Days of the Dead Book 3: The King's Ghost

Chapter 2: What to do when God takes a hit out on you

Gideon
I feel myself falling forever. I didn't know recalling would hurt this much. And I'm sick with magic. I feel like I can't breath I'm so full of it. I assume it was that place poisoning me like it did Kit. But the end result is I can't fully move or anything. I feel like my limbs are full of lead.
I fall to the carpeted floor. A very comforting argument is going on around me between three people who are so consumed arguing they don't notice my presence.
"Father, you must release Gideon at once!! It's been days! You promised," Prince Harry, about to cry. God, I love him so much. He's still dressed completely in black, mourning attire for his mother. His gold hair is messed up like he's been tugging on it and his face is red and blotchy.
"No. Not until you understand how much money the Saint boy has cost me, are you even looking?" King Henry, not at all perturbed, holding one of his precious ledgers up, with a variety of complicated sums and figures. If there's anything this man loves more than war it's his war money. John of Gaunt was his grandfather, makes sense little dollar signs just float around his head. Kidding, they had crowns at this time. "Three warships. Do you have any clue what those cost?"
"Well, you won't get your precious warships back when he's in there!" Prince Harry sobs.
"No, but we'll enjoy it," the Archbishop Courtenay, Henry's perpetual plus one, for no apparent reason the most beautiful man in England. Currently dressed as a priest like he's supposed to be, looking lovely and well kept, with the best hair on the island.
"So I take it you do not have a clue what it cost? As well as the men on it and their wages which I had to pay out, as well as the rent of them, as well as the rent of new ships and transport for my men back home as I was lacking the ships," King Henry goes on, pointing to points in his ledger, quite pleased with himself. He looks well in himself, wearing a white tunic, dark brown and steel grey hair a bit curly from the dampness, but still neat. As ever the tallest person in the room and definitely the cleverest, and damn does he know it.
"I can't possibly owe you 1 million crowns!" I cry, looking at the ledger, as I crawl over because I can't stand.
"You can, I'm charging you interest and it's been seven years of interest unpaid on the warships—,"
"I worked for you during that time!"
"Unpaid service to the crown yes, I've also charged you for your board here and on campaign as well materials—,"
"You charged all of my meals? This is the pettiest thing I've ever seen in my life," I groan.
"I'm glad you could witness it personally I will only take cash repayment I'm afraid and due to the local economy your interest goes up next year—,"
This entire argument is going on while the Prince collapses upon me saying, "Gideon! You're all right!" And hugging me.
"Oh. It's back," Courtenay says unemotionally.
"I thought you let it out because he was crying," King Henry, unperturbed, getting a glass of wine.
"I did not, he just showed up. Saint—do I still need to be holding this?" Courtenay asks, holding up the cube.
"No, Kit's back in the tomb here," I hold up a hand. He tosses it to me. "I need to return that to where I got it."
"What happened? Do stand up," the Prince says, encouragingly.
"I can't actually, had issues, we do need to talk—not about that," I growl, as King Henry was clearly about to go on about my imaginary bill. Honestly, the American medical system has nothing on him when it comes to fabricating charges.
"It is something you owe me; we have had to do this for a while," King Henry says, coolly. He will definitely try to do that too. Wait. No he won't. Goddamn it Gideon don't get sad before he charges you with some million crown debt.
"Come here, get off the floor," Courtenay says this while like, lightly clapping his hands.
"Here, take my arm," Prince Harry actually helps me up to slump in a chair. I ache all over.
"Thank you, your highness," I say, smiling a bit for him despite wincing in pain.
"Why did you give that back to him? It was probably worth something," King Henry says to Courtenay.
"Oh, he stole it somewhere vile I don't want to be incriminated."
"Yes but if we sold it first—?"
"Oh, that's true, Saint hand that back I need it again—,"
"Stop talking about money you two!" Prince Harry sighs, "He hasn't told us what happened."
"Trapped in the cube with the other wizard who you presumably killed, which I already took off seven days interest for," King Henry says, very generously.
"You're compounding it daily?" I choke. If you don't understand math it's fine it just means he's charging me even more.
"Gideon, what did happen? Also, of course he's compounding it daily," Courtenay says.
"You killed the wizard, correct?" King Henry asks, calmly.
"No," I say, quietly, "That's not what happened."
"What do you mean?" Prince Harry asks, face sad and gentle as he sits down on the sofa across from me.
"I ah—went back with Kit and ah—as it happens. Your Majesty. Ah. God took a hit out on you," I say, sighing a little.
"What?" All three of them.
"God took a hit out on you," I say, trying to sit up more,"Look, God, or some equally celestial being, sent Kit to kill you, Your Majesty, because they know, as well as you and I do, you're not supposed to be alive and it's messing up time, essentially. And they finally noticed or cared and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm sorry."
"What?" Prince Harry asks, looking at his father.
"I don't know what you're talking about," King Henry says.
"You know as well as I do, that you should have died on August 31, 1422, in France," engaging in your favorite hobby of being ridiculous in France and killing French people.
King Henry and Courtenay look at each other.
"And you should have died on September 15, 1415, during the siege of Harfluer, I suspect you knew that too," I say, looking at Courtenay.
"What?" Prince Harry asks, tears springing to his dark eyes.
"Seven years?" King Henry looks over at Courtenay. Oh, so he didn't know that? Courtenay didn't tell him he was going to lose him that soon.
"I thought it was Harfluer," Courtenay says, unable to meet his monarch's gaze.
"What—you know what he's talking about?" Prince Harry stands, staring at them, in something like horror, as it dawns on him slowly that they clearly do know what I'm talking about.
"It's fine, Harry. I'm clearly not dead. God would not take me," King Henry says, coolly.
"That line might work on your subjects, but right now someone very close to God could be God herself, is trying to collect because we all know, you're not supposed to be here," I say.
"If I weren't supposed to be here, I wouldn't be," King Henry says, tone arrogant as ever.
"How? No—how does that work even, he's right— if he was supposed to die why didn't he?" Prince Harry asks, fearfully.
"Because when they were sixteen or about there, they did a completely dangerous, very dark magic, messed up ritual, of cutting the hearts from seven wizards, a known way to steal remaining lifespans," I say, tiredly, "Which is dark magic, for a reason, because there's high penalties for murder like that, in cold blood, namely having demonic spirits like Kit Wren is now, set upon you."
"I did it. He didn't—it was me," Courtenay says, quickly, "It was my idea. He didn't know."
"So, I saw it, he completely knew that probably cutting out seven people's hearts was slightly wrong, like that isn't normal, that did not look okay," I say, annoyed.
"Neither one of us were to know this would be the result. It was a —magical ritual. Nothing more, how were we to know it was uncommon or illegal?" King Henry asks, completely innocently, like he genuinely did not have that information before.
"You—you thought that that was okay? You thought that everyone just did that? You thought that cutting out seven peoples hearts and doing whatever with it was probably something you were SUPPOSED TO BE DOING?" Prince Harry asks, visibly shaking.
"Well, we weren't to know, were we?" King Henry asks.
"Really? That's—what you're going with? He presents you with seven human sacrifices and a ritual dagger and other associated witchcraft and you thought that was probably something common everyone does? Like you went back to my uncles and said 'you did the human sacrifice ritual, right? We're all doing that?'," Prince Harry asks, oscillating between absolute fear and such disappointment.
"Enough. We weren't to know. We didn't even know if it worked, or his visions of my death were—correct," King Henry says, something human flashing in his eyes as he looks at his son who he knows he's about to lose.
"But you knew?" Prince Harry looks at me.
"I knew that they were supposed to die then, I didn't know why they didn't as we've discussed time is odd. Until tonight, or today or whatever time it is—I didn't know that was exactly what they did. Or that they knew precisely that they'd extended their lives," I say.
"But if he's right we were seven years off," King Henry looks over at Courtenay.
"I didn't know exactly," Courtenay says, quietly, "As I said I didn't even—know for a fact it worked."
"He also worked it into the spell that he can shed his blood to save your life and give you whatever time he has left. I bring this up to stop him from doing that," I growl at Courtenay.
"What?" King Henry looks at him.
Courtenay won't return his gaze for once, fiddling with his rings.
"It's not going to work this time. No more tricks. He's being claimed, for good. And it's seventeen years over due," I say.
"If I'm being—claimed as you say, where is this demon then?" King Henry asks, moving fluidly back to questioning me.
"Asleep. I put a spell on him and damn near—well, I did something since I can't fucking move—you're welcome," I growl, wincing as I try to sit up, "Excuse my language, your highness."
"You put a spell on a demon?" Courtenay asks, surprised.
"Yes. It should last a week. He was going to come back with me now, and I couldn't persuade him to give us a few days. I did my best and this is the result, you should have at least a few days, if not a week, before he comes. Set—things in order, and say goodbye," I sigh, a little, "I'm sorry. That's all I can do for you now."
"Why should we believe you?" King Henry asks.
"Are you seriously asking that right now after you know for a fact you did—whatever with him?" Prince Harry asks, pointing at Courtenay who withers, "You knew you did that! Why would you do something like that?"
"Would you sooner I were dead?" King Henry asks, something near malice in his voice. His boy withers appropriately. "Is that what you want? You wish I'd died and you were king?"
"No! I do not wish you dead now," Prince Harry actually starts crying.
"Then what are you saying?" His father asks, exasperated.
"How could you kill those people? How many—,"
"The Archbishop did the killing," King Henry shrugs.
"Seven people? How could you? They did nothing to you," Prince Harry sobs, "To steal their lives for your own—,"
"That's what you're upset about?" King Henry asks, unsure if he should be relieved or not.
"I guess it is—um, your highness—I need you to know how many other innocent people he's killed, like, that doesn't even factor into it. We're talking peasants, french soldiers, captives, his own army if annoying, the ditch incident alone, like, so many people," I say, tipping my head back to look at the Prince. "That is the least shocking part of this. He kills people for fun. He arranges wars to kill people. He lets his own soldiers die by marching them in winter. He's tried to kill me. More than once."
"You can stop helping now," King Henry says to me.
"It's true," I say, shrugging, "You enjoyed doing all that."
"How did this happen? Why—," Prince Harry is still processing.
"I did it, I knew he would die young and—I couldn't—I had to try," Courtenay says, quietly, "As we said we weren't even positive it'd worked."
"What is it?" Prince Harry asks.
"A ritual," King Henry says, which is a weird way to pronounce 'a homoerotic experience of drinking blood freshly squeezed from human hearts '.
"A ritual with wizards, it nearly happened to me once, it's completely fine, not really, but like, that's not like super important," I say. Courtenay looks at me almost gratefully for not mentioning the drinking blood part. Their kid is having a bad enough time as it is.
"It's done," King Henry says, voice turning cruel again. "My life is for England. Nothing else. And we will fight whatever comes now. It's another battle. We do not yield."
"No, but we also aren't going to win," I say, quietly, shaking my head, "I'm sorry. But doing what I did to Kit has done this to me I can't—I can't fight him. A higher power is seeking to end you. It will not yield. And there's nothing more I can do."
Courtenay looks at Henry, gently, "I'll fight as long as you ask of me."
"A week you said? Before it returns?" King Henry asks, looking at me.
"I hope so. A few days at the least, the spell is strong, I don't even know if I'll recover before it's up," I say, shaking my head, "I'm sorry, my lord."
"A week is something. We'll take a week. There's much to plan," King Henry says, smoothly practical.
"You cannot die in a week—Gideon," Prince Harry looks at me.
"I'm sorry," I say, quietly. I don't see what I can do. And he has had far more time than he should have. "I'm bad at goodbyes."
"Thank you," Courtenay says, softly, looking at me. He knows I saw what he did to those wizards. And he knows the toll that it took on me to buy them that much time.
"We can still fight, and we will. This gives us time to choose the arena, and assemble an army," King Henry says, boldly.
"Gideon," Courtenay looks at me.
"You can't, can you?" Prince Harry asks, sadly.
"Not this time. I'm no good to you now. And I've been told off, as it were. Neither of you should be living. And Kit is returning with unlimited strength behind him it's not—it's not going to work. You won't win this time," I say.
"I always win," King Henry says, coolly.
"All right," Prince Harry nods to me, "Father—why are you fighting it if you know it to be true?"
"Because we always fight. To the end. We die fighting. That is what we do. We do not give in," King Henry says, fiercely, eyes flashing, "If you're not interested then get out. I have work to do."
Prince Harry starts weeping again, softly. He sits down next to me.
"I should go, I'm unwell as it is. And you have your message," I say, quietly.
"Archbishop will you get him out?" King Henry asks, not looking up, from his papers, "Both of them."
"No, father please," Prince Harry says, quickly, "I want to help."
"Then why are you weeping?" King Henry asks, icily.
"Because I don't want to lose you! I love you," Prince Harry says, collapsing to his knees in front of his father.
King Henry looks up, actually surprised.
"You know everything. Don't you know that?" Prince Harry asks, red eyed, looking up at his father. "I don't want to be king."
"You will be. You were born to be. And you will not lose me. Come," King Henry says, a little gentler.
The Prince climbs to his feet and comes over, softly, to his father's desk, "What is it?"
"Just stop crying for one," his father says, softly, not looking over at him. I wonder when the last time someone told him they loved him. And meant it. Okay someone who isn't Courtenay. I doubt if he ever said that to his father, or expected such honesty from his son. When his father was dying he took the crown and went and sat in the other room. His father woke up and was angry apparently, he refused to come back for a little while. Not a tender scene.
"You need rest," Courtenay says, grabbing my arm and trying to help me stand. I fall completely, head smacking the floor.
"You seriously cursed a demon?" Courtenay mutters, dragging me to my feet, and bodily just picking me up. I know always talk about how tall King Henry is and that's true, but Courtenay is a solid six feet himself and does half the athletic pursuits the King does so he's not a small or a weak man. He scoops me into his arms with a grunt, just carrying me to the door.
"I'm sorry," I mutter, I'm blacking out from falling like that.
"Shut up," he mutters, "I'm not good with goodbyes either, I suppose."
"I noticed," I say.
"You didn't have to tell him," he mutters, not looking down.
"He should know what you did for him. Anyway, I didn't tell him your soul is likely condemned," I say.
"No. He'll have to plan to invade hell. He'll enjoy that. It's a treat for him to find out later," Courtenay says, icily.
"You know, he will enjoy that?" I admit.
"We'll find out soon it seems," he says.
"He wouldn't have made you drink, or be cross about the seven years, if he didn't love you back," I say. He buries you with him. In a secret crypt below his own, in true Lancaster fashion, clever and hidden and yet inseparable from him. Silently locked away for the centuries, with Henry's own ring on his hand. I've read the accounts, some saying Henry himself washed Courtenay's body, some saying that the unfortunate bishop died in the monarch's arms. An odd bit of care, from a cold, unfeeling man who would cause the death of thousands.
"You should close your mouth," Courtenay says, quietly.
"It's true. And he should know, don't you think he deserves to know?" I ask.
Courtenay ignores me. And then I do pass out.