The Evolution of Consciousness

Chapter Two: Geoffrey

         Geoffrey Denother repositioned his spear at his side relieving the sore muscles he’d been using all week. It was quiet, so quiet that Geoffrey had to hold his breath to keep from disturbing it. Yet all the other men seemed so relaxed to Geoffrey. Why did I have to come? Why does father always insist that I come?


         They sat in a natural clearing of the sparse north woods. In the center grew a sapling, laden with snow, and bent over from its burdens. Geoffrey looked at it with disdain; it was the most interesting thing he had seen in days- no sign of this gods damned tundra boar.


         To his right he could see that his brother Raydar, inflicted with severe anticipation, and to his left his father sat-mounted on a beautiful Illyerian Stalio- with the all the patience and wisdom of the world. Or so it seemed to Geoffrey, and strangely he found himself disappointed even though he thought it appropriate. Had it been thirteen years ago- when Geoffrey was only a young boy, and their mother was alive- he would have seen the fire of a true warrior in his eyes. But now he saw a tamed man, and he knew that his people despised his father for it.


No man in the company made any sound, it seemed, all held there breathe and listened. He strained his ears to hear a bark or squeal that would signify the end of this torture but all he could hear was rustle of trees in the wind.


Geoffrey was starting to get very frustrated, he was sore from riding in the cold, tired, and wished only to be back among his books, and work. He was almost finished with the histories of his people, something that had taken him years to compile and gained him much disfavor with the common folk. For every minute spent writing was another that he didn’t spend training- and Geoffrey spent a lot of time writing.


         He looked back at his father. As a prince of Winterheart it is your duty to hunt with us on the solstice. He had said, and so Geoffrey was here.


         “I don’t-“He started to complain to his older brother.


         “Sh!” Ordered the king raising his left hand to silence Geoffrey. No one moved, and Geoffrey thought he could just hear something a distance off to the right. Please, gods. Geoffrey pleaded.          


         “Move out!” The king bellowed, pointing his spear in the opposite direction of where Geoffrey had thought he heard the sound. Geoffrey followed, muttering, thinking that maybe his father was wrong this time, and then they’d see he wasn’t a total idiot. Geoffrey was wrong.





         A couple minutes later the hunting party circled in on a clearing, inside two hounds took turns snapping at a Giant Tundra Boar with its white coat and strong pointed tusks that reminded Geoffrey of the walrus’ in Northern Winterheart.


         Two kings guard in saberlion cloaks rode forward and placed two hindering blows on the beast. It screeched into a mad fury, spinning in a frightened frenzy to keep off all of its attackers. The King’s Guard stepped back and king rode forward.


         The tundra boar braced itself seeing the man’s challenge, muscles tense and blindly focused. The king kicked his horse into a sprint launching forward to meet the boar before anyone else, as was his right. Everyone watched and Geoffrey with his last meal on the line as every step brought the combatants closer.


         Just before meeting the boar a thunderous clash split the air. Geoffrey blinked in surprise, on top of his father with its fangs safely buried in his neck sat a Saberlion- men burst into action. Some ran forward to face the Saberlion with challenges while the one’s closest to the beast tried to flee.          


         The Saberlion clawed at a man running past, tearing the leather around his leg, cutting into the soft calf flesh. The man went down in a ball of arms and legs and in an instant the saberlion was on him, and his throat was gone.


         Geoffrey watched it all in silent horror, his throat was dry and his eyes wide. Someone grabbed his arm and started to pull, Geoffrey looked up to see Jarland yelling something at him “- yer’ skinny arse or ill..” Geoffery drowned him out and took off with him at his side. The soldiers apparently having gathered their wits were regrouping at the edge of the clearing. Geoffrey looked back to see his brother approach the huge saberlion.


         “Raydar.” Geoffrey gasped, turning in Jarland’s grip to get to his brother.


         “Oh! no yea don’t.” Grunted Jarland, giving Geoffrey’s arm a jerk bringing the him back to him, Geoffrey saw him raise his hand, then the blackness swallowed him…





         Lord Denothor had been dead seconds after he hit the ground, his throat all but gone. Geoffrey thought now about the look in his father’s eye that day, the pain of loss he felt for something he’d never had.


         Raydar walked down the aisle formed by his subjects, his lordly blued cape washed over the snow with each step as he ascended the steps of the Lords’ Hall to the throne room. Geoffrey followed close behind, baring himself up with all the dignity and strength- as expected of a brother of a lord, and heir to the province- he could muster. He remembered scenes from his father’s coronation when Geoffrey’s grandfather had died.


         Except his father had been older then than his brother was now, and for the first time Geoffrey understood what it all meant. And he felt now like the sapling he’d seen on that horrid day- surround by those of his kind, yet alone. And finally they crested the top of the stairs the priest at the end of the carpet near the throne loudly began his speech.


         “In the eyes of the gods, whom have bestowed this holy power on me, I of The First Order and anointed high priest of Winterheart hereby name Raydar Denethor, son of Lord Wulfgar Denethor, Lord of the province of Winterheart! And with it the lands, income, and responsibilities the title entails…” The hig priest carried on with the rites until finally they reached the steps of the throne and Geoffrey and Jarland stopped- Raydar continued up the steps with stiff formality. 


         As Raydar reached the top step he knelt before the throne, and the High Priest gingerly took his father’s crown off a saberlion  fur pillow and bestowed it upon his brother’s head,it slumped a little to his brow but to those in the crowd it would go unnoticed. “Rise now, as Lord of Winterheart, and may your grandsons and their sons and so forth inherit the throne till the end of time!” Raydar stood and turned toward the crowd that had closed in behind Casey and Jarland. Thunderous clapping and cheering resounded within the throne hall. Raydar let a smile stretch across his lips before it disappeared and he raised his hand to quiet the people.


         “Long have I known that I would inherit my fathers title.” Another thunderous approval from the crowd. “However, I never thought it would happen this way. Winterheart lost one of her greatest lords a week ago, and I only hope that I may maintain what my father has worked so hard toward since his succession.”          


         “I hereby take the oath of Kings, as my father did and his father before him: I, Raydar Denethor, Fist son of Lord Wulfgar Denethor, and Lord of Winterheart promise to treat fealty with love, hard work with reward, and disloyalty with death in the sights of gods and men alike.” The crowd broke out into another cheer. And with that done, Geoffrey took a moment to consider that he was now the heir of to the throne should anything happen to his brother, and he was determined that nothing would.


         


         After Lord Raydar’s speech the serving girls brought out food for those who were invited to the feast. The first meal was dish made of roasted hare served with onions and potatoes; and in the center of the tables – between every other man- sat baskets of fresh baked bread and pitchers of thick honey.


Of the attendants most were important families, with influence and money, Geoffrey sat at his brother’s right in a grove carved in the steps of the throne room for this purpose, and tried desperately to avoid contact. Many people tried to wish him well but when they saw his unresponsive attitude they quickly gave up.


      Casey didn’t speak to anyone, just watched as his brother confirmed connections with important men. Casey didn’t know how he did it, from the look of Raydar Casey would never guess that he’s just lost his father. He smiled, and greeted the men warmly. Laughing, joking, and drinking along with them till at last Casey couldn’t stand it.


    “Do I have your permission to return to my quarters?” Casey asked Raydar when his newest acquaintance was pulled into another conversation.


    “Are you not well?” Raydar asked his brow furrowing.


    “I am… tired. It’s the wine, I don’t drink often as most men. I should retire now before I wake next to Gertrude.” Casey joked, referring to the childhood nurse who Casey and Raydar had hated. His brother laughed a hearty laugh, Casey followed suit but couldn’t help but notice that the act was wearisome.


    “Yes, well little brother, we wouldn’t want that. And as my first advisor now I want you to keep a clear head as often as possible.” And with that Casey forced a smile before exiting out of the throne room from a door in the back behind the throne used by the king and his family.


    The hall leading away from the throne room was narrow with a checkered tile pattern on the floor. It was lit by braziers that burned at intervals and displayed old sculptures of men, the wardens. The wardens ruled the north in the days before the continent was unified under the Calmrien Government. They were warriors, great tacticians of old who were married to the high priestess, the spiritual leader of the old religion.


    As he continued down the hallway the wardens became more recent, and Geoffrey noticed now something that he hadnt known nioticed before. The newer wardens had progressively darker expressions, even in the lines of the stone the toll of stress was apparent until the Geoffrey arrived at the last sculpture- his grandfather.


    Geoffrey stopped to regard his grandfather’s depiction. He wasn’t a large man, not by northern standards anyway. And he had lost all but the hair clinging to his temples, deep worry lines creased his brow, and Geoffrey thought that the look was one of pain almost. Geoffrey didn’t remember much of his grandfather, but he wasn’t sure if that was such a bad thing.


    Geoffrey continued down the hallway taking a right at the fork instead of a left that would take him to his chambers. Geoffrey ended up in his father’s chambers, it hadn’t yet been cleared out for Raydar as they were still in the Month of Mourning, and all possessions were to be respected.


Geoffrey walked around inspecting the room for something in particular. He had only seen it on a few occasion and even then only briefly. It was a small blue book his father owned, although he’d never seen what was inside of it Geoffrey felt an urge to discover what it was that his father would disappear to read so often.


Geoffrey found it in a plain lock box whose key was on a small table next to the bed. The book was sturdy, covered in a course material meant to weather any conditions- and to his surpise it was half empty. It was his journal. Geoffrey suddenly felt flushed, he didn’t know what to do. But he knew what he wanted to do, and considering the circumstance he decided to go with it. Geoffrey opened to the latest entry and read.


    I have had another dream, they are becoming increasingly more disturbing. In this dream a great and deadly plague had ravished the continent. And the southern lords hoarded all their grain, and water, and preserved foods, then one day they sealed themselves up in their Castles and with their closest friends had a ball, and waited for the disease to die out.


    However there was one guest in attendance that was not invited. From his stature he appeared a young man, fit, with dark hair, dressed in all white clothes with red undersides. The king assuming him to be one of his friends in costume paid him no mind, till later that night one of the nobles heaved over and died in a coughing fit, and before long all the lords were dead except the king and the young man.


    When the young man approached the king on his throne, the king asked who he was. The boy lifted his mask but I couldn’t see a face, it was blurry and when he spoke it was mumbled- I couldn’t make sense of it. But the king apparently understood, for a look of great fear crossed his face. Then the young man reached out with his right hand and thrust it into the kings chest as if it’s surface was water, seized his heat and crushed it till the king coughed one last spout of blood and died.


I don’t know what exactly it means, but in concordance with the others its apparent what the gods are trying to tell me. The advisory is marshalling his troops, soon it will begin. I only hope that I survive long enough to share this information with  my sons in confidence, if not I hope someone finds the warning in my words. Before it’s too late.