distance. Her great-grandfather was a man half-myth to her eyes–battle-hardened, unyielding, with thrice the amount of chivalry she had ever found in her kin. She had never thought such a figure could simply fade, let alone die.

From her earliest days–cradled, tugging at nursemaids’ hands–she would glimpse him across the shadowed halls of Minas Aranath. A presence constant and immovable, ever watching. As she grew, she learned his ire; heard him rebuke her father and brother with scorn, “ MIDDLEMEN. ” He would sneer, a word he spat as curse–dragonkin, betrayer’s brood, shadow, evil. And she, small and silent, stood by, watching.    Then came the day when wrath itself shook the hall. A splintered chair, fire kindled in his blade, the thunder of stone cracking beneath the weight of his blow. Smoke rose, and a crater scarred the floor where his fury had struck. He was near one hundred and eighty then, yet he seemed endless. From that day, she knew none of her blood–herself included–could ever match that ire, nor the expectation that burned in his shadow.   So when the news of the Lord-Fathe’s death reached her, brought by her wife, she closed the book without a word. Across Angrenost she walked, past the Godswood and ivory gate, into the fortress of Minas Aranath. There she found the place, scar still carved into the floor. The stone had been polished in vain, smoothed and scrubbed as though to erase the memory of it. The chair, too, had long been restored, sat upright as if to deny what had once been destroyed. Yet beneath the polish, the mark remained, like the wound in her heart.    Kneeling, she laid her palm upon the blackened stone, as if to draw once more the heat of that long-ago fury. It did not burn her. Though in her grief, she almost wished it would.    No tears came. Only a bow of the head, and the whisper of his oath she had long carried; “ GREAT BOUNTY I HAVE BEEN GIVEN HERE … ” Her dagger bit into the charred rock, prying loose a shard. She took it in hand–not as keepsake, but as a relic. A fragment of wrath, of memory, of a man she had thought undying.    Rising, she held it close. “ ... AND IT IS ENOUGH, ” She breathed, an oath against despair. For if one so great could fall to death, then she must stand all the firmer, and endure where others could not.

 

 

[Cally 1080]

The vastness of her world seemed hollow once Maerîl heard the tidings of Uther’s passing. Fingers brushed at her cheeks where tears threatened, though they were not shed for sorrow of his end. No, she did not weep for the pain of his final breath, but for the luminous mote of memory he left behind — a shard of ivory light, a vision of what the world once was, what the Kingdom could have been.

 

Uther Pendraic. The first man before whom she bent the knee, and the first she ever meant it. When she met him, he had been an enigma: not a king by blood nor by flattery of lineage, but by sheer force of heart. A man so steadfast, so utterly selfless, she had wondered how other rulers dared compare. He was chosen, not crowned. She chose him. 

 

Being of the first true Númenedain, Maerîl had taken her oath after Uther’s daughter Caraneth, her husband at her side, binding their fates to his. And in that binding, she had found more than duty. She had found a sovereign worth every breath of loyalty. For the man she truly believed as Tar.

 

Now, clad in mourning cloth, she and her beloved grieved as Rourkes should: not with lamentations, but with solemn pride. For Uther had not withered in some quiet bed — he had fallen in battle, sword in hand, as was his will, as was his right. She awaited the many years or perhaps just days that she would join him in the realm of their Patron. And though her heart ached, it was steadied by the knowledge that he had passed as he lived: indomitable, unyielding, unafraid.

 

CREATOR REMEMBER MY VOW.

 

 

[Fimlin 1997]

 

Azrubêl Arthalionath, daughter of Uther took the news solemnly from her study, disappointed she had not learned sooner.

 

“The path of chivalry grows only muddier. while history dregs on our Paragon of another time no longer walks among us to remind us who we are. And the conversations that founded our upsprung Kingdom now remain only as distant echoes of fireside warmth and well earned grub that we will never know again.

 

May we all strive to be worthy of what has been made, and what is yet to be made, on each day we walk our vast streets and lofty halls. Always should we remain Knights of the Realm, and of Canondom.”

 

She remarks in her journal, and prepares as a statement for the funeral.

[Marthia 273]

Revanda Russandiel Wick took the news with her, and only behind closed doors did she ponder the meaning. A chapter, one that she only experienced in part, had come to a close. So, she wondered... 

What will the books say of me? 

Edited August 23, 2025 by Marthia