The Raven Girl

Chapter 35

A half-hearted, lulling chime rang throughout the castle, one that could instantly be recognised as belonging to the long cry of the death bell. The man holding it wore a face stripped of any emotion and a heavy hood to obscure his identity, or so it seemed, but even then people knew him as the friar and the man that lurked about the graveyard, cornering those who spared a minute for the dead and compelling them, with the upmost sincerity, to isolate themselves and give themselves wholly unto the gods. He would persuade them to relinquish their sins, shame their family and warn them of the reckoning to come until they were shaken and never came back again to visit.

He did not do so to scare them, however, and appeared to genuinely care for the poor wretches, yet to any onlooker, his actions did not come across as gentle and compassionate as he thought them and he seemed a particularly sinister character.

Rickard nodded his thanks to the gentleman as he passed, leaving his brother's body in the care of the undertaker and his workers. Whilst many were afraid of the friar, he was not, for the man had once promised him that repentance could save the wicked and mistakes did not mean the end of hope. Perhaps this was not enough for Eirik- even in his last days he had not once uttered a prayer beneath his breath- but perhaps it could save Rickard yet.

During the silence that followed the bell's dreary lament, the friar smiled at him, touching his arm in sympathy.

"My dear boy," he said, "I see you have always worried for your brother's soul. You would join my services more than any other, stay behind on your knees before the altar whispering pleas to each and every god there ever was. If he suffers still, it will not be for as long."

"How so?"

"I spoke with him, you know. It seems he'd already began his lesson, already walked the first steps of understanding."

"Ha," Rickard scoffed, "understanding? He has made no such progress."

"I didn't say he'd made much," he paused, "but you have. You're a changed man, I see."

"You do a lot of seeing." said Rickard, eyes narrowed. He didn't like being scrutinised, didn't like the man's methods for it infuriated him the way he spoke too much but often said very little. Still, what he did say made sense, much to his annoyance, and offered him hope he'd never expected to receive.

"I watch things. I watch people. I see what has and can be done for them and pray that before their time has reached its end, it shall be so."

But just as Rickard had digested those words and built up an argument, as he often did, the friar started up the bell again and walked on down the corridor in silence, making for the courtyard whereon he could continue his procession to every street and every corner, spreading news of the late King's death and breaking the stillness of the night.

The bells didn't cease their holler until the early morning, by which time they'd more or less travelled the breadth of the capital, as was tradition, whence the news could then spread to the lesser cities and it did so with alarming pace. Some were happy, some were saddened and some, upon hearing the news, told the bearer of it, with the usage of particularly colourful pieces of language, to let them sleep another hour and bother somebody who cared. It didn't matter, for when the time came for the people to arise, they did so in silence, be it mournful or bitter.

As for Asta, she did not know what to do. With morning came a dilemma: was she expected to continue as usual, rising earlier than everybody else to light the fires, or was she expected to do nothing at all, awaiting instructions of some shape or form? She doubted even Rickard knew what to do, for it had all ended so abruptly as, she supposed, most deaths always had. It was hard enough, dealing with the death of a person, without that person being a monarch- it left behind a chaos that was hard to put right, running rampant from border to border.