Making of a King

Scouting Mission

Making of a King

By ~ Reagana

Alaric, the king's only son, crouched in the darkness, watching as his father stood upon the edge of the cliff. Such a proud bearing, the king exuded. He was an honorable man, a great warrior, loved and revered by his people. His father trained him up to be such once he reached an age. Were he needed to step up and fill the role of king, should unsuspecting tragedy require, he must have these same qualities.

The early morning mist clung to him, wetting his hair; dripping from his chin. He and his father were the only ones awake at this hour. Any sane person would still be clinging tightly to their blankets, fearful of every creak and snap they heard, what with the stories of the demons that come out to ravage before dawn. Of course the king feared nothing and no one. Yet, even his admonitions that nothing more dangerous than a man's own imagination lurked within the darkness, failed to muster courage in the bravest of men. Too many bloody and unexplained deaths occur within what many proclaim the Demon's Hours.

Alaric soon discovered the reason for his father's presence upon the cliff. Standing there, the mist swirling around him, shrouding his presence, he could hear in the distance across the bay, the sounds of ships plying the waves. Alaric knew that this meant war. In only moments, his father would turn to give the call to arms. He would not stand by and watch his people slaughtered. He would turn and see his son standing there, and wonder at his presence.

Alaric crouched, ready to flee, should his father make a sudden movement. As he hid, he listened in alarm, as the sound of the enemies ships drew ever closer. He could now make out the sounds of voices calling out to one another, though the distance and the mist distorted the words. The sound of the oars treading water caused his hands to flex; to reach for his axe that he left behind by his sleeping pallet. His whole body began to itch, to tingle, to vibrate with building energy. He wanted nothing more than to rip their enemies apart with his bare hands, if need be. The king taught him that one must never hesitate, when the moment to act arrived. To do so would allow the enemy a foothold where they should find none.

Alaric had been on many scouting missions with his father and even a few small raids. Though he was kept well away from the fighting, he was allowed to partake of the spoils of war. His father believed that he must be exposed to death and destruction, well before he was of an age. Now, at seventeen summers, he would finally experience the full effects of his first battle.

Yet, his father, the pride of his people, regal in his bearing, simply stood upon the cliff, allowing disaster to draw nigh. Realizing that his father was going to do nothing until it was too late, until all was lost, Alaric slowly stood up. He had never felt as much revulsion for his father, the king that everyone loved dearly, until this very moment. He took one measured step back, then two.

With all of his pent up energy, his fear and disgust, he put his arms out before him and ran full speed toward his father.

One powerful shove sent him toppling from the cliff face, never knowing what happened to him. Alaric stood where his father had only moments before, breathing hard. He looked down at the bloodied and broken body below, before turning back to the village to fetch his axe and call his men to war.