Serenity's Light (A Suggestion Box Story)

Part 8: "The Cursed Crown"

The List:
-Jens Hjordisson
-Mabon (Autumn Equinox Festival)
-Southern Norway
-a 100-year-old bottle of lingonberry mead

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Well met, Seeker! You have discovered the secret to eternal life.
Touch the crown and escape death, till the Sword of Strength be lifted against you.

On a dimly-lit road just outside Oslo, a young man in a heavy woolen cloak lolled back and forth, teetering in a loose zig-zag path down the wide road. Behind him, the sounds of Mabon celebrations still rang into the night. The party had lasted for nearly a fortnight already, and still the bonfires blazed as people danced, sang, drank, and feasted. Jens pulled the edges of his heavy woolen cloak close against the brisk autumn wind. The cloud of alcohol weighed on his senses like a load of bricks, but it also prevented him from caring very much. He kept walking as long as he remained upright, without paying attention to where the buildings stopped and the woods began.

When he did finally huff enough of the fog out of himself to regain at least some semblance of sanity, Jens looked around. The trees completely surrounded him, as far as his keen grey eyes could see. Nothing but sleepy trunks and bare branches, the year's foliage carpeting the ground. The ever-bearing trees and the thick, rolling clouds obscured any of the sky's guiding lights. Jens had little option but to pick an arbitrary direction and hope it would lead him back into town, or at least the coast.

He stumbled onward, his stomach—cleared of the alcohol—now alerting his body to the number of hours since his last meal of hearty stew and a crusty loaf. He could practically feel the hollow organ folding in on itself within him. His roving gained a purpose, and a desperation. He needed food, or he would very likely expire. Ale was a cruel mistress sometimes: with plenty at hand, it was a comforting friend, an easy and satisfying companion; but once it had left completely, there was nothing but increased suffering to be had.

The toe of Jens' boot caught on a tree root and he tumbled forward, his face striking a wall of stone. He looked up at the thing he fell against: a wide, low rectangle, like a large stone coffin, standing alone, half-buried in the ground. The lid had cracked with age, and Jens could see the wood splinters of an old coffin within it. He frowned. Who would want to be buried in such an obscure grave in such an isolated location? The only inscription on the stone face was a number: 1547. A year, perhaps? But that would be nearly a century ago. What had happened here to prompt all of humanity to leave it behind for one hundred years?

Something glittered in the coffin. Jens reached in with deft fingers and pulled it out. A weathered velvet bag with a golden cord dangled from his fingers. He quickly upended the contents onto the corner of the stone slab: an ancient-looking crown, a small flask, and a roll of dingy parchment.

Jens uncorked the flask. The heady scent of lingonberries sprang out at him, as if the smell had done nothing but fester inside the bottle, building up to be released. Cautiously, he took a sip. The deep, rich honey flavor of mead caressed his tongue. He could already feel the strength of its one hundred years behind it. He closed the flask and set it aside to attend to the note.

It looked to be one message, first given in a Pictish language, and then in English. Speaking neither language, Jens passed over these two, instead honing in on the message hastily scribbled in his own tongue: "Der kronen er forbannest."

The crown is cursed.

Jens pulled back as he stared at the unassuming circlet. Cursed? How? Why? What manner of curse was it? Who had thought to warn the next person to discover the crown, and how long had it been there?