Welcome back...
Again, thank you for the comments and reviews. They're always helpful. This is a learning process, and I'm learning a lot thanks to you folks.
I appreciate the comments about the plot pace being slow. I've plotted out my chapters, and I've tried to combine a few things to pick up the pace. Plot pace is very hard for me to get right, so the comments are appreciated. Let's see if things improve.
This was one of the hardest, and easiest, chapters I've ever written.
The first part of the chapter was hard, since it dealt with an emotional theme, and according to what I've been told, I have the emotional sensitivity of a doughnut - and not even a cream filled one.
The second part was the easiest since it dealt with conflict between characters. I have to admit, I like writing conflict and action scenes far better than the emotional stuff, but if you are going to have a well-rounded story, you have to bring in the full arsenal of emotions.
I lamented over this chapter for days trying to try to get the desired emotional pull out of the reader. I'm hoping the dynamic was powerful and will have you wanting to grab some tissues, and then go out and kick some butt!
The two parts of the chapter are diametrically opposed emotionally so it should be a roller coaster ride for y'all - at least that's what I'm hoping. I'm trying to break your heart, and then piss you off in only 5K words. Let's see how it goes...
Again, sincere apologies for bad grammar and mis-spellings. This chapter really isn't my best effort, so apologies. It's rough and doesn't flow very well, but it wasn't getting better after several major revisions... So without further ado...
Final Warning: Buckle up, Buttercup. Time to open up the flood gates, and take you on a ride.
Chapter 8:
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Stoick the Vast sat motionless beside the firepit in his home. His strong face etched with grief and inconsolable loss as the raging storm thundered overhead. The dying fires soft illumination cast eerie dancing shadows upon his broad cheekbones, chased away only by the sudden, blinding lightning streaks which tore through the blackened skies overhead.
After hours of lonely solitude, he suddenly rose and walked into his bed chamber to retrieve a small trunk that had been stowed in a secret area of the room, hidden away from prying eyes. Exhaling, he gently lifted the old, warped and weathered trunk, lovingly cradling it as he made his way back into his home's large central room.
Placing the trunk carefully by his favorite chair, he seated himself and let his hands wander over the gnarled wood. Clutching the lid, he hesitated before delicately releasing the old, rusty lock which kept hidden the small treasures he had cherished privately for thirteen years.
Rarely did the tough, hardened Chief allow himself to feel the pain of his memories, but with the Winterfyllith approaching, his mind had been filled with little else. Opening the lid, he stared blankly into the trunk for several long moments before reaching a shaking hand inside and carefully running his fingers over the contents, taking great care not to damage the precious objects.
The trunk, which once held the vibrant clothing of his beloved, now contained only old tattered linen, grayed by the years, forgotten by all but Stoick the Vast. Scattered among his wife's old clothes were a few of her most beloved personal items; tokens that most reminded Stoick of his young and vivacious bride.
As his large, calloused hand moved lovingly over his wife's belongings, his face seemed to age. A look of despair and loneliness crept into his normally strong and confident features. A sigh escaped his lips as he slowly pulled a small piece of clothing from the trunk and clutched it possessively to his face, slowly rubbing the delicate garment against his rough, unshaven cheek.
Stoick closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, searching hopeless for any small trace of his wife's long lost scent. As he slowly exhaled, his minds eye pictured her slowly growing belly, and how his beloved radiated a glow that seemed to intensify with each passing day.
Repeatedly inhaling and exhaling into the garment he mentally reminisced about the day he was told about the birth of their first child, and how the news had brought him unending joy. He chuckled quietly, recalling how he swept his new bride off her feet and whisked her to their marital bed. The passion of their union still smoldered in his core like the last ember of a dying fire that refuses to disintegrate into ash.
The Chief's facial expression slowly turned to one of great joy as he remembered how the couple laid spooned together, exhausted and sweaty, giggling in hushed, excited tones about the impending birth. That single night's magic, so very long ago, still lingered in his mind and enchanted his heart.
The sweet memory made the lonely man clutch the garment to his face like a lifeline, silently begging the Gods to release his lost love from Valhalla and allow her to materialize before him. Jarred from his daydreams by a thunder clap, the chief returned his attention to the few remaining mementoes. The man's large hands trembled as they roamed over the scattered remembrances of her life, slowly removing each one, placing them on the floor beside the old trunk.
Stoick immediately froze as his eyes fell upon one of the items. With fumbling hands he reached for the delicate treasure, slowly freeing it from where it had been carefully stored. His eyes widened with amazement as they once again swept over the old metal tankard. The Chief couldn't help but marvel at the workmanship, and how small and light it felt in his large hand. The tankard was his most beloved keepsake since it had been his wife's favorite gift. Although many of the Berkians had left gifts on their doorstep when they announced her pregnancy, this one seemed to bring her endless delight.
The Chief's face lit up as he ran his thumb over the intricate design, recalling how his wife was charmed by the extravagant gift. Placing it on the table next to the trunk, he stared at it as his mind once again slipped into the past.
He snickered and huffed out a small snort, a pleasant smirk splashing across his lips. Shaking his head in jest, he recalled the many times he was ordered out of their bed to fetch food to satisfy her strange and growing cravings. Being the dutiful husband, he faithfully executed his wife's orders, trudging out into the snow to fill her latest request with nary a complaint. His smirk widened into a grin as he pictured her struggling to put on her undergarments as her ever growing baby belly made even the simplest tasks more difficult, all the while playfully chiding him for his culpability in her constantly enlarging figure.
The intimate moments shared as they lay, snuggled together, wrapped within the cocoon of their intertwined limbs underneath warm blankets, rolled like gentle waves through his mind. Her sweet, melodic voice still echoed from some far-away place, as musings of their child's heroic deeds would live on in Viking folklore, still floated aimlessly on the warm night air like a mist.
The Chief's brow furrowed as the sweet memory was chased away by a loud thunder clap, snapping him out of his reverie. A darkness, swirling like a raging river in the mighty Chiefs mind, suddenly took hold, whisking it away to a time when his beautiful bride was hunched over in pain sobbing, her torment escalating daily as the pregnancy advanced.
Stoick still marveled at the inner strength of his ill wife. How she continually refused to give up hope, even when the village healer had predicted their child would be stillborn. Even as she slowly wasted away from lack of nourishment, she refused to accept that the babe would perish. She knew that the child would be small and weak, but her warm hazel eyes continually filled with joy and hope at the mere mention of their child.
The strong Chief recalled sitting at her bedside daily, speaking in hushed whispers about their future together, and the next heir of the Hooligans. How their beloved child - even if just a little small starting out - would still grow into a strong, fierce, and fearless Viking. A gifted leader, blessed by the Gods, who would be charismatic, stubborn, stalwart in his beliefs, and a blazing star for future chiefs to follow.
Even after all these years, he could still taste her lips. Still smell her hair. Still see her face. Still feel her soft skin as he held her frail hand in his own, feeding her diligently out of the tankard she loved. Each day desperately hoping to infuse strength into the woman he loved, but instead was forced to watch her slowly wither away, helpless to stop the inevitable.
The brave leader of the Hooligans grimaced, scrunched his eyes closed, and allowed his mind to take him on another journey into the past. This time he found himself at his wife's bedside just after she delivered their premature son. He saw his beloved's face, her petrified hazel eyes, the look of fear, of great loss, of sorrow for what might have been.
He could hear her sweet voice, cracked and soft from the battle with her illness, begging that he take care of their newborn son. Making him swear to always protect their 'little Hiccup'. A tear rolled down the large man's face as he saw his wife's eyes close for the last time. Her lifeless hand slowly growing cold as he clutched it to his chest possessively, refusing to let go. Refusing to let her go... to slip away to a place where he couldn't follow... to a place where he could no longer protect her.
The battle-hardened warrior seemed to collapse under the weight of his private agony, his shoulders hunching as he tightly grasped the sides of the trunk, using the fragile piece of wood to support his sagging body. After regaining his composure, his apprehensive and shaking hands picked up another of his wife's old garments. Rubbing the fabric gently between his fingers, it felt oddly cold, bereft of any feeling other than a overwhelming sense of loss. For the first time in thirteen years the large man felt completely alone, and a wave of of great sadness rippled into his soul.
Dropping his head into his hands, he whispered into the old, frayed garment, "Ah, Val... I wish you were here. I'm making a mess of things. I'm trying my best to make the boy into that strong, fierce, and fearless Viking we talked about, but I'm failing miserably. He's nothing like me... he... he's ..." the Chief's voice faded into the distance as the sentence just evaporated from his lips.
Stoick lifted his head from his hands and sniffed back a tear, "I won't be around to protect him forever, and I can't seem to teach him how to protect himself. He's just so... different... I can't figure out how to talk to him..."
He huffed out a sad sigh before taking a deep breath and continuing, his eyes suddenly glassy, "You'd know all the right things to say to fix this, but I don't. I can't... I'm just..." The sound of uncertainty and fear threaded the brave Viking's voice. He knew what a Viking could do; crush mountains, level forests, and tame seas, but for the first time in his life, being a Viking was completely useless when when it came to just talking to a thirteen year old boy.
His head slumped as he let his eyes fall to the floor in utter defeat. Speaking in just a whisper, his voice cracked and shaky, he choked out, "I-I'm so sorry... my dearest love. I can't keep my promise. I failed... Forgive me... Please forgive me..."
As the Hooligan Chief sat stock-still, clutching the small garment in his hands, his mind refocused on Winterfillth celebration. His thoughts swam with worry and a sense of foreboding as he tried to figure out how he'd react officiating Hiccup's gift presentation - dreading it would be something disastrous, or worse, something that ignited more painful memories - when several loud, rapid knocks exploded into the silent room, startling Stoick out of his dark musings.
Huffing out a irritated grunt, the Chief lightly placed the delicate garment into the trunk, closing the lid carefully. Unhurriedly, he stood and straightened his battle armor, annoyed that his quiet evening had been interrupted. The scowl that crept across his face as he walked to the door clearly warned his uninvited visitor that their presence wouldn't be tolerated long.
When the massive door swung open, Stoick was greeted by a rush of the new day's warm air, along with his brother's pompous, condescending face. Breathless and furious, Spitelout's hands were balled into fists, his nostrils flared in anger. "Stoick. We need to talk... Now!" he barked, his voice edged with a barely concealed fury.
The elder brother closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, his lips pulling into a tight, thin line. Right now was not the time to dwell on his personal sorrows. It was time to be the tribal patriarch and deal with this smoldering issue before it ignited.
From Spitelout's voice and body language, something serious had happened, and, by the look of things, all Hel was about to break loose. Under his breath, Stoick muttered a quick prayer to almighty Thor, hoping whatever was brewing had nothing to do with his son.
The younger, smaller Viking aggressively pushed past his brother, knocking into his shoulder intentionally, forcing Stoick to step back as he shoved his way in, muttering curses about Hiccup as he passed. Stoick exhaled disappointedly, rolling his eyes - no such luck - his child was was again in the middle, or cause, of another village catastrophe.
Eyes wild and shoulders menacingly hunched, the irate man stopped abruptly after several paces, quickly turning. Locking eyes, he spat out angrily, "Hiccup almost burned down the entire village last night! Did you know that? Well, did you?" Arms flailing in all directions, his accusatory tone barely veiled as a question.
Seeing his brother bristle at his insinuation, Spitelout paused, calming himself before growling low and threatening, "That idiot of a boy didn't put out the pit fire in the forge before going to sleep. The forge is in shambles and it's all his fault!" Beady eyes narrowed as they drank in the now surprised look on his older brother's face.
"What?!" Stoick shot back after absorbing the words, concern flooding his voice and body. "Is Hiccup all right?! Is he safe?!"
Adopting a look of pure repugnance, the younger Viking gazed at his slightly taller sibling. "Ah, I see you weren't aware... Typical," he spat. Glaring scornfully, he chastised the tribe's leader with his eyes.
Deliberately diverting his head as he spoke, he muttered under his breath, "I suppose it would be too much to expect you to keep track of that disaster of a child..."
Turning his head back to face his brother, he responded coldly, "Yes... Your son managed, yet again, to survive relatively unscathed. It seems he excels at causing disasters for others, but manages to do little damage to himself." Every uttered word dripped with contempt.
Stoick quickly stepped closer, fear flashing across his face. "Where is he?!" he pressed, trying to remain calm as fear for his only child threatened to claw it's way through his chest. Spitelout noticed his brother's weakened demeanor and eyed him suspiciously.
Suddenly, the orchestrater of the tribe's battle mantra was struck by his own words as they rang in his ears like a cruel echo, 'Vikings are tough, strong, fearless, they laugh at pain, they never cry...' The Chief set his jaw firm and gathered his composure, extending himself to his full height, once again looking every bit the strong and fearless Viking leader of the Hooligan tribe.
"By now, he's probably hiding like any coward," the once-devoted sibling retorted, his voice oozing with venom.
After seeing the anger slowly build on Stoick's face like a developing cyclone, the hot-tempered man calmed himself and continued subdued, "... Um, last I saw him, Gobber was taking him into the forge." All vestiges of his former arrogance quickly dissolved into subordinate behavior.
The unrestrained fury of the very large, pissed-off Viking was unmistakable. It caused Spitelout to tense and step backwards defensively, signaling that the unspoken message had been clearly received. The Berkian Chief took two slow steps forward, closing the gap between them before speaking. "My son is no coward, brother. You would do well to remember that," he said proudly, his voice dropping in tone as his eyes blazed, indicating an invisible line was crossed.
"He's young, inexperienced, and ..." Stoick seemed to search for a word as his brow furrowed, "different... That's all." His voice and facial features slowly softened as his eyes darted toward the ground, a small, almost imperceptible frown crossing his face.
Seeing Stoick's small resurgence of weakness, his antagonist harnessed his previous fervor and huffed out exasperated, "Different? He's a curse. We both know it! It's time for you to stop denying that fact, brother." Spitelout's finger jabbed deep into the Chief's large chest as he maneuvered himself to within inches, his breath hot on Stoick's face.
"You swore an oath of allegiance to protect the tribe," he hissed loudly, his tone clearly meant to goad and rebuke. "That has to come before kinship. You know it, and I know it. It's time for you to act like it." The confrontational Viking's posture now radiated a combat stance as his arms dropped to his sides, his hands balling into fists.
Challenging the Hooligan leader's authority, he continued, eyes dark and penetrating as they meticulously scanned over his brother's face. "It's true..." he concluded disgusted, "you've become weak since Val died."
Stoick's eyes widened with surprise at the sound of his wife's name, his mask slipping only momentarily, but long enough for victory to be claimed. "I didn't believe the claims from our tribesmen," he sneered his eyes dancing with delight and triumph, "but now I can see it's all true. The curse of the runt has indeed turned you soft. You're no longer fit to rule." Spitelout smirked, visibly enjoying thrusting and twisting his verbal blade into Stoick's craw.
The combative Viking sneered as he shook his head, "I didn't think I'd live to see the day when the blood of a weak fool coursed through the veins of the once-mighty Stoick the Vast." The younger man stared intently at his brother, eyes narrowed as if burrowing into the Chief's very soul, hunting for more signs of weakness.
Spitelout's eyes suddenly widened as if he was privy to the private raw agony buried deeply under the Chief's strong facade. "You don't deserve to be Chief!" he screamed, then spat at his brother's feet.
Stoick stiffened, his head darting downward as he stared at the saliva pooled only inches from his feet. Slowly he raised his eyes and glared at his brother from under furrowed brows. The two mutually antagonistic men stared silently, engaged in some strange sibling dominance ritual.
The deafening silence was finally broken when a strong, confident and calm voice, one deserving of a true leader, finally responded. "I'll speak to Gobber about this matter, and get his report on what happened last night. I'll sort this out. If punishment is required, it will be carried out according to our laws. No special treatment."
"Gobber?" the younger man almost barked surprised, "You'll speak to that idiot and take his word over... over you're own brother's?!" Spitelout squawked, his voice breaking with disbelief, his personal affront at the suggestion that his report needed verification clearly displayed in his body language. Like a cold slap in the face, it became immediately and painfully clear that he was no longer his brother's right-hand-man, but had been replaced by an idiot, runt-loving blacksmith.
The self-important Viking could feel bile raise from his stomach, the heat of humiliation rushing over his body. Scornfully he mocked, "... What di yih think he'll tell yih?" his voice dripping with distaste and disapproval. "Certainly not the truth. He's far too fond of the boy to say anything to your face," he rebuked in a scathing tone. The Chief stared back blankly, his resolve unwavered.
Staring dumbfounded, Spitelout reluctantly lowered his head, closed his eyes and sighed before speaking. His lips pulled into a sharp line as all previous hubris evaporated, "Stoick, it's time to face facts."
The brooding man raised his head and faced his his older brother, the fight in his eyes extinguished as the steadfastness of the Chief appeared unbreakable. "Today it was the forge that almost burned down. A couple months ago he let our livestock loose and almost got trampled to death. We lost about a quarter of our animals because of your son's negligence at the pen. Before that, he got himself trapped in the food storage hut during a storm, and again, nearly burnt it down. Luckily we were able to save most of the food," he summarized scathingly, raising a strangely scarred hand and irritatingly ticking off fingers. "Should I continue, because there's more," he huffed.
"You better than anyone knows how those disasters will affect the village this winter," he began in a insincere tone edged with concern. "The boy is not developing into a true Viking, Stoick. I know it's not from lack of trying. You've done your best." His face a mask of deceitful empathy.
"It's time for you to accept the facts. He's nearly destroyed the village, and killed himself, numerous times this past year. He's a danger to himself and others." Spitelout raised his hands, palms open, mimicking worry, his words and body language pretending to pursue a greater good.
"I know you don't want anything to happen to Hiccup. But if the boy keeps trying to prove his worthiness to lead, you'll lose him." Spitelout's voice was devoid of emotion as he searched the Berkian Chief's face for any sign of acknowledgment, hoping his claims of selfless nobility for the tribe, and for Stoick's son, would hide his shrewd and devious attempt at manipulation.
Stoick's face slowly softened, and his shoulders slumped. "Hiccup told me that he wasn't responsible for letting the animals loose, or the storage hut fire," his voice severely lacking its former confidence.
"And you believed him?" Spitelout's eyes widened, his brows raised in disbelief. Staring at the Chief with unblinking incomprehension, surprised at the naivet? of his older, assumed wiser, brother.
Stoick straightened and looked at his brother sternly, "Hiccup is many things, but a liar is not one of them. I believe my son." The Chief's staunch trust, received a caustic snort.
"Then you condemn us all to Hel, brother." Spitelout exhaled as he spoke, his voice morose as he shook his head with disappointment. After a few moments, he spoke again, all pride and anger aside.
"If you won't listen to reason, then I ask one final thing of you. For the sake of the tribe, I beg you brother..." his eyes coldly studying the mighty Chief's face, "... forbid Hiccup from attending the celebration."
With great urgency and concern he continued, "You know as well as I what will happen if Hiccup is allowed to go this year. He'll bring the curse. He'll cause the dead to return and cast evil spells on the tribe and damn us all. We can ill afford that. Not with our food reserves depleted and an early winter nearly upon us." Spitelout sighed in frustration as the steadfast look on the Chief's face indicated his words did little to weaken his brother's decision.
Lowering his head, and turning, Spitelout said thickly in an almost guttural tone, "The seer has already told you that the boy would bring only pain and misery to our village. To deny that makes you a fool and a traitor to out people." His anger again building at his failure to covertly manipulate the situation to his advantage.
"The decision has been made. I'll entertain no further discussion on this matter." Stoick said curtly.
Turning and raising his arm, Spitelout pointed his dirty finger directly at the Chief's face, his ire growing with each word. "Is that what you want? Is that the legacy the Great Stoick the Vast wants to leave his people? Do you really want to be known as a weak, foolish Viking leader, who betrayed the Hooligans by putting kin before duty? Where's your honor..." he berated, his voice dripping with malice.
Without warning he began pacing, his movements mirroring a caged animal who smelled weakened prey. "If you were a true leader," he hissed breathy and low, barely audible, "you would offer up the runt as a sacrifice to appease the spirits." Spitelout's pacing quickened as he mumbled incoherent words and phrases to himself, "Yeah... yeah... he can't... yeah... yeah... That's right... he's an abomination... It's wrong... wrong... I have to... for the good of all... " His face quickly became flushed with agitation, his eyes fluttering and wild with temporary madness.
Stoick, who had remained impassive through his brother's furious rant, took a aggressive step forward, a look of murderous intent flashing in his eyes. "Brother, you tread on dangerous ground here..." Stoick's body tensed as he locked eyes with Spitelout, his body moving into an offensive position, fists balled tight at his sides, body burning for vengeance, all his protective instincts ablaze.
"My son is not a curse, and will not be given as a sacrifice... ever!"
"You know as well as I it's an unforgivable offense for the future Chief not to attend. It would be his absence that angers the spirits, not his presence honoring his mother." The fierce Viking siblings stared each other down, each daring the other to make the next move.
"Hiccup will be the future chief of this tribe. So to Hel with the seer... and to Hel with you, brother!" Stoick moved like lightning, bumping his large chest against the smaller man, asserting his authority as the superior Viking, both in strength and honor.
From the force of the impact, Spitelout stumbled back as he tried to regain his footing. Scrunching his face in loathing, he fired back his own threat, his chest heaving heavily under the burden of emotion bubbling inside. "I think you underestimate my influence with the elders of this tribe. No... I'm not chief, but I wield great power. More power than you realize. And that power can be used to my advantage. It's not something I want to do, but if you leave me no choice... I will follow through."
"We both know my son is better suited to lead this tribe. I have many allies who believe as I do..." The younger man's implied threat left hanging, creating an almost physical barrier between the arguing men.
Stoick's eyes flared and his body quickly stiffened, the message clearly received. "You dare threaten me and my ruling line?" He roared, his fury like a tangible cloud surrounding his body.
"It isn't a threat, Stoick. It's a promise. One I intend to keep. If I were you, I wouldn't put too much hope in that runt of yours becoming Chief. There are forces at work here... ones outside your control. Either you will yield voluntarily, or you will be forced." Spitelout continued the verbal barrage as he drove home his poison words.
Stoick's face became a mix of confusion and betrayal. He stared at his brother, grappling with the meaning and consequences of his threat. Suddenly Stoick's eyes blazed with fury and his chest heaved with anger.
Taking advantage of Stoick's momentary hesitation, Spitelout charged his brother, stopping only inches from his face. His lips pulled into a cruel snarl as he hissed, "You disgrace yourself and Val by putting your feelings for kin before your duty and responsibility to the tribe. She's probably rolling over in her grave right now cursing your name."
Pausing only to allow his comments to register, Spitelout turned and made his way to the fire pit, glancing stealthy at the open trunk and scattered contents, an eyebrow suddenly raising with recognition.
Inwardly smiling, he spun and shouted, "For Thor's sake, Stoick, that bastard of a child killed your wife! Your continued devotion is pathetic!"
Stoick crossed the distance between them in mere seconds. Roughly he grabbed his brother around the neck, lifted him, and drove him backwards until he slammed against the wall. The shocked younger man immediately regretted provoking his brother's wrath, his eyes flittering downward to watch the Chief ball his hand into a fist and hover it only inches from his face. A profound silence seemed to fill the room as Stoick just stared at his brother, fist motionless and steady, calculating his next move.
The Hooligan Chief slowly unclenched his fist and grabbed his brother's neck with both hands. With a raspy voice bordering on a whisper, he leaned in and exhaled into Spitelout's face, eyes flaring. "Next time, my hand flies on it's own. There are severe consequences for your words. For the sake of family blood, I will forgive you only once. I warn you... if you ever say those words to my son, I will forget we share the same blood." His grip intensified and squeezing.
As air refused to pass the hands constricting this throat, Spitelout gasped and choked, his eyes rolling back into his head as he tried to stay conscious. Suddenly, and without explanation, the grip on his neck vanished. Dropping to his knees Spitelout looked up at the proud, looming figure of his brother.
"I think it's time you left my home... While you're still able."
Spitelout took a deep breath through his bruised throat, savoring the air which finally reached his lungs. He moved his hand up to grip his pained neck before extending his chin upward in a rebellious gesture, mouth shaped into a downward grimace.
Pointing a shaking finger, he sputtered through gritted teeth, "This isn't over Stoick. Not by a long shot. I'll go to the council and plead my case. If I have to, I'll invoke the Einvigi."
The Chief's eyes flashed with fury as his brother slowly stood and backed toward the door, still pointing his finger. Turning quickly, Spitelout grabbed the handle of the door and thrust it open. Before leaving, he shot one final look at his brother and said, "Your son will never be Chief. Revoke Hiccup's birthright, Stoick. Appoint my son as the next heir of Berk. For Thor's sake, preserve the last piece of Val that you still have."
"Out!" Stoick screamed as he thrust his arm up pointing to the door. "By your command..." Spitelout said gruffly. "The death of your son will be on your head. May Odin have mercy on his soul... "