Whitney Writes…

The next day, the bells throughout the city were chiming continuously, marking the death of a sovereign. Ralof stared out the window, watching the streets below. For Rahim’s day of mourning, the people had lined the streets, dressed in black. He and Fadiya had witnessed many a small folk crying for their murdered king.

The streets, now, stood largely empty. They were draped in black crepe, the same as they had been for the old king. Flowers adorned every streetlamp post. Tables laden with free foodstuff were on every corner. And yet, none had come. This had been Fadiya’s fear: to be forgotten, unconcerned about.

In this one, singular moment, Ralof was glad his wife was dead.

“Ahem,” a voice cleared itself from behind Ralof, announcing their presence so as not to startle him. “Erm, your highness,” came the meek voice, “the moot is gathering to crown the next ruler.” When he did not move, they added: “You… you are required, sire?”

Ralof sighed, following the servant to the council room where the other members had already gathered. There were parchments strewn all across the great war table. He caught the sight of all eight of his children’s names. Even though most of them were not fit to be a ruler, it pleased him to see them all included fairly. He was not surprised to see Fadiya’s two younger brothers, Prince Galiel and Prince Taranal, also in the mix. He was surprised at seeing the five children King Rahim had had with the commoner Khajiit, Murdan, following the queen’s death included. Ralof’s vision turned to red and his blood began to boil when he spotted a few sheets with ‘Stormcloak’ listed as the surname.

He snatched them up, riffling through the others for more, and held them aloft. “What the bloody hell are these?!” he spat. He glared at the members of his wife’s former council. “Tangarion Stormcloak?” He threw the parchment down. “Lorin Stormcloak?” He glowered across the table at Ulfric. They were friends, but he would not abide a friend attempting to supplant his children. Ralof’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Jorunn Stormcloak?? Are you bloody mad?!” Ralof roared. “An infant as king?! And a bastard?!?!” He scoffed incredulously, tossing down the parchment. This his brow furrowed in fury and he crumpled the remaining sheets in his hand. “You would mean to offer up your bastards with the old queen as potential rulers over my wife and I’s children?”

“Now, Ralof,” Murdan was saying calmly, his hand resting on his shoulder.

Ralof shrugged him off, irritably. “Don’t you ‘Now, Ralof’ me,” he growled, “I noticed your own children on this list.

“We have to consider all possibilities,” Murdan continued, not rising to Ralof’s bait. “These are uncharted waters, nearly all of the potential heirs are minors. And most of them are unfit to reign.”

“Speak for your lot,” Ralof hissed, bristling at the implication. It didn’t matter that he had thought the very thing not long before, it was entirely different to hear someone else say it.

The next morning, after the council had been up arguing most of the night, one of Ralof’s children sat upon the throne. He stood to the right-hand-side of his son, looking down at the seven-year-old boy’s golden head. It struck him how small the boy looked, sitting there, his crown constantly tipping to sit lop-sided upon his golden curls. Once everyone had sworn their fealty to their new king, Ralof stepped forward, raising his arms. “Long live the king!” he cried.

“Long live King Rolund the First!!” the gathering of people called back to him.

Inktober 2024, Prompt #20: UNCHARTED🧡🖤👻🎃