Chapter 26

"He had died countless times in his age of life on earth; thus this portal of mortal Death only ignites life in his Soul."

~

The Secret Cell, the Under-Ground Dungeons,

Kingdom of Tristendyre,

The first Phrinight of the Second month,

XXI Year of Regency

"Ah, this man is old and poor, bereft of a family; but I truly have found a friend in you as well", said the elderly man, Oreius Zephaniah, with a tender laugh.

"I am more than simply your friend", said Jaycob, removing the mask that concealed his secretive countenance, "...grandpa. And I am the prefigured inheritor of Jael's auspice, wielding powers, as the second Rook that stands upon the west end in Judah's army against the Dragons."

The faded eyes of the old man, whose detainment made his home, widened, appearing as pools of fair morning skies reflecting the unreal visage of the lad bowing over his frail body.

The young man had been his sole friend ever since his partner at work had passed on. How had he been so blind to this truth in all of his years of companionship?

He had known that Israel was as a hireling imported to the castle with various services, an inkling of which was his own attendance.

However, the boy had managed to mine his difficult way into this old passenger's aged heart and hear of his stories and journeys; had conquered a path to the very crest of his ancient being to a point where the old man, who had grown weary of lavishing his love upon humans, had come to miss this child's presence even on a single day that had omitted visitation, although there had been several forlorn weeks whence he had felt solitary and lonely without the lad's coming when Israel had been away on journeys.

Oreius Zephaniah reached his bony hand forth, with mighty efforts, to graze his wrinkled finger over the queer portion of face his grandson had specifically kept covert.

"In these many days of our acquaintanceship when you have been courting me, how had I not reckoned that you were my kith?"

His gaze, that had beheld various awe-inspiring views of cosmic mysteries, swirling aurorae and experiences and had read of cryptic and arcane tidings that had ignited the canvases of his fantasies, at that surreal moment, whilst sweeping over his sole surviving family's peculiar face, was beginning to glaze with choking emotion like this was the most breath-claiming of them all: his strapping grandson grown into a finely-versed young man, and a Rook born in fulfilment of the Prophecy.

Furthermore, he knew precisely how the lad had received such deviant countenance, for that had been the first time he had met him; the fateful day when much had occurred. After all, that was the peculiar incident that had left its mark upon his face.

~

Jaycob's mouth lifted in a tender smile as he softly placed his palm over the time-worn hand that was placed over the estranged parts of his face.

The wizened man's tears were, by then, streaming relentlessly down the creases of his face. "So she was there; and she knew well, didn't she?", asked he, his voice overcome by years.

"She knew everything to details, and of you. And she was glad", said Jaycob, in whispers.

"Then I shall lay my head in restful peace, knowing she felt loved and knew of the truth. That is the very least my dear wife deserved", said the man, unable to produce volume.

"I was greatly indebted to you for saving me, even beyond the benefit of recognition; so when the auspice that is my power granted me to detect your containment here beneath, I strove till I could be exalted to a worthy height to, per-haps, visit you and serve you", said Jaycob.

"And you are of dignified rank now, my dear?", asked the man, a serene smile on his haggard face.

Jaycob nodded, wearing the mask over his mysterious face, for he had sensed, vaguely– or rather nebulously, Imogen's presence hastening thereto.

"I am the Chief of Artillery and the single Delegate of the Regent in matters of sworn secrecy. Naught of this designation could have been afforded in such concise time, had the inherent talents not behaved to my benefit and the favours of God."

The age-beaten man listened keen and pleasantly. Imogen arrived at the opening of the cave-like cell, but Oreius did not seem to have paid it notice.

"Is your service to me then the most immaterial of your duties?" asked he to the Royal Archer. The freckle-tinted damsel made her way quietly inside.

Jaycob chuckled, "It is the most significant; catering to your needs and spending my visitations on you are the satisfaction and prize my endeavours would see."

There was a heart-warming and deep communion shared between their souls.

"But slow, my son, do not err in inclination and begin pleasing the Regent", said the elderly man. "Vices and greed mark his every step."

"Ah, I have my reckoning to be my guide, grandpa", said the Archer, relishing the taste of the endearing honorific. "My service is disposed solely to the ways wherein I see consensus with him."

Imogen patiently sat by the elder's side, hair knotted into a chaotic upsweep, loose locks of hair littered from the dressing and spilling down the side of her eyes and cheek and down to her shoulder yet partially tucked behind her ear.

When Jaycob lifted his gaze to meet hers, he noticed the young lady's petrified face gazing at the portion of chamber beside him where no one stood, the dual colours of her lenses nearly darkened from how greatly her pupils had widened.

He remembered how his vision of presences had distorted nebulously and wondered if it had been caused by a greater and colourless being.

~

"I have survived", shivered her quiet voice as Imogen shifted her gaze from Death's waiting presence to the senile man, gently taking his hand in hers.

There was a spirit of joy when the keys of recognition had unlocked the doors of his heart to suffer well-springs of gladness seep out and into the voice of his words: "Ah, my darling, it comforts my soul that you are in safety."

He delicately drew his trembling palms that held her young hands to his cold and chapped lips and pressed a kindly kiss upon her knuckles.

"It is just as you had blest me", she said, her smile melting into her voice.

The elderly one reflected her mirth till it reached his sunken eyes. It was deeply evident that the man felt fulfilment in her near presence.

"My life has collected relics of history and intelligence in its time. And there is one, of salience, that I wish to impart to your knowledge in this wedged hour before I do take flight", said he, a wave of restfulness washing over his demeanour, despite his laboured respiration.

"I will listen", said the damsel whose heart was in her very tongue for the exotic occasion.

"There are Dragons dwelling in the ends of the Earth; they will consume mankind and will incinerate the race to breathless and bloodless cinders.

However, there is a Prophecy that must see fulfilment in order to save our Breed. It envisions fifteen warriors in the host of Judah warring against the army of the colossal serpents until the victor emerges and their race shall prevail: man or dragon. The Chosen vessels of the kin of man must conquer", said he, his breath hazing into his voice.

"The prophecy has been chronicled in an archaic tongue", said Jaycob. "It is cryptic and difficult to interpret. Furthermore, there are various versions of its translations that cannot be relied upon, for they are diverse."

"Much to our fortune, I am nicely-versed with such language" smiled the man who was ill and expended.

"And what is the Prophecy?" asked Imogen, although the man seemed far too frail to execute further words.

He heaved a great breath, like it may be amongst his final and began expounding: "The words that construct the stature of the Prophecy are boundless and I have much more beyond the unravelling thereof to bring to your notice. A portion that is pertinent, I shall impart:

The wings of this foretoken shall bring unto thee the heralds of Judah's Ascendancy: His army enkindled to wage war against the Beast shall be a fifthteen warriors vested with arcane powers, a kind whose discipline is far more proficient in magical arts than the man of common blood; the scarlet ink of their heritage shall write their prologues tainted with disgrace as that of outlawed and exiled fugitives, but epilogues bearing honour, the visitation of death being held words reserved and as uncertain as tide.

The Queen shall be captive, but no fetters truly hold her still; she shall dare, for destiny and dream shall be her breath and blood and a thirst for redemption and vengeance shall be the initials of her feat, the pulse of her footsteps.

The Bishops' deeds shall be as the constellations of stars, yet their tidings and glory shall be as rippled reflections of the starry skies upon the pools of water, uncrowned renown; Fates eased by the Blessing and Curse, as foreordained powers decree.

The Rooks, blood of a single race, shall be prone, a slighted fort when taking the poise of a shield, but heeding to redemption is the destiny solely he shalt write when enticed to please the darkness; his levins embarked shall vitally strike their intended port.

The Knight, with a drawn sword and a lightening horse, his rise shall challenge the throbs of his adversity; he shall mend the wounds of succour by day and burn his oils of contempt by night.

The Pawn, thy wreath shall be thy service tendered, Death shall not veil his tread before thine eyes; but a one reaching the deepest lairs of the Beast shall master the powers of the Class-Warriors willed."

The ancient man of many years looked at the two that were his companions.

"Find the Queen, Sable Duvessa, a veteran of art, she will reveal to you the mystery of the Dragons and their ways", he said, his carved and thin chest moving in the uneven motion of his breath.

His words were barely whispers, for there was a great deal of resource exhausted in the deed of speech.

The sight of his labour brought tears to waiting Imogen's eyes. "We will fulfil your wish, versus all odds", said she, voice quivering with emotion.

"Read the inscriptions of the wall, they were wrought by my friend Zebedee Ryder. They will tell you of the things that I have endeavoured to disclose, before this end", he said in frail and extinguished sound.

Jaycob held the man's feeble hand against his chest as he leaned, "Grandpa, you cannot go, I wish for much longer to spend with you."

The old man's eyes that seemed closed turned to eye the chisel of Jaycob Israel's veiled face and he smiled and whispered: "I will be in your heart and memories; forever do good and I will play the rhythm of its pulse."

It appeared as if Death respectfully awaited the frail soldier's breath for an important moment longer.

Finally, his words were no more than exhaled breath: "Blessings to your souls and your conquest"

And his last words resonated like a refrain, when the final grain of the Hourglass assigned to him dropped.

The Dark Reaper hushedly and benevolently garnered the man's soul into a sacred vial and his large wings encompassed his vision before He was gone: Death was a loyal officer to the wills of the Creator, in bringing back the fulfilled psyche of humans.

Imogen turned to see Jaycob's eyes brimming with tears and staring at the man's sightless eyes that appeared like they were looking at him gracefully and peacefully.

After a moment, spend like he was memorising the make of the dear elder's aged face, the olive-haired young man closed his grandfather's unseeing eyes.

~