Disclaimer: All characters belong to the WWE. Parts of the text belong to JRR Tolkien.
A/N: This is a high-fantasy story. The year is 975 AD. Mercia is considered a kingdom on its own. The Triad is my name for the Winter Triangle, comprising of Betelgeuse (Zion), Procyon (Babylon) and Sirius (Jericho).
prologue
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
[- the Lord of the Rings, Book Three Chapter VI: the King of the Golden Hall]
'How did it come to this?'
"My lord, you must come to a decision."
The rain droned on outside, as it had for the past few weeks. Soon they will be flooded in. 'What I wouldn't give for the rain to wash these stains away...'
Owen stood in the middle of his study, staring out into the endless night. He did not feel like a leader, much less a king with all the hopes of Mercia weighing down upon him. He was just plain Owen, the quiet obedient son of Stewart Hart. Stewart Hart, who also happened to be the finest king that Mercia has ever known. 'If I had only known your will father... What would you have done instead?'
Mercia is facing utter ruin. Not now of course, not when the people still had plentiful to eat and drink, and time enough to demand greater rights from their king. They have known nothing but peace and stability for most of their lives and won't be expecting the chaos that is about to befall them... Not now, but in a few years' time, when Owen himself would no longer be around...
"Those are dark thoughts, my lord."
"No darker than the times, Mark."
"All is at peace, my lord. The men are just a little restless. They need to know that all is in control."
"But all is spinning out of my control! Do you think that this peace will endure? No, this is just but the calm before the storm."
Owen could tell that his trusted adviser wished to retort, but decided not to, and instead quietened. The soon-to-be king gave a wry smile, and returned to his contemplation of the night sky. 'Zion, Babylon, and Jericho - our brightest star.' The appearance of the Triad signals the coming of winter, and Owen could not help shiver at the thought of the chill. 'Not even Jericho can give us hope enough to last through the cold. The end is near, only but a decision away...'
There was hope, however minute. Even now, if his brother could return in time to the palace, Owen may yet be spared this seemingly inevitable fate. Bret had been the stronger of the two, and Bret could carry them through this crisis. If there is any chance for Mercia's survival at all, Bret would be it. But Bret is also hundred of miles away, free from all bonds of duty and responsibility. 'Nothing could have caged him at all, not even father's death.'
"I wonder if he knows of it."
"Of what, my lord?"
"Of father's death."
"The whole kingdom is shaken because of it. Surely prince Bret would have heard of the news?"
"I wouldn't know. If he wants to leave, no one would be able to reach him."
Yes, Bret had always had his way. With words, with women... 'With father. Bret had always had father's love.' They were both so alike, Stewart and Bret Hart. Proud, stubborn even, but strong. They could be counted on to get the job done. 'To get the job done...'
"Mark, ready the guards. Tomorrow, I will be crowned king."