King Te'korei the fifteenth, more commonly known as just King, stopped, grabbed his chest, then coughed violently, disturbing the subtle balance between calm and chaos within the forest around him. The fog at his feet hissed and withdrew from the space around him, the harrow vines draping from the branches slithered and wriggled as high into the trees as they could. And most noticeably, the wildlife that was hidden moments before was now running, prancing, and scurrying away. He looked at the nearby strangler oak, wishing to lean against it to rest his tired body. Most may look at the twisted, contorted figure and deem it too hideous to touch, but King was desperate for relief. The dark demise had been slowly diminishing his stamina each day since contracting the terrible disease a month prior. (Yes, I think I'll have myself a rest.) He sat down on the ugly tangled roots and looked around at the awful transformations his ancestors had made to this portion of The Emerald Wood. The alchemy-produced transformation that earned the forest its ominous reputation, gave it its dour appearance in these parts that is, and got his ancestors slaughtered by the Purists.
"Was it worth it?" he asked his ancestors. There was no response.
His ancestors had once lived in these parts. In a small village called Kryte. And in the unmistakable eyes of hindsight, the Krytens should have never made themselves known to the world. But instead, the first King, Athmaran Te'korei, unveiled to the Thandlecor Empire what he and his people believed to be a blessing. A blessing every bit as incredible as pure magic; the mysterious and majestic science of alchemy.
"And for what?" This time he was speaking directly to his grandfather, the one with so many greats in his title that King refused to state them all. "You were a Purist." As was his son, and his son, and so on. As was this iteration of King. A Prosperist to be exact. Purists that lived with blessings in their pockets, up their sleeves, in their souls. "To let your people experience magic." (As if they could ever understand what it was like to live with greatness in your soul.) "Fool. You should have known the other Purists would come for you. The Book of the Creator states it for all to see." He recited the infamous line from the book out loud. "For there is one source of greatness to be bestowed upon mortals." He scoffed angrily. "One source dammit! But no. You insisted alchemy was a good thing. Wrong. It did not bring greatness to the mediocre. All it brought was an army that overwhelmed your little tricks and traps until everyone you loved was slaughtered." He shook his head.
Another fit of coughs overwhelmed him. This time there were no animals around to startle. He was alone. Like he so often was. Spittle flew through the air and disappeared into the fog just before it fled from the area around him. He didn't bother wiping the saliva from his mouth. (Why would I? It'll be back soon enough.) It was a crushing weight; living with an incurable disease. It had all but broken his will. Never before had he cared that his grandfather had been the only Kryten to survive the slaughter in his small village some two centuries ago. But now. Now, he faced the real threat that his bloodline would die with him. (I wonder if any of my grandfathers had to face such a horrible fate? Were any of them challenged to reproduce before dying a terrible death?)
The task may not be so miserable if King had his choice of any woman in the empire. But he didn't. Far from it. King was bound tight to the ways of his forefathers. No. He could not just pick a fine-looking lass in any small town or big city. He had to find a woman from the majestic village of Steppe, hidden deep in the forgotten valleys. Because the only thing worse than being the man who let his bloodline die, was to be the man to have a child that was not blessed with pure magic. Deep down, he believed, maybe even knew, the tradition was hogwash, a cockamamie notion forged by his uneducated forefathers after a string of coincidences. But, he was also unwilling to break tradition. Just in case The Creator was one to make fools of men who dare think for themselves.
(All will be fine. Steppe rests quietly just over that hill.) The hill felt more like a mountain in his lungs. (They will welcome my return. I'll have your lover. I'll continue the tradition.)
He felt a cough tickle his throat. Prepared himself. When it was over he his eyes were barely open. His breathing was heavy and labored. His chest felt tight. He swallowed hard and pulled his brown wool glove from his hand, the brisk wind bit at his skin instantly. He curled his fingers in pain. The realization that more symptoms were coming planted a seed of dread in him that blossomed immediately. (No. No. No. Not yet.) He dug his hand into the deep pocket on the side of his wool cloak. A bevy of odds and ends shuffled around as his hand plunged through them. (Wrong pocket.)
"Dammit." His voice was raspy. He rubbed his throat. (Not my voice. Not yet.) Besides his skin becoming hypersensitive, especially to cold, he would eventually begin to cough up blood, become too tired to walk, and lose any and all strength in his voice.
He took the time to slide his glove back onto his hand and take the other off, coughing all the while. This time his chilled fingers were met by the feeling of glass. He pulled one of the several test tubes from his pocket, wincing in pain as the wind swept across his skin. The medicine in the tube had once looked blue in the sunlight but it was now a dark purple, masked by the shadows in the forest. (Rubora better have been right about this damn medicine.) The cork stopper made a popping sound as he pulled it out of the tube. The medicine tasted like a terrible mixture of bitter ale and crushed leaves that had been covered in dirt. He made a hideous face as he dropped the tube and stopper back into his pocket and pulled his glove back on his freezing hand.
He stood. Wavered for a moment. Braced himself against the strangler oak. Then, just as he was about to begin his trek up the mountainous hill, there was a crunching sound above him. To the left. His eyes shot to the sound just as a large mass of vines lowered from the trees above. Whether it was one long vine or several intertwined, he could not tell, but as the mass spun round and round a body fell to the ground, hitting with a thump. The fog hissed and scattered into hiding places between the surrounding trees. On the forest floor, no more than a dozen steps away, was a corpse. It looked to be a man, his body crushed, his skin purple and stretched tight over his bones. Less frightening than the corpse itself was what the man was wearing; a light green gambeson covered in dry dirt and slime from the harrow vines. Panic set in immediately. (What are Lotus doing in this part of the forest?) He knew the answer though. (The Marsallas. They've come for them. But how did they find Steppe? Did they find Steppe? I must hurry.) Before he could take off another fit of coughs overwhelmed him. He bent at the waist, covering his mouth with one hand, again grasping the tree for balance with the other. When he finally thwarted the coughs he placed both hands on his knees until he could stand upright. (Maybe it is best if I just let the forest take you back to The Creator. Let the bloodline die.) He shook his head. (No. I mustn't.)
He pulled his hood further down on his head and moved as quickly as his weak lungs would allow him.
An hour later he saw the first glimmers of sunlight creeping through the trees ahead. (Blessed am I.) The thought had never been less convincing. Another fit of coughs struck him before he was able to make his way to the treeline. Rather than endure the pain of wind on his skin he decided to use his magic to combat the cough. Those who did not understand his magic, typically commoners, called it good luck, but it was far different than mere luck. King's magic could literally manipulate the threads of fate. He could avoid narrow deaths, repeatedly win games of chance, find things thought to be lost with little to no effort, and countless other things he had come up with over the years. Using even a small portion of his finite amount to temporarily rid himself of a bothersome cough had been a difficult decision when he first came down with the illness, but now there was no hesitation at all. He closed his eyes and opened his soul to the world, just a bit though, just enough to let drops of his pure magic seep from his soul and into his veins. A pleasant warmth started in his chest then flooded into his limbs, down his legs and arms, into his fingertips, and most importantly up his neck. As the magic flowed through him it soothed his throat and suppressed his cough. (If only there wasn't a limit on my magic.) He let out a sigh of relief but quickly opened his eyes when the sounds of the harrow vines startled him back to reality. (Onward then.)
There was no joy as he stepped out of the trees and onto the cliffside that overlooked the K'Ruys Valley. Any excitement he should have felt was wisped away by the shock and dread that all but paralyzed him. There was no smoke billowing from the chimneys, no one doing chores outside. Just banging doors flapping in the wind and corpses that littered the luscious green fields around the small village. (The bloodline ends with me then.)