[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