“Godred Crovan, 4th King of Man.”

The standard-bearer hearkened the energy of the summer storms brooding in the nearby sea.

“Hereby declares war on the northern isles known as the Hebrides, and vows the destruction of their land, and the death of their king, Somerled.”

The moody ruler stood firm, his gaze narrow and infinite as the waters he commanded; his subjects below believed the very tide answered to his rule. Behind those unwavering eyes he agitated with trembling anticipation. His wife, Sahara, had fixed herself firmly behind him, clenching his soldiers in anxiety.

He would be thinking of the burning feud and the ravishing pleasure of stoking that flame once more, of prodding the beast within it so that it might retaliate and threaten, once again, to sever the roots of everything. The progression of his thoughts was always to turn, next, to Somerled, and Godred would review every characteristic that he despised, turn over every corner of his spite that lived on the highest, most sheltered cliff in his mind. The entrance of fresh hatred was more vital to him than food and drink.

Somerled, he scoffed, ruler of seagulls and a thousand pebbles masquerading as islands.

 The Hebrides, on the western coast of Scotland, consist of less than two-hundred islands of a rocky, pathetic sort. Formerly under Manx rule, they often quipped that there were more islands than people, and the few inhabitants were more aquatic than they were human. But despite their unfortunate geography and motley ethnic amalgamation, they lived under a solitary loyalty, devoted to Somerled and his unwavering optimism.

 Somerled was a fierce Nordic conqueror, a dashing, spellbinding necromancer of dreams and promises, of victory and Valhalla, with a mysterious magnetism that drew all the little islanders to his impact, and there was none without an opinion on him; they were either enticed by his glory and eloquence, or disgusted by his origins and the unwavering grin of arrogance that was his permanent visage.

Godred's own legacy was more of apathy than of conquest, but he was the voice of the kingdom. His speech was a harpsichord that cascaded out of his bearded maw, yet, as subtle as a change in key, could drift gently upwards like the croaky whisper of a flute, and while it lingered, hanging in the air over their heads, no one would dare fracture the powerful silence that followed. It was this gift that he wished to pursue- to put to words the cycle of shame and anxiety and depression. And he had decided that God could not answer for this, only he could. Words were all that interested him, but- here he recalled vividly the mucus skin that clung loosely to his father's skin in his final days- fate had chosen the heir to the Kingdom of Man.

                      ...

 The war, no longer a distant apparition of the misty future, began with the plunder of those islands.

 Fendrel was my name, when last I required one. My duty to Godred was born out of contempt for the mud and the rain and the anxious looming of famine and war outside of the castle. My loyalty lasted as long as the uncertainty persisted. But you are not interested in my story. When last I saw him, he remained obscured behind a sheltered life, untouchable to entropic reality.

 The room in which the throne was housed was ornate beyond reason, and each of Godred's visitors had to traverse the daunting length of the chamber in order to reach him.

 "We count 1,347 casualties, 79 homes and farmsteads scorched," I said to him.

"Do you realize how alike you are to a beetle?" Godred interrupted the report before he could go any further. I leered up at him and said, in retaliation, "Your father would receive this information with more sincerity, Your Majesty."

Godred growled, and I remembered his telling of his father's story. "When we learned of my father's ill-health, brought about, no doubt, by that bastard Somerled's thieving of the Hebrides- well, you see, the shock was horrible, horrible indeed, and it made him very very ill- I was taken to the dungeons of the castle- good God! I would hate to be one of the ones imprisoned down there- and even farther down into the catacombs before we came upon a circular room at the end of the tunnel. Dim candles and strange incense burned their slow death- well, you can likely imagine it. A woman hovered in the darkness, old as the stone around us, and she held out a chain with a volcanic red jewel in its locket. 'Take the Charm of the Currency of Fire, Godred Crovan, King of Man.' And I was unable to correct her, because once I had snatched it from her frail hands, she materialized back into the dust that coated the walls. When we resurfaced, my father was dead."

Godred had not joined me in my daydreaming. "Fendrel! Pay attention. What of the outside world?"

"Apologies, Your Majesty. England is too focused on building canals, and in Scotland, they seem to have relinquished any remaining affection for their little islands. Somerled is entirely alone."

 Godred was silent. He drifted towards the window, peering in annoyance through the small fragments of glass that had not been stained in royal hue so that he could look at his kingdom, but the impenetrable mist isolated everything from view. The sea continued its rhythmic churning underneath the blue-grey sky, which coated the entire island. Air on the Isle of Man was not transparent as it was elsewhere in the turning Earth. One could not take in the air without also feeling the calm sadness of when the grey of the sky and the blue of the sea vanquished their old feud and embraced. It may have been pacifying, but when one is born into perfect tranquility, they will pursue the mallet that may shatter this illusion.

He straightened suddenly and bounded past me with enormous strides. "I must see the battlefield."

 The air outside of the castle walls was permeated with an odor of despair. Godred stumbled on the unfamiliar ground as he and the dozen guards marched towards the coast, forcing me to communicate with him through the barrier of their rifles. He ignored me anyway. Thin pellets of rain pelted our faces as we sailed North.

 Godred was grateful for the patter of the rain upon the tent to keep his thoughts company. Stray nets and harpoons that had become hasty weapons lay abandoned on the sanguinary shore. Godred was always writing; or, at least, in the process of writing. And as his private secretary, it was necessary for me to be completely informed on his thoughts, his intentions. Every day while he rode his horse, I suffered through his pedestrian prose. His latest work, a fresh manuscript atop the chaos of worn-out paper, was titled, "Anthology of the King of Man." Before I could ask him about it, we received a letter from Somerled. I read it aloud to him under the thin tarp that was our shelter. His soldiers shivered outside.

 To Godred Crovan, King of Man:

  Your tyranny now rests upon my shores, and so I will take advantage of this brief respite from your terror in order to address you cordially. I simply seek to gain the knowledge of your motivation behind this abrupt invasion, which has brought the untimely death of our strongest men, and our brightest children. What possible justification could you have for these atrocities? Before you continue to stomp upon our land, please do me the small kindness of explaining yourself. Perhaps we may settle this dispute with our words, and not our rifles. After all, it is an honor to correspond with the greatest poet in the history of the Isles.

Sincerely,

Somerled, King of the Hebrides.

Godred trembled, and I retreated beyond the confines of the tent to shield myself from his outburst.

"This snake makes a mockery of me! 'Finest poet in the history of the Isles.' Hmph!"

"I believe it said, 'greatest poet in the history of the Isles,'" I responded. Godred responded with a flailing kick that I was savvy to dodge. He then set immediately to drafting a response, hunched over the child's stationary that we had hastily transported to the coast.

He thrust the letter in my hand, and commanded me to deliver it to Somerled himself.

                    …

 Somerled's own abode was closer in size to a manor than a castle, and the long path that slithered towards it was unguarded. Peasants tilled fields growing some unidentifiable brown root that was their livelihood. They seemed aware of their impending destruction, but too fatigued to flee.

 When I approached, the guards that were haphazardly leaning beside the grand, open doors stiffened to attention, and I procured my little white flag.

The home was pleasantly warm, well-lit by large windows, through which most of the inhabited coast was visible.

He invited me to sit beside him. I noted his stoic posture and the stillness of his hands.

"Before I read that letter: Is your king even considering peace? Or do you hold in your Manx hands a long-winded proclamation that ultimately means nothing?"

I smiled, and felt grateful that Godred could not blunder this delicate moment with his presence.

"The Hebrides do not belong to you, Somerled. Surely, on that matter, we are agreed."

"Have not the people their own free will?"

"Is not their new king merely a temporary fantasy?" I responded, and watched as he quivered. I pressed on. "I understand you have witnessed firsthand the destruction of which we are capable, the agony of impermanence that precedes our landing and sours the fishermen's air. Your bravery will be recognized, should you make the right decision."

I bade him well, and strode into the night carved open by mariner's cries and the eternal wooden creaking of the sea. I returned, and brought Godred the news of imminent surrender.

                   Years later.

Children were born for the sole purpose of filling the army and giving their blood to its cause- Godred's cause. Somerled refused to cede his kingdom. Godred refused to bow to his ego.

"Your majesty, how goes your masterpiece? It has been some time since last we discussed its development."

I noticed Godred's aging for the first time; not from any physical change, but from the sigh he emitted, and his response to my question.

"It goes slowly and with great difficulty. The protagonist is experiencing complicated emotions that I myself do not understand well enough to write." To that, my usual pageantry would not suffice.

"Might I offer a suggestion, Your Highness?"

"I do not much care for your advice anymore, Fendrel. I apologize for my bluntness, but it is very clear that matters of the heart are not among your expertise." And I tried hard not to let him see me smile.

"Sahara would be so very proud of you." And I left him alone.

Godred had been spending more time in the filthy streets and feeble farmsteads of the island. The decrepit townspeople bowed in apathy as he passed, while some failed to notice his presence; their king offered polite nods and few words to the desolation that greeted him. His silence merged with theirs.

The individual days were drizzled upon that time as an afterthought. The last time I ever saw the inside of Godred's sanctuary, the masterpiece was in the autumn of its life. The firm imprint of the ink had impressed poetry onto the page; the rhythm of his hand was metered by sincerity.  He had changed the title; "Anthology of the King of Man" had become The Manx Book of the Dead.

The entire history of the war was detailed inside. Its roots began in loathing, in stolen pride, and along their way had ensnared the rest of the population, but now seemed to have broken above ground, and with this clarity Godred saw the reality of his petty dispute. In the remaining pages was a list of the names of every soldier who had lost their lives in his war.

Beside the massive manuscript, as of yet unbound, a letter addressed to Somerled.

 To King Somerled,

It is, not by knavery, but by the transcendental connection that exists between us, that I am aware of your greatest fear, dear Somerled. I know firsthand the pangs of sudden death, and the agony of departure long delayed. I cannot tell you it will be easy, nor would it be moral of me to do so, but I assure you that the death of the ones we love is far more painful than one's own passing. Believe me when I say this: it is not death that is to be feared, but the solitude that comes after. Your life has been charmed and luxurious, so has mine. To relinquish comfort is undeniably daunting, yet all men must face this.

The actions for which I bear responsibility cannot be reconciled, and surely as you read this, anger still boils in your blood. Allow me, please, to make at least one assurance to you, whom I have offended gravely over these sad winters: You and I will be the last to die from this war. As I write this, I can see my empty army returning across the waters between us. No more will we suffer without cause, and in your time of dying, I will commit to my own expiry, and join you in the deep unknown, so that you may never know the solitude that has drained my life away.

Along with this letter, you will receive what I have dedicated to you: My life's work, away from war, what I call The Manx Book of the Dead. I imagined it, first, as a feat of literature to match my own perceived prowess. But, as my ego has subsided, it has grown with me, into a tale of anguish and regret. I hope it will serve as a testament to the evils of war, and the dangers of a feud without reconciliation.

Do not forgive me,

Godred Crovan.

                       ...

The news was brought on horseback to the gates of the castle; from there, it trudged nervously in the hands of Somerled's emissary, whose frightened gait bounced awkward, irregular echoes off the walls. I took it from his hands, knowing what I was to receive, but he pulled back.

"For King Godred's eyes only."

As Godred was left alone, I awaited the dull thud of his passing. I wondered how I would know when his pensive spirit had ascended, when he had joined with his companion in death. I jumped to my feet when I heard a serpentine shuffling from behind the locked door, a rustling like a creature through a field of reeds, the eerie breath of one hanging perilously in the balance between life and death.

The lock turned, and the swinging door knocked me off my feet. Godred strode past me without a glance, through the elongated hall, past his dusted throne, past the stupefied guards, past his own portraits, past the old room of Sahara, and through the open door overlooking the coast. He continued down the path towards the sea, past the weary, bowing caste of widowers and hobbling mothers, waiting for their sons to return. The glint of the sun off the water dissipated the mist, and Godred sailed pristinely through time, to follow the sun around its orbit.