Excerpts and analysis of “The Account of James the Great“: Volume 1 (1063-1078)

(Translated from Ancient Jameish by Vladimir Godzenović)

I often wonder what could have been had I not seen him on that day; what could have come had I kept my head down as I was directed. But no matter how I frame it in my now feeble mind, it was that glance that began it all.  

It is funny to me now to think that such strife could have been averted had my eye shifted just an inch to the right. How many thousands could have been saved had I turned my head just an instant later? Alas, my memory of that day stands here more vivid than anything else. Perhaps I should feel ashamed. Dear god, how I wish I still had shame within me. So vibrant were my emotions in my youth. Such vitality did I possess. Where has it all gone? Has my spirit left me too? I ask this every day now, as I waste away before my hearth. In the end, it all traces back to him. Jhim.  

I saw him out of the corner of my eye. It was a bleak world then, and the sight of him caught my attention as if it were the only colour in the world. As I turned my head in a tired way, he walked at a measured pace. There was something in his movements, some inimitable finesse that made all other life seem unrefined in comparison. I remember his hands. They were not large, nor small, but the way he held them, the way his fingers rolled in subtle waves by his side bespoke great control. As he walked through the crowds of people, his gaze would shift, focusing like light on a golden sword, and under his gaze, the true nature of things was revealed. The grand castle walls were exposed in their imperfections, and as he would walk through their gates, the sound of his steps would ring more melodious than birdsong. It was wonderful to watch, even if it only occupied a second.   

It was nearly five years before I saw him again, but that memory stuck with me as all else in my life slipped away. After I had completed my studies at university, King Gondril awarded me a position as the advisor to his son. I was eager of course, never had I dreamt of such an opportunity, but even this was clouded by the memory of Jhim. Some days I thought Jhim had been an angel, lodged in my mind by divine might. But there were other days, ones where I could not rest, in which I thought he may have been something darker; some spirit meant to haunt me and tear me from my path. Yet, for all I worried, I could never have what imagined what chaos he would bring. 

 I was anxious on the day I was to meet the King’s son, but I was never the type to fixate on the future and grow restless. No, I would delve into the past, to Jhim. The king himself showed me to his great hall. This was an honour, he said, for a King would typically have this kind of duty carried out by a servant. I did not think much of it at the time, but now, it puzzles me. Could he have known then what I would become? Why did he take such interest in me? As he walked me through the thousand halls that made up the castle, I felt the world grow darker. I had heard rumours of the King’s son of course, dark tales depicting a disturbed and broken shell of a man, but I was not afraid, not yet. He asked me questions as we walked, and I gave answers without thought, my mind searching for something beyond sight. “How old are you?”, he asked, and I gave my date of birth. “Have you seen the castle before?” He asked. I told him no. “Have you any relatives?” Again, I told him no. “We will be your family now,” he said, and I nodded with an absent mind. After an hour of walking through the castle halls, the king had me wait in a central antechamber. As I sat alone in silence, my thoughts were finally torn from Jhim. They drifted to the vaulted ceilings that seemed to close around me. The servants’ distant conversations became whispers foretelling murder, and I began to shiver at every creak of the floor. I heard the rattling of the fireplace as the rumbling throat of a beast, and I lost track of time, trapped in a dark spiral of apprehension. The silence itself seemed to pound against my ears, and the blood pumping through my veins seemed to overflow. Before I registered what had happened, I was quivering in my seat, though what exactly made me so afraid remains a mystery. “This is my son” The king’s voice came out. I hardly heard him. “James, meet my son.” In time, I lifted my head but was unable to process the sight in front of me. 

The King’s son had waves of auburn hair spilling down to broad shoulders dressed in a dark, enveloping cloak. It seemed to absorb him, and it moved as if it were connected to him in some way. He was tall, but not overbearing, and though his cheeks seemed hollow, his eyes held a bright life within them. He didn’t need to say his name. It was Jhim. It had to be. There was no one else in the world who carried themselves with such power, and though I did not recognize his face after all these years, his bearing was the same. His eyes locked onto mine, and therein, I could see recognition dawn. For a moment in silence, we held each other’s stares, only moving when the King cleared his throat. 

We spoke not a word to each other for the next week, but there was an understanding that passed between us, a communication held through eyes alone. I had never heard his voice, but I already felt that I knew him so well. He was kind to me, I think, perhaps too much so, but there was something off about him, something in the way he would mutter to himself behind closed doors. Once, I thought I heard words, and I listened with my ear pressed to the wall, trying to discern the strange incantation going on inside his room. I heard nothing. Some nights, I would wake, thinking I had heard screams only to find Jhim smiling to himself in a secret way under the ghostly light of the window. It frightened me, but in equal measure, intrigued me. There was something more to him, something alien, perhaps. “Can you talk?” I asked him once. He nodded ascent but offered no words. Indeed, a year passed in his service before I learned his secret. It chills me to this day, and I do not think I shall ever be rid of its imprint, seared in burning white across my mind. 

One day I was called to the king’s chambers as a matter of urgency. I was curious of course, the king had been ill of late, and I had heard rumours, spoken of in hushed tones by the servants that he was losing mobility. He would not eat nor sleep and there had been reports of him reciting ancient chants of death. When I arrived outside his door, I waited in silence, listening to a voice, more of an echo really, as it wailed in a quiet way. “Arz Ghaldribohr. Jhall arz Ghaldribohr. Akhten irr drall. Akhten irr Kaunz. Arz Ghaldribohr. Jhall arz Ghaldribohr.” The chant was familiar to me, as if in memory from long ago, but I knew not what it meant. “James. Come to me. Akhten irr drall. James. Why has he left me? Arz Ghaldribohr. Jhall arz Ghaldribohr…” After a time, I knocked. When my hand made contact with the door’s old wooden face, it gave way to the dark room within. “James? is that you?” came the voice, seeming even more feeble now that I was nearer to its source. 

“I am here, my king.” I answered. My voice seemed loud through the quiet of the room, and I swallowed heavily as it echoed back to me, circling about, but never quite settling before it sprang out again. 

“James, there is something I must tell you.” came the voice of his royal highness, though in no way royal did it sound. 

“Anything, my lord.” 

“I have let you serve my son for a year now, but I feel I have not told you everything I should have.” 

“Have I done wrong, my King? I will do everything in my power to make recompense for any sins.” 

“No James. It is I who has sinned.” He took a deep breath, as if preparing to lift a great weight that had been resting on his shoulders for far too long. “I once had five sons, you know. Jamias was the eldest, followed by Jamun, Jamallan, Jamash, and finally, Jhim. They fought from the day they were born, it seems. But I hoped, in vain though it was, that they would grow to love one another. Perhaps it was never meant to be; the weight of power brings conflict. But I wanted them to find balance, to see the beauty within each other that I did.” He looked at me then, and in his eyes gone dun with age, I saw a great, constricting sadness.  

“What happened to them?” I asked in a quiet way. 

“As they grew older,” He continued as if not having heard me, “their spite only grew stronger. Jhim had it the worst. He was the youngest and would never know the power his brothers would covet. He never complained, indeed I feel that he never spoke to me, but there was a darkness in his eyes. A hand of icy steel concealed by a child’s innocent face. I worried for him. He never smiled nor laughed. Indeed, he never displayed emotion of any kind.” The King coughed weakly, and a single tear leaked from his eye. “On his tenth birthday, all my other sons were gone. I never saw their bodies or heard of their fate, but I knew. I knew he killed them. I don’t think he ever looked the same after that day. What had once been a lack of emotions became a well of deep intensity. I think I grew to fear him, my own son.” The King looked down, and his chin drooped until it became a wrinkled continuance of his neck. “He must not take the throne.” His eyes shot up, this time alight with a renewed vitality I had not seen before. “I am dying. He has poisoned me; I know it to be true. James, he cannot take the throne. If it is to be my last will in this life, my final act, I will make certain he does not become king. When I die, you must become my heir.” He grabbed my wrist with a strength beguiling his age. “You have the look of Jamallan. I will tell them you have returned. Assume his identity and become the king. That is my final command.” (The Account of James Abravhar “The Great”: Volume 1: Excerpt 1) 

This excerpt depicts the early life of James Abravhar, critically including his first encounter with Jhim Callanak (who would later take the throne of Ghaldribohr). Though it is not mentioned in his journal entries, James is believed to have been the son of Lord Jhaoshad VIII, a noble whose house fell into ruin after a particularly disastrous fire killed him and destroyed his land.(The reason for which nobility in Ashalat all had names beginning with “J” has been long speculated, but the modern consensus is that the letter was deemed the closest to the Ashalation God “Jederesh”. What is more fascinating, perhaps, is that the letter “J” in Ancient Jameish, was a silent letter when located at the start of a word. For instance, the name “James” was likely pronounced “Ahmesh” in the days of James Abravhar “The Great”) James first saw him when he was eleven and began his studies at university. Many scholars suspect that his studies at university concluded just before his father’s death, when he was sixteen and Jhim was nineteen, but Jhim’s age is a matter of small dispute. They both seemed to see something in each other from that first meeting and historical relics from the time show that Jhim may have had a strange obsession over James since the time they first saw each other, and indeed there are numerous paintings of James done by Jhim through his life, with the earliest having been completed on the very day they met. As James’ panic builds in paragraph five, we are not only given insight into his strange mental condition, but into the sociopolitical landscape of the times. It seems that the young prince Callanak, even in his youth, had a disturbing reputation. According to the account of King Gondril Callanak’s chief advisor, Jaldirin “Prince Callanak was nothing like his father, nor anyone else I ever met. He frightened us, though it was not through any outward violence. I always thought there was something wrong with him, something broken in his mind, though I could never determine exactly what it was. He would stare at me, but his eyes did not hold the warmth of a human looking at another human. It was the cool reflection of a mathematician studying a string of numbers. He never spoke, but I could hear his thoughts. He wanted to kill me, I swear it. He would have carried away my body just as he did his brothers. Cool, and without remorse” (Jaldirin 1172). 

Donate to read more!