A/N: Sorry, a little infodump at the beginning for those who are not familiar with the history of Artur Hawkwing.
Artur Paendrag Tanreall, The High King, had a counsellor named Moerad that in truth seems to have been Ishamael. At least one can draw that conclusion from the history narrated in The World of the Wheel of Time by RJ and Teresa Patterson.
Apparently, Ishamael was not fully bound to his prison, but several times, the Wheel spun him out for certain period of time and he had his chance to interfere with the world. And we have read Ba'alzamon claiming he was there when Hawkwing died.
And when Hawkwing died Moerad counselled several others, those that had the best chances to conquer all the lands of the empire. Not so surprisingly, all of them died in mysterious circumstances.
This is my take on the death of Artur Hawkwing, a story that was born when I jokingly claimed at my fabulous beta Min Daae that I will write a love-triangle between Ishamael, Artur and Tamsin. Not quite so, but close. And it was oh so liberating to write someone genuinely evil, I can tell ya that!
The usual disclaimer: Not mine, RJ's, I just like to play with the history he has created. Yes, for free.
BETRAYING HOPE
The High King was dying. The mighty Artur Hawkwing was tied to his bed, haunted by ghosts of the past in his fever-wrought mirages.
"Here, my King. Drink this…" He offered a cup of water to the dying man, attempting to wet his parched lips. The cuendillar goblet bounced on the floor when Hawkwing knocked it from his hand. The man clicked his tongue in irritation. Old fool. Brought down by mortality.
But immortality had its' own price. He could feel the pull and knew he would not have much time until he would have to return to his dreamless sleep. But no matter, his work here was almost done. The Healing had been offered and of course, the mighty king had refused. It had not even taken a lot of persuasion.
He was, after all, The Betrayer of Hope. He hardly remembered Elan Morin Tedronai. That man was nothing more than a faint memory, like a story written by someone else, a story he had read a long ago.
They had named him Ishamael. But he preferred Ba'alzamon, 'Heart of the Dark'. And the darkness would be falling on the land very soon. The empire would break like a Shi'Taig doll when the High King took his last breath. There was no one to continue the empire, his heirs and heiresses either dead or sent for a fool's errand.
Hawkwing was delirious. Ishamael snorted in disdain. He would dare to do that, now that there was no need to hide behind false respect. The two men were alone in the bedchamber. At this point, the High King could only tolerate him. His most trusted advisor, 'Moerad'. So now he alone had to suffer the ramblings of the half senile old man. Even the images he presented Hawkwing did not amuse Ishamael any longer.
The ships burning and sinking at the bay of some unknown land.
His other daughter sold at the slave market to a cruel looking man. Or the other one dragged away by Myrdraal while she shrieked for her son, his lifeless body laying on the ground and the Trollocs approaching, hungry…
Tamsin on her own deathbed, the child in her womb nothing more than Black Death of cancer.
Your wife's life was the price to pay for not letting Aes Sedai enter the Citadel with a threat of stoning, thought Ishamael derisively.
Fool man had let his wife die rather than called for a Yellow Sister. He had trained the man well. Like a faithful dog, paranoid in his hatred. And the Sisters, those little girls playing Servants of All and being anything but, had contributed admirably. That proud but yet insecure woman, Bonwhin, had listened to him so attentively, her dreams being pitiably protected.
"Tamsin, my love."
Sometimes Hawkwing spoke like she was in the room. Tamsin, or his first wife Amaline. Sometimes he commanded his armies against that False Dragon. Sometimes he even sang lullabies to his children, imagining they were still little. That made Ishamael's features distort in disgust.
But when Hawkwing commanded his armies to attack and leave no prisoners Ishamael smiled and for a moment, it seemed like flames were dancing in his eyes.
Tamsin. She had deserved to die. He could have let her live, but she had chosen otherwise, scorning him, rejecting him.
She had been like a flame of life, with long dark red hair and fiery nature. A strong nature. But she had never trusted Moerad and he had never been able to make his way close to her. She had always been polite, even respectful, but her dreams were closed for him, closed like the doors of the Hall of the Servants.
She had been the ultimate challenge…
"Moerad?"
The voice from the bed pulled him from his musings and he looked down at Hawkwing.
"I am here, my Lord." He said softly, soothingly. "What can I do for you?"
His eyes were alert, first time in days.
"Marithelle. I want to speak to her."
"My King, are you sure you are strong e…"
But he had already grabbed a bell on the bedside table into his crooked fingers. The sound summoned his manservant, a fellow as old as Hawkwing himself and resembling a heron when he hovered behind the door of his master's chambers.
"His Majesty wishes to speak for Lady Marithelle. Please summon her."
In less than a minute the woman swept into the room. Her wide black skirts slashed with yellow and white spread gracefully around her when she kneeled by the bed.
"Uncle." Marithelle Camaelaine whispered, her voice breaking when she took his hand. "How are you feeling?"
She was wise enough not to mention Healing.
"I am dying, my dear. Oh no, don't try to deny that and lie to me." The High King shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest. "I can feel my time is coming to an end. I want you to promise me something."
"Anything, of course." There were tears in her dark eyes.
"When I am gone, I want you to keep the Empire together. Save what can be saved. The men will follow you."
"But I am not a warrior…"
"No, I need you to be a General. A Queen. Will you do it, for me?"
"Yes."
"You promise? On your aunt's name and on the hope of her rebirth?"
"I promise. I will keep the Empire together as well as I can."
"Then I am content."
Wearily, the High King closed his eyes for the last time and sighed. For a long time Marithelle stared at him, kneeling by his bed and holding his hand. Then she burst into silent tears.
Noiselessly, calculatingly he took a step forward and pressed his palm on her shoulder.
"My Lady. The people must be notified that the High King is gone."
Resignedly she stood up, her shoulders slumping. The tears were streaming down her features, only underlining her beauty.
Ah, yes.
"I cannot."
"Yes, you can, My Lady. You must be strong." With his hand he pushed the dark lock that had escaped the silver hairnet behind her ear. She shivered. Then she straightened her back and looked him in the eyes.
"I will be strong, Lord Moerad. For the sake of the Empire. Will you help me fulfil my promise?"
"I will help you. Like I helped your uncle."
She nodded at that and together they walked out of the room and away from the dead man, to notify the Palace that an end of an era had come.
And another era would start, right here, tonight. An era of blood and war to celebrate the glory of the Great Lord of the Dark.
How did the old saying go? Ah yes. Let the Lord of Chaos rule…