Gareth himself was numb with anticipation. As he watched the room continue to swell, more and more people packed inside, he started to wonder whether his father’s advisors has been right, whether indeed it had been a bad idea to hold the hoisting in the Grand Hall and to open it to the public. They had urged him to attempt it in the small, private Sword Chamber; they had reasoned that if he failed, few would witness it. But Gareth did not trust his father’s people; he felt more confident in his destiny than his father’s old guard, and he wanted the entire kingdom to witness his accomplishment, to witness that he was the Chosen One, as it happened. He had wanted the moment recorded in time. The moment his destiny had arrived.
Gareth had entered the room with a flair, had strutted through accompanied by his advisors, wearing his crown and mantle, wielding his scepter – he wanted them all to know that he, not his father, was the true King, the true MacGil. As he had expected, it had not taken him as long to feel that this was his castle, these his subjects. He wanted his people to feel it now, this show of power to be widely seen. After today, they would know for certain he was their one and only true king.
But now that Gareth sat there, alone on the throne, looking out at the vacant iron prongs in the center of the room in which the sword would be placed, lit up by a shaft of sunlight pouring down through the ceiling, he was not so sure. The gravity of what he was about to do weighed down on him; it would be an irreversible step, and there was no turning back. What if, indeed, he failed? He tried to push it from his mind.
The huge door opened with a creak on the far side of the room, and with an excited hush, the room fell silent in anticipation. In marched a dozen of the court’s strongest hands, holding the sword between them, all struggling under its weight. Six men stood on each side, marching slowly, one step at a time, carrying the sword toward its resting place.
Gareth’s heart quickened as he watched it get closer. For a brief moment, his confidence wavered – if these twelve men, larger than any he had ever seen, could barely hold it, what chance was there for him? But he tried to push these thoughts from his mind – after all, the sword was about destiny, not strength. And he forced himself to remember it was his destiny to be here, to be the firstborn of the MacGils, to be King. He searched the crowd for Argon; for some reason he had a sudden, intense desire to seek his counsel. This was the time he needed him most. For some reason, he could think of no one else. But of course, he was nowhere to be found.
Finally, the dozen men reached the center of the room, carrying the sword into the shaft of sunlight, and they placed it down on the iron prongs. It landed with a reverberating clang, the sound traveling in ripples throughout the room. The room fell entirely silent.
The crowd instinctively parted ways, making a path for Gareth to walk down and try to hoist it.
Gareth slowly rose from his throne, savoring the moment, savoring all this attention. He could feel all the eyes on him. He knew a moment like this would never come again, when the entire kingdom watched him so completely, so intensely, analyzing every move he made. He had lived this moment so many times in his mind since he had been a youth, and now it had come. He wanted it to go slowly.
He walked down the steps of the throne, taking them one at a time, savoring each step. He walked on the red carpet, feeling how soft it was beneath his feet, closer and closer towards the patch of sunlight, toward the sword. As he walked, it was like walking in a dream. He felt outside of himself. A part of him felt as if he had walked this carpet many times before, having hoisted the sword a million times in his dreams. It made him feel all the more he was fated to hoist it, that he was walking into destiny.
He saw how it would go in his mind: he would step forward boldly, reach out with a single hand, and as his subjects leaned in, he would suddenly and dramatically raise it high over his head. They would all gasp and fall to their faces and declare him the Chosen One, the most important of the MacGil kings who had ever ruled, the one meant to rule forever. They would weep with joy at the sight. They would cower in fear of him. They would thank God they had lived in this lifetime to witness it. They would worship him as a god.
Gareth approached the sword, just feet away now, and felt himself tremble inside. As he entered the sunlight, although he had seen the sword many times before, he was taken aback by its beauty. He had never been allowed this close to it before, and it surprised him. It was intense. With a long shining blade, made from a material which no one had deciphered, it had the most ornate hilt he had ever seen, wrapped with a fine, silk-like cloth, encrusted with jewels of every sort, and emblazoned with the falcon crest. As he took a step closer, hovering over it, he felt the powerful energy radiating from it. It seemed to throb. He could hardly breathe. In just a moment it would be in his palm. High above his head. Shining in the sunlight for all the world to see.
He, Gareth, the Great One.
Gareth reached out and placed his right hand on the hilt, slowly closing his fingers around it, feeling every jewel, every contour as he grasped it, electrified. An intense energy radiated through his palm, up his arm, through his body. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. This was his moment. His moment for all time.
Gareth would take no chances: he reached down and clasped his other hand on the hilt, too. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.
If it please the gods, allow me to hoist this. Give me a sign. Show me that I am King. Show me that I am meant to rule.
Gareth prayed silently, waiting for a response, for a sign, for the perfect moment. But seconds went by, a full ten seconds, the entire kingdom watching, and he heard nothing.
Then, suddenly, he saw the face of his father, scowling back at him.
Gareth opened his eyes in terror, wanting to wipe the image from his mind. His heart pounded, and he felt it was a terrible omen.
It was now or never.
Gareth leaned over, and with all his might, he tried to hoist the sword. He struggled with all he had, until his entire body shook, convulsed.
The sword did not budge. It was like trying to move the very foundation of the earth.
Gareth tried harder still, harder, and harder. Finally, he was visibly groaning and screaming.
Moments later, he collapsed.
The blade had not moved an inch.
A shocked gasp spread throughout the room as he hit the ground. Several advisors rushed to his aid, checking to see if he was okay, and he violently shoved them away. Embarrassed, he stood, bringing himself back to his own two feet.
Humiliated, Gareth looked around at his subjects, looking to see how they would view him now.
They had already turned away, were already filtering from the room. Gareth could see the disappointment in their faces, could see that he was just another failed spectacle in their eyes. Now they all knew, each and every one of them, that he was not their true king. He was not the destined and chosen MacGil. He was nothing. Just another prince who had usurped the throne.
Gareth felt himself burning with shame. He had never felt more lonely than in that moment. Everything he had imagined, from the time he was a child, had been a lie. A delusion. He had believed in his own fable.
And it had crushed him.
Chapter Six
Gareth paced in his chamber, his mind reeling, stunned by his failure to hoist the sword, trying to process the ramifications. He felt numb. He could hardly believe he had been so stupid to attempt to hoist the sword, the Dynasty Sword, which no MacGil had been able to hoist for seven generations. Why had he thought he would be better than his ancestors? Why had he assumed he would be different?
He should have known. He should have been cautious, never should have overestimated himself. He should have been content with simply having his father’s throne. Why did he have to push it?
Now all his subjects knew he was not the Chosen One; now his rule would be marred by this; now, perhaps, they would have more grounds to suspect him for the death of his father. He saw that everyone looked at him differently already, as if he were a walking ghost, as if they were already preparing themselves for the next king to come.
Worse than that, for the first time in his life, Gareth felt unsure about himself. His entire life, he had seen his destiny clearly. He had been certain he was meant to take his father’s place, to rule and to wield the sword. His confidence had been shaken to the core. Now, he was not sure about anything.
Worst of all, he could not stop seeing that image of his father’s face, right before he’d hoisted it. Had that been his revenge?
“Bravo,” came a slow, sardonic voice.
Gareth spun, shocked that anyone was with him in this chamber. He recognized the voice instantly; it was a voice he had become too familiar with over the years, and one he had come to despise. It was the voice of his wife.
Helena.
There she stood, in a far corner of the room, observing him as she smoked her opium pipe. She inhaled deeply, held it, then slowly let it out. Her eyes were bloodshot, and he could see that she had been smoking too long.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“This is my bridal chamber after all,” she responded. “I can do anything I want here. I’m your wife and your queen. Don’t forget. I rule this kingdom as much as you do. And after your debacle today, I would use the term rule very loosely indeed.”
Gareth’s face burned red. Helena had always had a way of striking him with the lowest blow of all, and at the most inopportune time. He despised her more than any woman in his life. He could hardly conceive that he had agreed to marry her.
“Do you?” Gareth spat, turning and marching towards her, seething. “You forget that I am King, you wench, and I could have you imprisoned, just like anyone else in my kingdom, whether you are my wife or not.”
She laughed at him, a derisive snort.
“And then what?” she snapped. “Have your new subjects wonder of your sexuality? No, I doubt that very much. Not in the scheming world of Gareth. Not in the mind of the man who cares more than anyone else how people perceive him.”
Gareth stopped before her, realizing she had a way of seeing through him which annoyed him to the core. He understood her threat and realized that arguing with her would do no good. So he just stood there, quietly, waiting, his fists bunched.
“What is it that you want?” he said slowly, trying to control himself from doing something rash. “You don’t come to me unless you want something.”
She laughed a dry, mocking laugh.
“I’ll take whatever it is that I want. I haven’t come to ask you for anything. But rather to tell you something: your entire kingdom has just witnessed your failure to hoist the sword. Where does that leave us?”
“What you mean us?” he asked, wondering where she was going with this.
“Your people know now what I have always known: that you are failure. That you are not the Chosen One. Congratulations. At least now it is official.”
He scowled back.
“My father failed to wield the sword. That did not prevent him from ruling effectively as King.”
“But it affected his kingship,” she snapped. “Every moment of it.”
“If you’re so unhappy with my inabilities,” Gareth fumed, “why don’t you just leave this place? Leave me! Leave our mockery of a marriage. I am King now. I don’t need you anymore.”
“I’m glad you raised that point,” she said, “because that is precisely the reason I’ve come. I want you to end our marriage officially. I want a divorce. There is a man I love. A real man. One of your knights, in fact. He’s a warrior. We are in love, a true love. Unlike any love I ever had. Divorce me, so I can stop carrying on this affair in secret. I want our love to be public. And I want to be married to him.”
Gareth stared back at her, shocked, feeling hollowed out, as if a dagger had just been plunged into his chest. Why had Helena had to surface? Why now, of all times? It was too much for him. He felt as if the world were kicking him while he was down.
Despite himself, Gareth was surprised to realize that he had some deep feelings for Helena, because when he heard her actual words, asking for a divorce, it did something to him. It upset him. Despite himself, it made him realize he did not want a divorce from her. If it came from him, it was one thing; but if it came from her, it was another. He did not want her to have her way, and not so easily.
Most of all, he wondered how a divorce would influence his kingship. A divorced King would raise too many questions. And despite himself, he found himself jealous of this knight. And resentful of her rubbing his lack of manhood in his face. He wanted vengeance. On both of them.
“You can’t have it,” he snapped. “You are bound to me. Stuck as my wife forever. I will never let you free. And if I ever encounter this knight you are cheating with, I will have him tortured and executed.”
Helena snarled back at him.
“I am not your wife! You are not my husband. You are not a man. Ours is an unholy union. It has been from the day it was forged. It was an arranged partnership for power. The whole thing disgusts me – it always has. And it has ruined my one chance to truly be married.”
She breathed, her fury rising.
“You will give me my divorce, or I will reveal to the entire kingdom the man you are. You decide.”
With that Helena turned her back on him, marched across the room and out the open door, not even bothering to close it behind her.
Gareth stood alone in the stone chamber, listening to the echo of her footsteps and feeling a chill pervade his body that he could not shake. Was there anything stable he could hold onto anymore?
As Gareth stood there, trembling, watching the open door, he was surprised to see somebody else walk through it. He had barely had time to register his conversation with Helena, to process all of her threats, when in walked a too-familiar face. Firth. The usual bounce to his step was gone as he entered the room tentatively, a guilty look on his face.
“Gareth?” he asked, sounding unsure.
Firth stared at him, wide-eyed, and Gareth could see how bad he felt. He should feel bad, Gareth thought. After all, it was Firth who put him up to wielding the sword, who had finally convinced him, who had made him think that he was more than he was. Without Firth’s whispering, who knew? Maybe Gareth would have never even attempted to wield it.
Gareth turned to him, seething. In Firth he finally found an object in which to direct all his anger. After all, Firth had been the one who killed his father. It was Firth, this stupid stable boy, who got him into this whole mess to begin with. Now he was just another failed successor to the MacGil lineage.
“I hate you,” Gareth seethed. “What of your promises now? What of your confidence that I would wield the sword?”
Firth swallowed, looking very nervous. He was speechless. Clearly, he had nothing to say.
“I am sorry, my Lord,” he said. “I was wrong.”
“You were wrong about a lot of things,” Gareth snapped.
Indeed, the more Gareth thought about it, the more he realized how wrong Firth had been. In fact, if it were not for Firth, his father would still be alive today – and Gareth would not be in any of this mess. The weight of the kingship would not be on his head, all these things would not be going wrong. Gareth longed for simpler days, when he was not King, when his father was alive. He felt a sudden desire to bring them all back, the way things used to be. But he could not. And he had Firth to blame for all of this.