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Brum stood at the foot of the luxurious bed, the withering human before filling his stomach with iron filings. It couldn't be seen through the small viewport on his ashen helmet, but he was afraid. He had never felt a fear he couldn't overcome through violence until now.
In the same space, the room was horrifically empty. It was abnormal. How was General Alwick to have a good death in absence of the weak and impoverished? A crowd of the devout? How was he to reach heaven without a performance?
Brum was never a fan of the pomp and circumstance that came with dying, the need to have some sort of ephiphany and Holy Spirit corruption that gave the senseless suffering of this world meaning, all for the sake of those still trapped here.
That was one of many things Brum had learned he was evil for thinking. He would have chastised himself in different circumstances, but the shallow breaths from General Alwick told him
He sipped the nearest drink near him, still standing in the presence of his Lord. Even now, with the man so pitifully strewn before him, Brum couldn't muster anything but adoration. He had been in this position for a while. Alwick's vitality drained slowly but steadily, from a light cough to fits of sweating 6
His Lord, General Alwick, had come down with something fierce. Brum was a loyal knight, and was ever-vigilant. He noticed his Lord's deterioration in vitality the day Alwick's betrothed
Alwick coughed, deeply, as if from his core, and wiped his mouth with the corner of a bedspread
"Earn a good death, Vassal. That is my dying request."
Brum was born bastard to a French noblewoman in Central England, illegitimately
...
Brum entered a nearby cookshop, gazing upon displays of pork meat pies and felt
"God sends the meat..."
Trenchers/bread bowls
Knight Brum had broken every chivalry he was forced to keep, his armour long gone save for his helmet, shoulder pads and two trails on the sides of his calves. His modesty was covered by only the rag he wore beneath his armour.
The flames reeked of pork and caramel and blood ran down the long corridors. He may drown and never feel clean again.
Smoke clung to his long black hair, and coated his lungs and mouth. His eyes watered and burned and he struggled through coughing fits.
In the smoldering remains of the King's estate, he knelt down, bowed his head, and felt the overwhelming heat around him like the Lord's Embrace. It charred his flesh, the heat sinking deep as tongues of the Holy Spirit licked at the scarred flesh. It felt mocking at first, like someone who took joy in seeing him suffer. The flames pricked his tough skin like small daggers trying to find any weak spot in his body. The smell of cooking pork wafted into his nostrils and made him lose consciousness.
He saw nothing in death. Not that he expected anything. Brum knew he was too far from true spirituality to be in Heaven. He just knew he was not in the void.
Soon, his fingers found refuge in long grass tufts. Petrichor settled on his senses and heavy lashes parted to look up at the sun.
The remains of the castle were hardly around. Wooden supports had rotted away and been replaced by long strands of Himalayan Ivy, stone bricks crumbled to weak foundations, holes in the ground filled with rain and frog spawn. Green life had reclaimed the space, leaving no quarrel over who had owned the land. Poppies red as blood peppered the overgrown foliage, some so brave as to sprout around the indent in the ground his body had made.
Brum stood, shakily. He felt no pain. Physically, he had been unaffected, much to his horror.
He felt himself over, removing a poppy that seemed to have taken root in his helmet, and took off with a deep breath.