"My people," he yells and leans over the edge of the castle's tower. His voice is magically amplified (a consequence of breaking the third of the Seven Seals) and each in the adoring throng believes she is spoken to individually.
They love him, and the have reason. The Chosen One of Prophecy is so close to completing the Septad, after which the scrolls say he will ascend the throne and be granted one wish.
"His late wife, returned to his side from the Shadowlands to which she was carried by the Evil One, to live and rule with him until their days are truly complete," a farmhand explains. The boy is a little teary - it's such a pure love, and most sniffle when they think of it. No one can manage jealousy. They're meant to be together.
"They'd make such a good king and queen," he continues. "Especially since, you know." He bows his head and twists his fingers to form a series of religious symbols over his heart. "Since he can clear his dad's name then. Open the old libraries, figure out who truly murdered his mum. Bless them all." More gestures.
The man atop the tower begins to speak again, and the farmhand hushes us. He gazes beneficently up at He Who Will Be King, and sighs wistfully.
"My people," the man continues. "I return to you with the Books of Ere'a't'heo'roen." He holds up a dingy sack, framing it in such a way that the sun forms a halo around the parcel. "We now know the chants to open the Northern Passes, and can reunite with our brothers who ventured there before the Great Storms." Cheers from the crowd.
"Thing is though," he says. "Thing is." He drops the books and runs both hands through his hair. "I'm just not like... feeling it. You know?" The crowd does not know, and there is silence. "They went for the relics of St. Ambrosieity." At the mention of the name everyone gesticulates.
"And they'll bring them back. We can then unlock the Doors Beyond..." Everyone cheers. He grimaces. "Then I'll do the vision quest to meet the ancestors." The crowd is wild. "By that time we'll have discovered the resting places of the last Seals..." Even with the amplification, it's difficult to hear the man.
"And we'll win," he concludes. The stones below us shake, half from the happy stomping, half from the resonating screams of joy. Men and women swoon. "He doesn't even have any doubts. So confident," the farmhand leans in and whispers. "Can you believe he was just a teenage baker a year ago?"
The One of Prophecy holds up another object in his hand, and everyone squints and stands on their toes to see. It's golden. No, yellow. Bright yellow. It's possibly the jewel his dead wife used to wear. "This," he begins, "is a chick. A small chicken."
Confused murmurs. This was not one of the objects of prophecy. He leans over the edge of the tower and dangles the thing over the moat. More confusion. It's possible this is a magical feat they've not heard of. He drops it. The slightest splash. Murmurs, slightly more concerned than confused.
He swings a leg over the tower's edge. Staring down at the water, he appears frozen. Pensive. He gestures behind himself, and someone places another chick in his hand. "This," he says, "is another chick." Another splash. The crowd is unsure, restless.
He kicks a leg out over the water, but shakes his head in frustration. He strains against something. A frantic gesture, and another chick appears. Another splash. "Hey," someone in the crowd yells. "Stop that!" He glances out at the crowd, and up at the sky. Someone puts a handful of chicks into his hand. A series of quiet splashes.
Something shifts. Some will tell later that the shaft of sunlight that usually framed his face seemed to blink out. Another will recall noticing, for the first time, that he had an unfortunate mole that drew her attention. He slips over the edge, but slowly, as if pushing through some fading ward. He's lowered to the moat as if by angels.
He looks down to the crowd and his eyes fix on a young girl. Berthildha. Likable, if somewhat slow, she could be seen every morning in the middle of her market, selling milk from her three-legged cow. Everyone tended to pay her a little more than she asked for, but they loved her.
"Hag!" he yells at Berthildha. Something snaps, and like lightning he plummets, crashing into the water at a speed no man could survive. Bertie (as she's known) looks over the edge. "He's not moving," she says to the crowd over her shoulder. She gasps and points next to us.
The farmhand is bathed in a golden light.