The Day Before The Coronation

His massive body, draped in a bearskin vest over his armor, approached Sketil and the knight, who sat kneeling. His form was so broad it seemed to block out the sun, and his braided golden hair, falling down to his chest, brushed against Sketil’s head.

His large hand pulled out the crucifix necklace hanging from Sketil’s neck.

Oden stared at it for a long moment, his expression shifting with subtle complexity.

“My mother had molten silver poured into her eyes and molten lead into her split body, before her head was ground upon a millstone in the capital of Fjorland. And before her death, knights and soldiers mounted her one after another, thrusting their hips.”

“……”

“My father was beheaded, his head stuck on a great spear shaft and displayed at the entrance of the village for some time. Beneath it, a board read: ‘Behold, the visage of the warrior of the god you worship.’”

“……”

Sketil and the knight lowered their heads. Oden continued.

“Do you know why I remember all that? Not because I was a coward hiding, but because my mother’s final request was that I survive, to witness and remember it all.”

“……”

“We all simply lived and fought in our own way upon this land, did we not? Proving who was stronger. And yet, though we all believed in the same, we never cursed those who lost in battle. On the contrary, those who fought bravely and fell were praised by warriors and by the gods.”

Sketil summoned his courage and raised his head.

“So that justifies crossing borders, ravishing women, and killing old men?”

Oden widened his eyes in disbelief and let out a hollow laugh.

Then he roughly grabbed Sketil’s chin with his hand.

“Did you not hear me? It was you who drove us beyond the mountains, beyond the ‘borders’ you imposed. It was you who first ravished women, slew elders, and burned villages to ash. Under Odin and Olrun we followed the laws of ‘strength’ and ‘survival.’ But you, claiming the word of some nameless god you brought to this land, placed us upon the blade of ‘fanaticism’ and ‘subjugation.’”

“I will not listen to such words from savages like you!”

“Brave one…”

Oden released his grip on Sketil’s chin with pity, gazing into his eyes.

“Did I not say my mother was dragged to Fjorland’s capital and slain? I lived in this land. This very village where I now sit was once where my family dwelled, and the entrance you passed through is the very place where my father’s head was mounted.”

“…!!!!”

Sketil and the knight’s eyes widened in shock, nearly popping out.

“As the son of Arendal’s priestess, I would have been beheaded and burned alive had I stayed. I had nowhere but beyond those mountains you feared. There, trudging through snow on bloodied feet, I rose by my own strength and skill to become king. Do you understand? Now I will reclaim what I—and the true brothers and kin who welcomed me—lost.”

Oden rose slowly, turned his back, and spoke his final words.

“If we go further back in generations, your father or grandfather likely once received prophecies from my mother or grandmother, and at festivals they would dance together, share mead, and even name each other’s children.”

The countless Norger warriors all stood in silence.

At the sight of their king standing tall, shedding tears as he spoke words he had never shared with anyone before, none dared to even breathe audibly.

After regaining his composure, Oden gave his order.

“These men fought bravely to the end for their god. We honor those who fight bravely. Nail them up in the manner their god was slain, and send them to Fjorland Castle!”

“No, noooooo!!!!!!!”

Sketil and the knight screamed.

But their cries were drowned in the roar of the gathered Norger warriors.

The warriors tore up wide planks and laid them on the ground.

Then they laid Sketil and the knight upon them.

Several men rushed in to restrain the struggling captives, spreading their arms wide and pinning their heads.

“Bring it!”

At Oden’s command, a warrior brought a chest filled with huge iron nails and hammers. Catching a glimpse of their thickness and size, Sketil and the knight regretted not dying in the earlier battle.

Oden sat upon a chair, prepared to witness the execution.

From among the warriors, an elderly Norger came forward.

“Know this: King Oden decrees crucifixion for you as a form of respect. It is the god you chose, abandoning Olrun and Manafreya. The god in whose name you brought so much blood and suffering to this land. To send you in the likeness of that god’s son is, to us, another form of understanding and respect for your ‘faith.’”

“No! No, it can’t be! Cut my head off instead! End it swiftly!!!”

Sketil and the knight screamed madly.

But the old man shook his head and squatted over the knight’s head.

When he extended his hand, a warrior placed a nail in it.

He placed the nail against the knight’s eye, while many hands held the knight’s head steady.

“When we die bravely in battle, we see ravens or Valkyries. I wonder… what do you see now?”

But in the knight’s eyes, facing death, there was nothing—only unbearable terror.

The old man placed the nail to the left eye and brought the hammer down.

Thunk!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!”

A scream beyond words tore through the air. The nail pierced through the knight’s eye, shattered his skull, and drove deep into the plank beneath.

The knight died instantly.

But the crucifixion had only begun. The next nail was driven into the right eye, the third through the open mouth, tearing the uvula and neck.

Then nails were driven one by one into his palms, chest, thighs, and ankles.

“Now raise him up.”

Two warriors lifted the plank upright and showed it to Oden.

Oden nodded, as if satisfied.

Lying down, Sketil lost his senses at the sight.

The sharp point of a nail approached the corner of his wide, vacant eyes.

The coronation was now only a day away.

A few days earlier, Fynel had met with Norheim and returned with urgent news, which gave Christoph considerable unease.

“We may have to cede far more land to them than expected.”

Christoph sighed.

But Morten and the Duchess took the situation more flexibly.

“It is fine. The important thing is that we too will gain territory from Fjorland—territory now left empty. By now, Fjorland’s fortress must be sending its forces down to face the Norger at the front, so they will not advance further north.”

“Hm, either way we lose nothing. Then what of Bjoern’s side?”

“Since the Duchy of Bjoern also shares a border with Fjorland, they will surely move their troops heavily toward that frontier out of fear that the conflict might spill over. Still, they will not intervene. They too are unprepared for war.”

At Morten’s explanation, Christoph and the Duchess both nodded.

Fynel hesitated, then asked:

“After weakening the Duchy of Fjorland so greatly within Nordenheim, do you truly intend to then form a peace treaty with the heathens and begin mutual exchange?”

“Of course. For us, there is nothing to be gained by enmity with them. They too once lived upon this land of Nordenheim, as we do. If our goals align, what does it matter if they are called heathens? Mutual respect will suffice.”

At Christoph’s rebuttal, Morten and Fynel nodded. Though called heathens now, those gods had once been worshiped by all.

“How was it? Meeting them in person?”

Morten asked Fynel.

Fynel recalled Norheim’s enormous frame, his sword and axe, the impossibly large horn-cup, and the harsh mead. He sighed despite himself.

“Of course, one man cannot speak for all, but waging war against them would be truly difficult. It would be wise not to make them our enemies if possible.”

“For you to speak so highly… now I too am very curious.”

Morten smiled, ever the natural soldier and warrior.

The Duchess drew the men’s attention back.

“Tomorrow is the most important day for us. Above all, the declaration against the Cathedral and its seizure must be carried out. How are preparations on that front?”

This was the portion in which Fynel would take command.

“At the public reading of the decree, I shall issue the order then and there, arresting High Priest Kraf and Prioress Cecilia of the convent for treason against the duchy and collusion with foreign powers. They will be confined in the castle prison, and both the cathedral and convent closed for the duration of the war. But it must be under the new sovereign’s command.”

“Then once the decree is read, I will give the order at once.”

Morten cautiously asked:

“Then the seizure of the cathedral and convent, the confiscation of documents, and the arrest of other key figures—will those also fall to the Guard Corps?”

“Yes, Sir Morten. Why do you ask?”

“If the Guard Corps handles everything, it will be too great a burden. We must also prepare for deployment the next day. May the seizure, closure, and investigation of the cathedral and convent be entrusted to the Knights instead?”

“Are you not the busiest man tomorrow, Sir Morten?”

“I ask this favor.”

It was about Roze. Morten was determined to rescue her with his own hands.

Moreover, once the high priest and prioress were seized, swift response would be crucial. The Cathedral would surely realize what was coming and attempt to cover up their crimes.

Lives could be stolen or hidden in an instant. He had to be the first to descend into the convent’s underground.

Christoph nodded.

“Then so be it. After the proclamation, seize and shut down the cathedral and convent as swiftly as possible.”

With that, the morning council before the coronation came to a close.

Throughout the castle and beyond, preparations for tomorrow’s coronation bustled.

Banners of the Duchy of Nastrand hung everywhere, while fir and pine branches were placed in every window frame. Inns overflowed with local notables and merchants who had come from across the duchy.

All were filled with anticipation for the new history of Nastrand that would begin tomorrow.

For the guests to be welcomed tomorrow, the castle kitchens and taverns outside baked bread and pastries in abundance. Before the inner gate, carts laden with wine and drink ordered by the castle lined up, awaiting entry.

Amid the bustle, a single carriage slipped out quietly.

Within it rode Christoph and Hilde. Passing through the busy streets, the carriage stopped at the library.

“Hilde, wait here a moment while I step inside.”

Christoph alighted and opened the library door, startling Odense.

“For one so busy preparing for tomorrow’s coronation… what brings you here to the library?”

“Only to calm my restless mind by reading for a while.”

Waving Odense off as if to say all was well, Christoph perused the shelves and walked deeper inside.

With the great event of the coronation approaching, the library was more desolate than ever.

And there Christoph found Lyset, sliding books back into their places.

“Lyset.”

That voice calling her name!

Lyset’s hand froze.

“L-Lord Christoph!”

Christoph strode forward, took her in his arms, and kissed her naturally.

“M-My Lord, not here…”

“Then where would be better, Lyset? The castle?”

At such an absurd suggestion spoken so seriously, Lyset’s face turned crimson.

“Lord Christoph, what are you saying all of a sudden?”

“Lyset, did you not ask me to bring you to my castle, to my side?”

“…Yes, but I am still a nun of the convent.”

“Lyset, you know I am crowned tomorrow. And though I can tell no one else, the day after I must depart far away.”

“You are leaving… far away?”

Her heart sank at those words.

“Yes, it surprises you, doesn’t it? You must tell no one. And there is an even greater secret. You will see tomorrow, but something tremendous will happen here.”

“What do you mean…”

“The important thing is that I will stand at the forefront of it all. That is the mark of my legitimacy, the courage a new sovereign must show. If I fail… I may well die.”

“D-die? I don’t understand, Christoph…”

“Which is to say—I came here, in this roundabout way, to make you mine, to take you as my woman.”

Christoph’s woman.

And that he had come to claim her.

Lyset’s mind went blank.

Christoph’s lips covered hers.