Prophecy Of Kings: Volume 1 ✔️

Chapter 6 - A Close Call

The morning after the incident at the library...

Firmin woke with an excruciating pain in his shoulder. As he opened his eyes, his pupils rapidly alternated between contracting and relaxing as they adjusted to the sharp light coming in through the window. A blurry figure came into focus sitting beside the bed... it was Barabel.

"Sir Knight," she said, startled from his sudden awakening. "I feared the worst fan we heard the uproar in the library."

"What happened?" he asked still in a daze. "The last thing I remember was..." He grasped his shoulder as he recalled the bear sinking its dagger-like teeth into him.

"The King? What of the King?" he shouted finally coming to his senses.

"Dinna worry he didnae have a fleck on him." Barabel put her hands to her face, covering up her mouth, "But when we saw you getting carried out covered in blood... we thought you were dead!"

Firmin spied that his armour and its accompanying garments were strewn over the floor in the corner of the room, saturated in red. He glanced under the covers and noticed he was completely unclothed.

Noticing his embarrassment, she reached out to him, "Apologies Sir, we had nae time to waste, I had to close your wounds before you bled to death."

"Please, call me Firmin," he said softly. "And thank you... it seems my life is indebted to you."

A rosy tone started to climb Barabel's face like water rising in a pot as it comes to a boil. She sat up from the small wooden stool she was perched on and moved over to inspect the Knight. Carefully peeling back the cotton sheet covering him, she took a closer look at the wound on his shoulder. Her eyes were drawn downwards to the claw marks embedded in his chest; it had a pink-whiteish hue, which suggested it had been there for quite some time.

"As you can see, this is not my first brush with death my lady." The pair chuckled together as Barabel softly placed her hand on Firmin's muscular chest. It was so natural that he hadn't noticed her hand lingering there. Her touch was so warm, so comforting. For a moment, time seemed to stop as they met each other's gaze. Firmin's eyes glistened in the morning light; for the first time in years a semblance of his soul peered back into Barabel's lustrous sapphire eyes.

Their moment of comfort was short-lived as the brunette from earlier burst into the room, "Barabel... the child." Her puffy eyes and wet cheeks gave away the news before she had announced it. "Baby Mairi has passed on to the other world..." The woman's words trailed off, unable to come to terms with what had just happened. Barabel welled with emotion and burst out of the room.

Such is the way of war. It does not pardon the young or the innocent. It has no partiality for man, beast, or child. It takes, consumes, destroys. It feeds on fear, pride and greed, all things which the hearts of men are susceptible to. There are no true winners, only those who have lost less.

Barabel hurried into the baby's chamber. Numerous women had gathered around the cot, weeping over its corpse. She barged through the onlookers, staring at Mairi, who now looked pale and waxy white. All signs of life had escaped the child as she lay motionless in the cot. "She is at peace now," whispered Barabel, choking on her tears.

"We must arrange a proper burial," said one of the ladies in the small crowd.

"I heard that Lord Stephenson will be arriving at the castle any time now," said another.

*****

Firmin watched the gathering on the hill from his window. A small hole was dug beneath the great Noble Fir that stood proudly in the middle and the baby (wrapped in swaddling cloth) was placed into it.