Ethan woke with a start, his head throbbing as memories flooded his mind. He saw Ieuan's life flash before him—the boy's death. In the next moment, Ethan understood. The men were dead around him, and it had been 516 years since he'd last been conscious. The hibernation... His heart pounded as he grasped his mouth, realization dawning on him.
"A Time Distortion?" he whispered. "What the hell happened?" He shook his head, the weight of the revelation crashing over him. Time traveling caused a temporal anomaly. An unforeseen rift." His breath came in ragged gasps. And that dream... I saw them die over and over.
He clenched his fists, the memories of his wife and children's deaths burning in his mind. The explosion, his negligence, the endless cycle of guilt—it had all been a loop. He looked up at the moon, its cold light reflecting in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he questioned the nature of reality. Was there really a god that tampered with my reality? He muttered. But then he shook his head, a bitter smile curling his lips. "The nature of reality has nothing to do with any creator. Life is random. Some suffer while others do not. There's no explanation."
Ethan exhaled, grounding himself in the present. He willed his body to calm, feeling the power of the nanobots coursing through him. Ieuan's body was the perfect host, and the reconstruction had been a success. His senses sharpened—he could smell the night air, the faint scent of blood lingering in the breeze. His eyesight enhanced, like binoculars zooming in on distant figures to eastward. His vision adapted, the world shifting to shades of night vision. Far off, he spotted movement.
"They're probably looking for Ieuan," he mused, eyes narrowing. He turned his attention to the fallen horses. Among the carnage, he heard it—a faint heartbeat. He moved quickly, finding Ieuan's white horse, its breath shallow, body riddled with arrows. Ethan placed a hand on the horse, his touch calming it. "You're alive," he whispered, deploying the nanobots to repair the horse's wounds. Slowly, the damaged tissue knitted back together, the horse's breathing steadying.
Ethan stroked the horse's mane, whispering soothing words. "You're okay now." The horse, though wary, allowed him to mount. As he settled into the saddle, Ethan felt a surge of exhilaration. He gripped the reins, guiding the horse forward. "Hiya!" he urged, the wind whipping through his hair as the horse galloped towards Harlech Castle.
He laughed, the sound echoing in the night. For the first time in years, he felt alive, young. A thought flickered in his mind, a promise forming. "I'll help you, Glyndŵr," he murmured to the wind. "In exchange for your son's life, I'll give you Cymru. England... they will all bow at your feet."
---
Pontefract Castle
The feast of St. George was abuzz with murmurs as King Henry IV, entered, his presence commanding immediate attention. The weight of his years and burdens etched into every line of his face. His once robust frame had withered, his skin pale and sallow, stretched thin over prominent cheekbones. Dark circles shadowed his sunken eyes, which had lost much of their former fire, now dimmed by persistent illness. His once-strong jawline sagged slightly, framed by a thinning beard streaked with silver. His lips, often pressed into a thin line, betrayed the pain that coursed through his frail body.
Despite his weakened state, there remained a flicker of determination in his gaze—a stubborn refusal to be undone by the ailments that gnawed at him.
The gathered nobles and officials, dressed in their finest, rose as one to greet the king, their voices a chorus of "Your Majesty." The king waved off the assistance of his servants as he moved slowly towards his seat, his struggle evident but his pride unyielding.
"Sit," Henry IV commanded, his voice gravelly. The nobles obeyed, their eyes fixed on the king, who settled into his chair with a pained breath, his hands gripping the armrests. His once robust frame had thinned, and his face, lined with the weight of years and burdens, showed signs of weariness.
Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland, leaned forward slightly, his keen eyes studying the king with a mixture of concern and respect. "Your Majesty," Neville began, his voice calm and steady, "we have received news from the north. The situation remains stable, but the Welsh rebels—"
"Ah yes, the Welsh," Henry IV interrupted, his tone sharp. "What of Aberystwyth Castle? Has it fallen?"
William Gascoigne, Chief Justice of England, stood. His demeanor was composed, his words measured. "The castle has been taken, Your Majesty. The rebellion has suffered a significant blow."
The king nodded, a faint glimmer of satisfaction crossing his face. "Mmh good. Tell my son to return. He is needed here."
A cough seized the king, cutting him off mid-sentence. The room fell into a tense silence as the king struggled to regain his composure. The cough echoed through the hall, each noble exchanging concerned glances, but none daring to speak.
Henry IV regained his voice, low and deliberate. "We must ensure that neither the French nor the Scots send aid to Glyndŵr. His rebellion festers like a wound, and we cannot allow it to be nourished by foreign hands."
Gascoigne stepped forward, "Shall I draft letters to the courts of France and Scotland, Your Majesty?"
"Yes," the king affirmed. "And make it clear that we are prepared to defend our sovereignty. We will not be bullied by those who see an opportunity in our internal strife." In the next moment the King retired to his chambers seeking rest and left.
As the king was led away, the remaining figures in the hall resumed their seats, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken thoughts. Thomas FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel, was the first to break the silence, "The king is right. We must summon the prince. He is the heir, and his presence will strengthen our position."
Edmund Stafford, Earl of Stafford, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His face bore a contemplative expression. "Summoning the prince may be wise, but we must consider his temperament. He has been... restless. Would his return truly bring unity, or might it sow further discord?"
Ralph Neville nodded thoughtfully. "The prince has shown promise on the battlefield, but his impetuous nature could be a liability in the court. We must tread carefully."
"His impetuousness is precisely why he must be here," William Gascoigne interjected, his tone firm. "He needs to learn the weight of the crown. Better for him to understand the responsibilities now, under the king's guidance, than to inherit them unprepared."
Thomas FitzAlan crossed his arms, a skeptical brow raised. "And if his presence here disrupts the delicate balance we've managed to maintain? The barons are watching closely, and any sign of weakness could embolden them."
"Weakness lies in indecision," Gascoigne countered. "The prince must be molded into a ruler fit to lead. He must witness the inner workings of governance, not just the glory of war."
The room fell into a contemplative silence once more, each man weighing the implications of the prince's return. Finally, Ralph Neville spoke, his voice carrying a note of resolution. "The prince's presence could be both a risk and a necessity. We must ensure he is guided, not just by the king, but by those of us who have pledged our loyalty to the crown. Together, we will shape him into the leader England needs."
The nobles nodded in agreement, though the unease lingered. The future of the realm rested not only on the shoulders of the ailing king but also on the young prince who was yet to prove himself.