Part XIV: Scrolling Through History
Chapter 4: Fear and Loathing in The Rhokki’s
Timeline: AO 311-314
Watching Hacktor and Hecla’s family crumble from the inside out was so freaking enjoyable I can’t even begin to describe the glee I got from it all – to say I was addicted to The Eye of Seraphiel would be an understatement. And yet it was like the gift that just keeps giving…
Let’s start with Alf. You’ll recall he was born back in AO 308 and right from the start, his mother didn’t really want him. At the time, Queen Hecla’s life was already filled with frustrations that weighed heavily on her heart. For starters, Hecla had wanted more than merely being a vessel for the king’s sons while he focused on his far away wars.
This is not to say that Hecla had given up on childbirth, motherhood, or even being married to a husband who was increasingly distant to her. On the contrary, all these things were assumed and accepted by Hecla as part of her life as the Queen. But she’d longed hoped to have a daughter – someone who might share in the burdens of court life with her.
While she would eventually get that gift with the birth of Jini in AO 311, when Alf arrived, he suffered the unfortunate curse of his sex in his mother’s eyes. Alf’s small size and apparent frailty only added to Hecla’s sense of weariness, and though she told herself she loved him as a mother should, the queen soon found it easier to pass Alf off to the nursemaids than to spend time with him herself.
And so it was that in the quiet palace nursery, Alf grew under the watchful eyes of the caretakers. Even as a toddler, it was clear he was a clever child, observing the world around him with keen interest, though he rarely spoke. His small stature and less than perfect health made him easy to overlook by his parents, but those who cared for him knew that Alf was no ordinary boy.
He was only a year old when his brother Garl died, and just two when his sister Jini was born. His caretakers did their best to lavish Alf with love whilst his parents were busy with these ‘more important’ life events – and many others that were not. Thus Alf was left to grow under the care of the palace staff – a quiet observer of a world that had little time for him. Yet his birth, though unnoticed by many, would one day prove to be far more significant than anyone had imagined.
By the time Alf was five, the boy had long since realized his his place. He knew that he was different, that he was not the son his father wanted. But Alf, even at such a young age, accepted it with a quiet resilience. He did not seek his father’s approval the way his other brother Uria did, nor did he try to compete with Livy’s outlandish behavior. And whilst it surely stung his heart that his younger sister Jini clearly had all his mother’s love, Alf didn’t complain. He knew that he was meant for something else—and he was content to wait, to watch, and to learn.
As so often happens in life – bad things happen to good people. Unfortunately for Alf, it happened to him in AO 313. And sadly for him, his own mother opened the door for it to happen…
As usual, Hacktor was off leading a campaign against the Derkka. Hecla was left with the burden of ruling in the king’s absence, and while she pawned off most of the demands of the kingdom onto Monty, there was one decision that she couldn’t unload on The Coinmaster.
In a dimly lit room of the palace Alf was playing in a corner by himself. At a small table sat Mirkir the Wyze and the queen. The pair had been talking for some time and even Alf could tell it wasn’t a friendly conversation.
His robes dark and imposing, Mirkir’s pale eyes gleamed with the kind of malevolent power that made Hecla’s skin crawl. The old cleric’s voice was low, commanding, as he spoke of Alf and the future he claimed awaited him in Iztak. “He is destined for greater things, Your Majesty,” Mirkir said, his tone dripping with false reverence. “The gods have called him to serve in the sacred order. The Spirit of the Well has spoken. Alf’s time has come to be trained in the faith. To deny this is to deny the will of the gods.”
Hecla’s heart clenched as she listened, but she knew better than to openly challenge Mirkir, the most powerful priest in the kingdom. Though she despised the lecherous priest for the way he’d abused her husband Hacktor when he was a boy, the queen well understood the power of Mirkir’s influence over the Drokka faith and, by extension, the entire kingdom. That Hacktor ruled with Mirkir’s blessing was a given – that Mirkir’s blessing could be taken away (and along with it Hacktor’s crown) was just as obvious. Hecla knew that Mirkir had once used his power to take Hacktor from his father Baldur, just as he was doing with Alf now.
The queen knew she couldn’t stop Mirkir. Still, this was Alf—her son, her flesh and blood. It’s true she had never felt the same bond with him as she did with her daughter, Jini, but as Hecla looked over at Alf, she told herself that loved him.
“He is just a child,” Hecla said, her voice quiet but firm. “Can he not stay a little longer, at least until Hacktor returns?”
Mirkir’s thin lips twisted into a smile. “The gods have spoken, Your Majesty. It is not for us to question their will. Alf must go…now, while his spirit is still malleable. He will be trained in the ways of the faith, and when he returns, he will be stronger, both in body and soul.”
Hecla’s hands clenched in her lap. She knew she could not win this battle. To refuse Mirkir would be to risk her husband’s position – perhaps to destroy Hacktor’s legacy he had given his life for. Refusing Mirkir’s demands for Alf, would also risk her son’s future in the eyes of their people – for the Wyze One could use his position to poison the people against Alf.
“It would appear you hold all the cards,” Hecla whispered, feeling the sting of defeat, and now unable to look at the child she knew she was betraying. “Take him, then. But know that I will hold you personally responsible for his well-being, Mirkir.”
The priest’s smile deepened, his victory secured. “Of course, Your Majesty. The gods will watch over him. You have my word.”
And with that, the deal was sealed. Hecla watched in silence as Mirkir left the chamber leading Alf by the hand. The last picture she had of her son was the innocent boy looking up with naive curiosity at the old cleric, whose dark robes trailed behind him like the shadow of death. Tears welled in Hecla’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away like the royal she was – for there was no room for weakness in her world.
Months later, when Hacktor returned to Rhokki Pass in the fall, the halls were filled with the hushed whispers of what had transpired in his absence. He was already weary from the endless grind of war, but when he learned that Alf had been taken away to the sacred city of Iztak under Mirkir’s orders, he wasted no time in taking action himself.
Without even visiting with this wife, or securing an escort, the king mounted his pony and rode with all haste through the Byways for Iztak. He was the king, and no priest, no matter how powerful, would steal his son from him. The journey was tiring, but his rage fueled him. When he arrived at the grand stone walls of Iztak, the holy city carved out inside the mountains, his anger boiled over.
Mirkir greeted Hacktor with a calm, knowing expression, his hooded figure looming at the entrance to the main temple. Alf, now dressed in the simple robes of an acolyte, stood beside the priest, his small hands folded in front of him, his intelligent eyes unreadable.
“Release my son,” Hacktor demanded. “He is but a child, not a pawn in your games.”
Mirkir’s smile was cold, calculated. “Your Majesty, the gods has chosen Alf for this path. It is not for us to interfere with their will. As a royal Balkery, you of all people should understand this.”
“I don’t care about what you believe the gods have told you,” Hacktor spat. “Alf is my son. I will not have him trained in your foul ways, not while I live.”
The priest’s eyes darkened, but his voice remained calm. “Be careful, Kon-Herr Hacktor. The Well of Wyzdom still flows with the power you so desperately need. Anger the gods, and they may withhold their blessings.”
Hacktor froze at the mention of the Well. The Well of Wyzdom, the ancient source of power and prophecy, was the cornerstone of his strength as king – it was the very place where I, as Shedu Mazai, had first started Hacktor on his path to greatness. As The Spirit, I’d helped Hacktor become king, gain The Ghast, start his war, and marry his queen. Yet in the years since I’d gone silent and without my guidance, Hacktor had faced setbacks in his war. While Mirkir didn’t know my true identity or all that I’d done to help Hacktor, the priest knew that the king needed The Well and he knew that if Hacktor lost access to the Well now it would be disastrous, not just for his reign but for the entire kingdom.
Sensing the king’s hesitation, Mirkir pressed further. “You have an heir, do you not? Prince Uria. Strong, capable. Let him be enough for you. Accept that Alf’s destiny lies elsewhere. Surely we can agree on that.” And then with a sly smile the old Drokka hissed, “And if you cross me now, Kon-Herr, understand that you risk inciting the gods’ wrath. Is that truly a risk you are willing to take?”
Hacktor’s fists clenched at his sides. Every fiber of his being wanted to destroy his former mentor and long-time abuser. He wanted to grab Alf and ride away from this cursed place, to protect his son from the horrors of Mirkir’s ‘training.’ But The Wyze One was right – about everything. The war had drained the kingdom, was destroying his family, and public support was wavering. Yet Hacktor was committed to seeing the war through to completion – even if it destroyed him int the process for he believed with his very soul that this was his destiny. As a result, Hacktor knew couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Mirkir, not now, not ever.
And Alf—well Alf was not the heir. Uria was – and as long as the crown had a successor, Alf’s role was less crucial. Hacktor’s heart ached at the thought of leaving his son in Mirkir’s clutches, his rage burned, but in the end the king knew the choice had already been made for him – the entire trip had been a waste.
With a heavy heart, Hacktor turned to leave. His eyes met Alf’s for a brief moment, and the uncertain look on his wise son’s face cut him deeper than any blade ever could.
“I’m sorry,” Hacktor whispered, though whether it was to Alf or to himself, he wasn’t sure.
Later that day Hacktor stood before the Well of Wyzdom, its swirling mists rising from the depths in an eerie, otherworldly dance. Mirkir had given the king access to the well as a kind of peace offering between them. The king eagerly accepted – secretly hoping that he might find an unexpected solution to the present situation. For The Well had once been a place where Hacktor could seek guidance from the spirits of his ancestors and the gods. It was where I first came to him and showed him his destiny. But tonight, as he knelt upon the sacred stones, his heart was heavy with guilt.
“Help me,” Hacktor pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need your guidance. Tell me what to do.”
But the mists remained silent, swirling aimlessly without form or purpose. No voices spoke to him from beyond, no vision appeared to guide his path. For this is the way I wanted it.
Hacktor’s chest tightened with despair. “Please! I cannot leave my son in that monster’s hands. Show me the way!”
But again, there was nothing—only the cold, empty air, and the hollow sound of his own voice.
Tears stung Hacktor’s eyes as he slammed his fist into the stone edge of the Well. He had failed. He had failed his son, his family, and now, even the gods had abandoned him. The path ahead was clear, though it filled him with dread.
Hacktor stood, his face etched with a bitter resolve. He had no choice but to leave Alf in Iztak. The war, the kingdom, and his own future depended on it. But the decision would haunt him for the rest of his life.
In the quiet darkness of the Well chamber, Hacktor whispered a final prayer, though he no longer believed anyone was listening. [Little did he know I heard his every word, I just chose not to do anything about it].
A month later, as the year AO 313 was coming out an end, Hacktor stood on the wide balcony outside his apartments of the palace at Rhokki Pass. The interior glow of the mountains luminescence casting the capital city in a warm, golden light. The air was crisp, with the scent of the underground flora and old stones mingling on the light breeze. From this vantage point, Hacktor could see much of the capital beyond the royal walls – it’s taverns, shops, winding roads, and teeming people – bustling about within the cavernous maw that was the apex of his kingdom.
At his side was his eldest son, Prince Uria, now ten years old and tall for his age, with the same intense gaze that Hacktor had once possessed in his youth. The boy was dressed in a simple tunic of dark grey and his boots were scuffed from running through the training ground earlier in the day. He stood quietly beside his father, his young face serious.
Hacktor wore his usual black tunic and rested his hand on the stone railing. He looked down at a goblet of win he had brought with him but had barely touched. His eyes traced the liquid as it caught the faint light of evening, sparkling dark red like blood. His once-proud posture sagged slightly, the weight of years of war and loss bearing down on him. A flask of stronger liquor hung at his waist, its presence almost comforting, though Hacktor had long grown to hate what it represented.
The king had started drinking more in recent years. The battles had gotten longer, the burdens of the crown heavier, and the memories of unspoken regrets became harder to escape. But he had always told himself he could control this ever growing addiction if he had to. That it was just to take the edge off. Yet, deep down, he knew better.
He glanced sideways at Uria. The boy was watching the people – his future subjects – and Hacktor wondered what he thought about them.
Eventually the king cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“Uria,” he began, his voice rough, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something you’ll need to remember.”
Uria turned his head slightly, looking up. “Yes, Father?”
Hacktor’s grip tightened on the goblet before he set it down on the stone ledge with deliberate care. He straightened, drawing in a long breath, and then turned to face his son fully.
“You’re growing up fast,” he said, his voice softening. “Soon, you’ll be a full Drokka, and there are things you need to know. Things that… my father had told me when I was younger. Unfortunately I refused to listen. I hope you don’t make the same mistake.”
Uria’s brow furrowed, his young face serious. He always listened intently when his father spoke.
Hacktor gestured to the untouched goblet of wine. “Do you know why I brought this with me today?”
The boy shook his head, his eyes flicking to the wine. “No, lord.”
Hacktor sighed, running a hand through his long graying hair. “I brought it to remind myself of something. Something I want to remind you of, too.” His voice grew heavier, as if each word was weighed down by years of regret. “You see, Uria, there’s a danger in this… this wine, this drink…any drink. More than most Drokka realize.”
He reached out and touched the goblet lightly, turning it so that the wine inside shimmered in the dying light. “It looks harmless, even beautiful. It sparkles in the cup. Goes down smooth. But in the end, it bites like a snake and poisons like a cave viper.”
Uria’s eyes widened slightly. He had never heard his father speak like this before.
Hacktor continued, his gaze growing distant as if recalling old memories. “Do not gaze at wine when it is red, Uria. Don’t be fooled by how it looks. That’s what…Baldur warned me about. He said it promises ease, comfort, but in the end, it will steal your mind. And my father was right. Uria, when you drink this, your eyes will see strange sights. Your thoughts will twist. You’ll feel invincible, like you can face anything, but… it’s a lie.”
The boy stood still, absorbing his father’s words, yet unable to speak.
Hacktor’s voice grew graver. “Who has woe, Uria? Who has sorrow? Who has strife and complaints? It’s those who linger over wine and strong ale… those who lose themselves in it, like I have, more than I care to admit.” He looked down at the goblet, almost as if in shame, before turning his gaze back to his son. “And in the end, when you’ve had too much, you’ll say, ‘They hit me, but I’m not hurt. They beat me, but I don’t feel it.’ And when you wake, all you’ll want is another drink.”
Hacktor’s hand tightened around the stone railing, his knuckles white. “This curse has already taken your sister, Livy, but it’s not I too late for you, Uria. You’re my son, the heir to this kingdom. You can do better, but you’ll face battles far greater than any I’ve fought, and you’ll need a clear mind to do it.”
Uria nodded slowly, sensing the weight of his father’s words. “I understand, Father.”
But Hacktor wasn’t sure if the boy truly did. How could he? Uria was still young, still pure in many ways. He hadn’t seen the horrors Hacktor had seen, hadn’t faced the temptations that came with power, with pain, with loss. But he would, one day. And when that day came, Hacktor needed him to remember this moment. Although he’d tried to take action to save his eldest daughter Livy from a life of vice, he feared it was already too late for her. He needed Uria to do better – to be better.
The king placed a hand on Uria’s shoulder, his grip firm. “I’ve made my mistakes, son. More than I care to admit. And I’ve paid for them. But you… you have a chance to be better than I ever was.”
The wind of the caves picked up, kicking up dust below and sending a chill through the air. Uria shivered slightly, but his gaze remained locked on his father’s.
“I promise, Father,” Uria said, his voice steady. “I won’t forget.”
Hacktor looked down at his son, seeing in him the future of the kingdom, the hope that things could be different. He nodded, his heart heavy with pride but also fear. He hoped Uria would heed his warning, that he wouldn’t follow the same path.
But only time would tell.
A year later – Hacktor returned with his army from another campaign – they’d taken more of Gor and even though the war was still far from over spirits were high. The great hall of Rhokki Pass was alive with the murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet, and the clinking of goblets as courtiers and nobles celebrated the king’s return. At the head of the room, Hacktor sat on his throne, his hand resting on the arm of his chair, eyes scanning the crowd with the sharpness of a hawk.
To his right sat Hecla, her face a mask of regal detachment, her black hair shining in the firelight, though her expression betrayed little of the warmth she once reserved for her family. The king knew that his wife was struggling with their recent decision to banish their eldest daughter Livy from the palace due to her wanton ways – and yet the teenage girl’s uncontrollable behavior had left them no other choice.
Wiping the unwelcome thoughts from his mind, Hacktor turned to his left – seated uncomfortably on a smaller throne, was Uria—now eleven years old – the heir, the future of the Derkillez line. Although the king remained proud of his son, what Hacktor didn’t know is that the boy’s once bright, carefree eyes had dimmed in the past year, replaced by the uncertainty and anxiety that had slowly crept into his life. Uria’s back was straight as he sat on his throne, as his father had taught him, but his hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his robe, betraying his discomfort in the public setting. Court life – and all that went with it – had been thrust upon him too soon.
While Hacktor reveled in being a Kon-Herr of destiny, and Uria once relished a similar future, something had changed in him during the past year. Not only was his body changing in strange and mysterious way as he grew into a Drokka man, but Uria’s mind began to drown under the weight of his future. The expectations of him were suffocating. He was the heir, and he had to act like it. He had to listen, to learn, to be everything his father was. But as Uria entered puberty, his mental health declined. Although he’d trained his whole life to become a warrior, he no longer felt like one. He began to lose to training partners he’d bested before with ease. He also began to forget his lessons from his private tutors – things he once knew no longer came so easily. In short, Uria felt like a boy lost in the shadows of giants – and he began to hate himself for it.
“Pay attention to the crowd,” Hacktor muttered under his breath, glancing at Uria. “Learn who is your friend – for most are not.”
“Yes, father,” Uria whispered, straightening up.
But the young teen’s mind wandered. His eyes drifted over the faces of the courtiers—faces he didn’t really know, faces that stared at him with judgment, with expectation, and, in some cases, with disdain. He was still young, but he could sense their desire to manipulate him, their whispers about how he was not yet the Drokka his father was. He overheard their murmurs in the corridors, their doubts about his worthiness to inherit the throne.
He looked to his mother for reassurance, but Hecla was cold and distant and as usual her eyes focused elsewhere. She had grown more detached from Uria since the birth of his younger sister. Jini seemed to occupy all of Hecla’s attention now, and Livy, well Livy was always off chasing boys. As for Alf – Uria sometimes envied his brother who’d received the honor of being personally trained in The Faith by Mirkir The Wyze – just like Hacktor had been. And so, without a mother or siblings to lean upon, and his father always gone, Uria was left more and more on his own.
In his loneliness, Uria had started to seek solace…elsewhere. First he found the bottles in his father’s study. They sufficed for a time – until Monty Redstone caught him. Uria was sure The Coinmaster would tell his mother, but the boy was surprised when Monty proved to be a friend – and not just someone to talk to, but instead someone who seemed to understand – and offer solutions. There were people, Monty had told Uria in private – certain brokers of pleasure and escape—who whispered sweet promises of relief from the weight he carried. Although Uria was too afraid to take action on Monty’s offer, the seeds had been planted and the boy took some solace in knowing that the Coinmaster would help him if the pressure got to be too much.
“Uria,” Hacktor’s voice snapped him back to the present. “What do you see?”
Uria’s heart raced, his mouth dry. He hadn’t been watching. “I… I’m sorry, father.”
Hacktor’s eyes darkened with disappointment, and he said nothing more, turning back to the crowd – faking a smile. Uria’s stomach twisted in knots. He had failed again, in front of everyone.
And so, the boy who had once swung a wooden sword with such joy as he trained with his dad, now felt like a failure before him. Not only in his own eyes, but in the eyes of his father—the king he still so desperately wanted to make proud.
It was a failure that Monty Redstone noticed too – although the courtier was pretending to ham it up with other politicians, he’d been secretly observing the prince. When he saw Uria’s crestfallen face, Monty made a point to pay a visit to the heir again later that evening – certain that Uria was ready to take the next step in his descent into despair.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 