Thank you for all your support for the liberation of Sliberberg. It has been my most successful series to date. As a thank you, I decided to create a short story to explore the days after from the perspective of a character who, despite his importance to the kingdom I rarely, if ever include in my writing, Brânán Sparkgleam has been the one keeping the lights on in the kingdom for almost 400 years while his friend and liege Fredrick languished in heartbreak and despair. This is the story of the morning after the celebrations started to die down and the work of rebuilding the kingdom began, of the connection between Fredrick and Aoibheann and how Fredrick has grown since the players found him as a broken man in a prison wagon.

New Dawn

In the foggy, cold twilight gloom before dawn, a carriage rumbled through the cobblestone streets of Kronenhöhen. Inside, the ancient gnome was jostled with every bump and sharp turn, muttering curses under his breath. “I’m far too old for this,” Brânán grumbled as the carriage lurched again, tossing him against the door.
After several more jostles and bumps than he would have liked, the carriage trundled up the stone ramp to Castle Sliberberg. Smartly dressed guards in silver and blue snapped to attention as the carriage passed through the gate and into the bailey. The gnome looked out at the churned wasteland of mud and partially dismantled tents, barricades, and siege engines that once were the royal gardens. He shook his head; it really was a shame that Murtagh destroyed the gardens just so he could quarter more troops in the castle in a vain attempt to stave off the end; poor Lyria was going to be inconsolable until at least the spring when she could start replanting the gardens that once were her pride and joy. At least Murtagh was not so heartless to cut down the apple tree that the dryad gardener was bound to.
The carriage stopped, and a footman placed a series of steps on the grounds and opened his door. The gnome sighed; it would be a hard day; he just hoped it would only be so for him alone. He took up his long, slender staff with the crystal embedded in the end and lifted himself from the cushion seat. He stepped in the gathering light of the cold November morning. His purple robe, covered in stars, swished as he walked the short way up through the big double doors into the gloom of the entry hall beyond.
Gloom was the only way to describe the atmosphere in the entry hall; it used to be such a beautiful place before Murtagh came to power; the wallpaper depicted fairies playing in the forests, the molding had fey creatures frolicking, there were magic paintings of Fredrick own making hanging on the walls and golden chandeliers filled the room with bright glow. Now, the walls of the dark hall were bare, the molding was gone, there were voids where the paintings once hung, and the chandeliers were lowered. Only one bright spot in the hall belonged to a lantern by the foot of a gnome woman half his age busily dusting the chandeliers while humming a sweet tune.
“Good morning, Brighid,” said the gnome.
With a start, the head housekeeper turned, dropped her feather duster, and bowed her head. “Oh word, chancellor Sparkgleam, I didn’t hear you come in your lordship.”
Brânán sighed heartily. Mrs Brighid was always easily startled. He should not have walked so softly; it was getting harder to stride bravely. “Is his lord and ladyship up?”
“Oh no, m’lord,” Brighid said, a dreamy smile spreading across her face. “The royal couple was… well, up quite late. Whispering sweet words and enjoying each other’s company, they were. A beautiful thing to see after all they’ve been through.”
Brânán nodded sagely. It was to be expected. Fredrick and Aoibheann never consecrated their marriage before they were separated 500 years ago, so it made sense for them to make up for lost time.
“Shall I walk them, me lord?” asked Brighid, still in a dreamy state of mind.
“I will make the trek up myself,” said Brânán. Go back to your work, good woman Brighid.”
Brighid’s head bobbed enthusiastically. She picked up her duster and returned to attacking the cobwebs that had taken root in the chandeliers.
His old knees ached with every step. He was a powerful wizard who could fly about with just a thought and teleport with a wink of his eye, yet here he was, taking the stairs. Flying in the magic painting staircase was out of the question; his one attempt years ago had nearly ended in disaster. Besides, he wasn’t about to disturb the royal couple by asking them to open a window after their long night or teleporting into the royal bedchambers.
Soon, the soft padding of his slippers up the stairs was soon joined by soft padding coming down. “Bran!” came a small but energetic voice speeding down the stairs. A black-furred kitten bounded around the corner and came skidding to a stop a few steps up from where he stood.
“Good Morning, Mittens,” said Brânán, “How are you this morning?”
Mittens’ face lit up with pride and satisfaction, and she said, “Great, Your Lordship, I caught one  of the mice from the Hole in the Wall Gang trying to sneak out of the castle with a sausage.”
The little unaging, awakened kitten was one of the few bright spots in a castle mired in Fredrick’s despair over the last few centuries. He reached down and gave Mittens’ fur a few strokes. Mittens purred happily at the attention and rolled over so he could pet her stomach. As he scratched her belly, Brânán noticed the ribbon tied snugly around Mittens’ neck—a bright pink bow, its satin catching the faint light of the stairwell. He raised a brow, his voice warm with curiosity. “Well, well, what’s this? Where did you get such a fine accessory, Mittens?”
Midnight proudly sat up, and with her face beaming, she said, “The king and queen gave it to me; I am now the royal family’s official pet.” That was certainly news to him. Mittens first arrived in the castle when Brighid was hired as a scullery maid as a teenager. Fredrick had shown little interest in Mittens or pets since then. Granted, in all the time Brânán knew him, he rarely showed interest in anything beyond pining after Aoibheann. She has been back for a few days, and Fredrick is already a new man, he thought with a slight grin. He continued up the stairs.
Brânán was huffing when he reached the grand door to the Royal Bedchamber; the magic of the grand staircase painting made it so that the castle’s top floor was only two flights up, but still, he was too old to go climbing up so many stairs. After pausing for a few minutes to catch his breath, he reached up and banged on the door. There was no response. Brânán put his pointed ear to the door. He could hear Fredrick snoring away on the other side of the door. For as long as he had known Fredrick, he was a heavy sleeper, for it was only in dreams that he could be with his beloved. After knocking, Brânán would typically open the door and throw open the windows to let sunlight raise Fredrick from his slumber.
However, this morning was different. In his mind’s eye, he painted a vivid picture of what he would find on the other side of the door: expensive clothing covering the floor, the sheets and blanket tossed asunder over the massive bed, Frederick and Aoibheann fast asleep in each other’s arms after a long night of lovemaking. He dared not embarrass the young monarchs by stamping in like their parents and forcing the pair out of bed. He knocked again, louder and longer this time. Silence. He leaned closer, hearing faint groans from within. With a sigh, he rapped again, even harder this time. “My graces, it’s time to wake up. Vital matters of state demand your attention!” Still no answer. Finally, after a fourth, even more forceful knock, the door creaked open, and Fredrick’s wolflike head poked out, his eyes bleary. Frederick yawned, “Gods, Brânán,” Fredrick muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Seven Thirty,” said Brânán in the precise, accurate fashion of those trying to be a little annoying, “It is time for you to get dressed and get to work! The kingdom is almost in shambles after Murtagh’s reign. I have no clue where the so-called heroes got off after the celebrations yesterday, so it is up to you to step up and be the people’s king.”
Frederick groaned, almost like a growl. “Do we have to start now?” he whined. “I did not get a lot of sleep last night, and I am still recovering from what that bastard Murtagh did to me. I am still nowhere close to being at my full strength.”
“I’ve heard from credible witnesses,” Brânán said, his voice dripping with sarcasm and mild impatience, “that you were in the thick of things in that melee in the castle bailey the other day, laying into the Usurper’s men with a great sword.”
Frederick growled because he knew Brânán right; at that moment, a pair of olive-tinted arms wrapped around Fredrick’s midsection. “Ah, poor baby,” said Aoibheann, her voice playful and filled with the joy of young love. “Don’t worry, Brânán,” Aoibheann said, her voice teasing but steady. “I’ll ensure my darling husband is ready to face the day.” After all, the kingdom won’t rebuild itself, will it?” Fredrick let out a surprised yelp as Aoibheann pulled him back inside. Her musical laughter echoed through the door, followed by Fredrick’s muffled, affectionate protest. Brânán rolled his eyes, muttering about ‘young love’ before heading downstairs.
Brânán’s joints ached as he walked back up to the third floor. With every creaking step, he wondered why he had not stopped in his office on the second floor before going up to give the royal couple their wake-up call. Oh well, we cannot change the past, he thought as he made each laborious step. However, as he climbed, something else came to the front of his mind, a thought that came into being when he stood at the royal suite door. “
“I really am like a parent to Fredrick,” Brânán thought as he climbed the stairs. The realization wasn’t new, but it struck him more forcefully this morning. Fredrick’s depressive cycles had often left him in a childlike state, and Brânán had stepped in to run the kingdom, putting aside his own life. But now, things were changing—Fredrick was finally beginning to live again, thanks to Aoibheann. That made what he had to do today even harder.
The dining room was the one room in the castle that was mostly spared the preliminary stages of Murtagh’s redecorating. Fine wood wall paneling ringed an equally fine hardwood dining set. One of the fairyfolk maids finished lighting the golden chandelier before giving him a respectful bow and fluttering through one of the magic paintings that the fairyfolk used to quickly zip around the castle. There were some thoughts of envy directed at the little pixie woman in Brânán head as he took his customary seat. Since meeting Fredrick, breakfast meetings had become customary. It was the only time of day Fredrick wasn’t entirely consumed by depression and grief, if only because he was ravenously hungry. Brânán always sat to the right of Fredrick’s during the meal and would usually spend the meeting regaling Fredrick on the latest issues and figures from all over the kingdom and writing down whatever responses his king made. It was a credit to Fredrick’s innate ability as a leader that he continuously made the right calls to whatever problems the kingdom was facing during those brief minutes he spent filling the void in his stomach rather than pining after Aoibheann. That had always given hope that when Aoibheann returned, the kingdom would be in much better hands than his when he retired..
However as he sat, Brânán’s thoughts churned as he waited for the others to arrive. The request he was about to make felt selfish, untimely, even a little reckless. But it was a chance to help Fredrick break free of his cycles of dependence for good—and for Brânán to reclaim a part of himself before it was too late. He did not notice the new arrival flutter in via one of the paintings and started vying for attention with his thoughts.
“Hello, Feengrenze to BrânBran!” a sharp voice called, snapping Brânán from his thoughts. He blinked to see Mirielle Dewspark, the pixie mistress of the exchequer, standing on the table with her hands on her hips. She wore a black-and-pink ensemble that was every bit as dramatic as her tone.
“I asked what you think of my new dress,” she said, tapping her tiny foot.
Brânán sighed. “It’s lovely, Mirielle. Very stylish.”
Her face lit up, and she quickly kissed his cheek. “You’re the kindest man alive,” she declared, settling into her miniature chair. Brânán knew that the flattery of pixies was as hollow as a bell, but the sentiment and momentary distraction was appreciated. “So, what were you thinking about,” she asked innocently. Brânán’s words caught in his throat; he was not ready to say them in front of a long-time associate. He was about to stutter out a deflection when the door opened, and as if some form of divine providence, in swept the royal couple. Frederick wore a red doublet, a blue jacket, matching pants, a cape, and a golden crown. Aoibheann had chosen a pink dress with white lace accents adorned with lace and bows. A silver jewel-encrusted tiara sat on her flowing brown locks. The sight of Aoibheann hugging Fredrick’s arm made Brânán smile; how she was dressed brought to mind the image of a 6-year-old princess dragging along a large stuffed animal. Frederick looked half asleep as Aoibheann led him to his big gilded chair. 
Shortly behind the royal couple, Marcel LeChâteau, the hobgoblin head chef, entered with his usual flair, followed by halfling and gnome servants pushing carts laden with food. “Your graces,” Marcel announced, lifting a tray lid with a flourish, “I present bacon and quail egg quiche, golden blueberry pancakes, and the finest tea and coffee.” The room filled with the scent of freshly cooked delicacies, and Fredrick perked up immediately as a mountain of food was set before him. 
As Fredrick started to lay into his mountain of breakfast, Brânán took out the reports he fetched from his office and cleared his throat. “Well, we might as well get started,” he said. First off, we have a report on the …”
The meal continued with Brânán reading off reports from the far-flung corners of the kingdom. Brânán was thankful for this, and on this day, there were many reports from every corner of what he was considering the old kingdom and the various territories that Murtagh conquered during his brief stint as king. Most of the reports were of things going wrong and problems that needed to be fixed, which was to be expected during a regime change and doubly so, given the circumstances. Frederick and Aoibheann responded to his reports with acknowledgment and brief instructions on handling the problem with complete nonplus. The challenges facing the young nobles were no small thing; Murtagh’s Royal Army had disintegrated back into its component noblemen levies, foreign mercenaries, and militia groups, each presenting its own unique problems. The Royal Navy had disappeared from the harbor as the crews returned to their piratical ways. The city watch was in shambles, and there was still a matter of the massive number of people that Murtagh Regime took prisoner and the property it seized. Yet, as he read the reports and figures, the royal couple calmly gave simple, informed instructions that Brânán wrote down in his little notebook, which would be relayed to the right people later. The reports provided a welcome distraction from the tension eating away at him on the inside. However, that tension in his stomach slowly returned as the number of reports to give and things to write down diminished. By the time he got to the last report, the gravity of the big request he would make of Fredrick weighed heavily on him.
“Finally, there is the matter of who will be the Duke of Drumbane,” said Brânán dryly.
“Drumbane, I know I’ve heard of that place,” said Fredrick thoughtfully between sips of coffee.
“It is over the mountains just south of my left foot,” said Aoibheann as she daintily sipped her tea, “You know my other body.” Brânán looked blankly at Aoibheann. The notion that Aoibheann’s true form was the valley of New Mountainheart and her current body, a puppet of earth, crafted just to be with Fredrick, still baffled him. He also thought how she could feel and know everything happening in the kingdom was slightly disturbing. “I think Duke Northreach has a son the right age to inherit a duchy,” suggested Aoibheann. Brânán blinked. He was not expecting a response so fast; he did not even explain that there was a need to select a duke since the prince of Drumbane and his entire family were killed in Murtagh’s invasion. It was yet another sign that it was time, but that gave him no comfort. “He is a nice young kid with a good head on his shoulder and heart in the right place, “continued Aoibheann thoughtfully, “No interest in the great game whatsoever.” Brânán sighed and wrote the suggestion in his notebook; the moment he had dreaded all that day had arrived.
“Now, if there is no more business to attend to,” said Fredrick with a smile as he poured himself another cup of coffee,” I do say we might as well consider this breakfast adjourned.”
“Well, sir, there is one more thing,” said Brânán, trembling. The moment of truth had arrived, and he was terrified.
“Very well, what business do we have to discuss?” asked Fredrick absentmindedly as he put a few lumps of sugar into his coffee. He then lifted the cup to his lips and started to drink.
“Wells, sir, it is a personal request, sir,” said Brânán as he fidgeted nervously.Sir, I… I request that you start looking for my replacement so I may retire in the near future.”
Fredrick nearly choked on his coffee, coughing violently as Aoibheann leaned over to steady him. When he finally regained control, he sat back down with a look of bewilderment. “Retire? now of all times?” he said, baffled, “with the kingdom barely getting its legs again after what Murtagh did?”
“I knew it would be a shock to you, sir,” said Brânán timidly. But it is time to start considering it.”
“Why?” spat out Fredrick’s confusion, “why now?”
Brânán sighed. Now came the hard part. “Do you remember how old I am?”
Fredrick’s brow furrowed, the gears turning in his mind. ‘Four hundred and seventy…’ he repeated, his voice trailing off as the weight of the number settled over him.
“Correct, Fredrick.” Brânán glumly, “I have at most two or maybe three decades left before the inevitable happens. I have been your Chancellor and court magician for 400 years; it is a long past time for me to consider stepping down and letting new blood take my place. I need a good long rest before I shuffle off to meet my maker.”
“You can’t leave now,” cried Fredrick. Everything is starting to go right; Murtagh’s dead, Aoibheann and I are together again and ruling. Once we deal with the scheming and one-upmanship among the nobility, the kingdom will be just as we dreamed it would be. I need you by my side to make that dream a reality. You are my best friend.”
“It is because things are going so well, all things considered, that I am asking,” said Brânán, “I have stuck by you through the bad centuries because I was your friend, but with you indisposed by grief, I was forced to effectively rule in your stead as well as do my job. But things have changed. In the few brief days since Aoibheann returned, you have changed. I have never seen you so bright and eager to throw yourself into your duties. Moreover, you have Aoibheann to help shoulder your burdens.” Tears welled in his eyes as he made the last, most painful argument, “I dare say that in the few short days since your recovery, you have outgrown me. So, it is time for me to let you and Aoibheann fly independently.
Tears started dripping down Aoibheann’s cheeks; the scene playing before her was heartbreaking. Fredrick then lost control; he grabbed Brânán in a big hug and started crying. “Please do not go,” he begged.
Brânán felt himself crushed in Fredrick’s arms; it was hard to breathe in such a massive, vice-like grip. “Please, sir, I need air,” he struggled to say. The grip loosened, and Brânán felt the airflow back into his old lungs. He took a deep breath and said, “Now Fredrick, my boy, you need to learn to control yourself better; you nearly crushed me in that unkingly display.”
Frederick looked ashamed at his actions, his lupine face drooping. “I am sorry,” he said. I just don’t want you to go; you are more than an advisor; you are family.”
Tears were flowing freely down Brânán’s face. “I know, and that made it all the harder for me to ask. I am too old to keep up with you in running the country. I will not retire today, but it is time to start looking for my replacement,” he said. Frederick gave him one more sorrowful look, wrapped his arms gently around him, and started to cry. Brânán reciprocated, and Aoibheann joined in too.
Some time passed, as time often does, since breakfast. Brânán hobbled out of the grand staircase painting into a grand entrance hall brimming with eager petitioners. The sheer number of people stunned Brânán; he thought that with so much rebuilding, the first day of the king and queen giving audiences would be relatively empty. Merchants, farmers, and guild representatives all jostled for position, their faces alight with hope and urgency. He guessed the sheer novelty of the must have been too much for the citizenry to bear. With a chorus of “excuse me’s, “an official of the court coming through,” and “make way for the court wizard,” he made his way to the door to the throne room where a pair of guards waited with halberds at attention. Brânán gave them a curt nod as they opened the door, and he went inside. 
Inside, he found the throne room empty; there was not even a bug to be seen. As he hobbled towards the throne, he heard some low giggling coming from the massive painting of the lonely pine tree on a cliff that hung on the wall to his right. He turned, and low and behold, there was the royal couple on the ground within the frame, exchanging kisses with each other. He sighed and banged his staff against the frame, which jolted the two lovebirds back into the here and now. “Honestly, you two, “said Brânán with a sigh, “With the way you steal off to sneak kisses, it really makes me wonder if retiring is such a good idea.” The painting rippled as Fredrick and Aoibheann stepped out of the frame, looking sheepish as two children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Despite his bombshell request, the sight of the couple stealing a romantic moment made Brânán smile—though when the court was in session was the wrong time for romantic dalliances.
“Well, we were waiting for you to come down to the throne room, but we got bored, so we thought it wouldn’t cause too much harm if we snuck away for a little bit,” said Aoibheann as she readjusted the hem of her dress.
“You would not have thought as such if you saw the crowd outside,” said Brânán with mild annoyance. The entrance hall is packed with people wanting a moment of your time; I think there might also be some outside.”
“If that is the case, we mustn’t keep our people waiting,” Fredrick said with a playful grin, offering Aoibheann his arm.
Brânán smiled and hobbled back to his stool. The first petitioner was let into the hall, and the royal couple eagerly engaged with the merchant as he asked for money to replace assets destroyed by the Murtagh Regime. The sight filled Brânán with hope for the future; it would be painful to leave this life behind for both him and the royal family. Maybe if Aoibheann had returned 100 or 200 years ago, it would have been different and hurt less. But watching the royal couple engage with each petitioner’s request with barely any input from him made him happy; the kingdom was in good hands with those two at the helm, and he finally could take a break from the centuries of running the kingdom on his lonesome.
And the Gods knew it was long overdue.