The Iron Throne

Epilogue

The Eve of the Dead. The winter solstice. The longest night of the year. It was, indeed, a fitting night to mourn. Aedan Dosiere, Lord High Chamberlain of the Cerilian Empire of Anuire, sat slumped over at the table in his tower study in the Imperial Cairn. The bottle of brandy he and Gylvain had drunk stood empty, and a pleasant warmth suffused him. He raised his head and looked out the window, across the bay at the flickering lights of the city of Anuire.

It was nearly dawn, yet every window in the city was still illuminated with the glow of candles that commemorated the spirits of those who passed on.

“A dying flame. An appropriate, if rather maudlin metaphor,” Aedan muttered with a sigh. The weight of his years rested heavily upon him. He had survived. Survived his wife, who had passed on and left him alone to bear the heavy burden of his responsibilities. Survived his liege lord, who had fallen all those years ago, leaving him to assume the regency and lead the people of Anuire as best he could. Survived Derwyn, who had returned from Battlewaite a cripple and had lingered on for several years before taking his own life in misery; survived Laera and Faelina and nearly everyone else he knew back then. He had survived them all and carried on, even though it hurt.

Now the flame was dying. He could no longer hold the empire together. Truly, it had died with Michael, and over the years, one by one, the provinces had fallen away, forming their own independent nations until there was almost nothing left of the glory that once was. The dream. The goal he and Michael had both fought so hard to accomplish.

“Everything shall pass in its own time,” muttered Aedan drunkenly as he turned from the window.

“Yes,” Gylvain replied. “Even the pain.”

“Truly. It is little more than a dull ache now. An exhaustion that has seeped into my soul and drained me.” Aedan folded his arms on the table and rested his head upon them.

“How is Sylvanna?” he said thickly without looking up. “Is she well?”

“Yes,” said Gylvain. “She is well. And she often thinks of you. You had already asked that once before.”

“I did?” Aedan muttered sleepily. “I had forgotten. But it is good she remembers me.”

“She will not forget.”

“I am so very weary, Gylvain….”

“Sleep now,” Gylvain said, rising from the table and gazing down at his old friend. Aedan’s shoulders rose and fell several times as Gylvain watched. His breathing became more labored and heavy. Gylvain raised his arms and spun around, fading away as wind blew papers in a flurry through the chamber. Aedan Dosiere took one more labored breath and let it out in a final, long, sighing exhalation, and then he breathed no more. The swirling funnel cloud moved over him.

Sleep, old friend, and take your rest upon the wind.

He slowly faded away into the wind that bore him out the window and across the bay, over the flickering lights of the city and heading north into the first gray light of dawn.