He found himself in the cold embrace of the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of machines a harsh reminder of his mother's fragility. Time had not been kind to her, and the lines on her face spoke of years of silent suffering. The doctor's expression was grim, his words a death sentence that Alastair had always known was coming but never thought he'd actually hear.
"I'm sorry," the doctor said, his voice a monotone echo in the stark white hallway. "There was nothing we could do."
The words hit Alastair like a sucker punch, knocking the wind out of him. His father, the man who had ruled his life with an iron fist, was gone. The hospital room was a blur of machines and tubes, the beeping a mocking reminder of the vitality that had once filled it. His mother's sobs grew louder, the sound a physical ache in his chest.
As the doctor offered his condolences and the nurses began the somber task of disconnecting the life support, Alastair felt a strange sense of calm. He had dreaded this moment for so long, had wished for it in his darkest moments. But now that it was here, there was only a void where anger should have been.
The doctor, a man with kind eyes and a gentle touch, paused before leaving the room. He handed Alastair a sealed envelope, the paper thick and heavy in his trembling hand. "Your father left this for you," he said, his voice low and solemn. "It's the only thing he had with him when they brought him in."
Alastair took the envelope, his eyes never leaving his father's still form. The words on the front were scribbled, as if written in haste or pain—"Alastair." His father had never called him that before, always using the cold, formal "boy" instead. It was almost like he was looking at the handwriting of a stranger.
With trembling hands, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The words were scrawled in his father's usual jagged script: "You will be king, my son." He read it over and over again, the words not making sense, a puzzle without a picture to guide him. The doctor's gaze was on him, filled with a gentle curiosity that seemed almost intrusive.
"What does that mean?" Alastair asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The doctor shrugged, his eyes filled with sympathy. "Only your father can answer that," he said, patting his arm before leaving them to their grief.
Alastair handed the letter to his mother, her shaking hands taking it with a look of trepidation. She read the words, her breath hitching. "It's always been about power with him," she murmured, her voice tinged with bitterness. "He never understood that true strength comes from within."
Alastair felt a knot tighten in his stomach. King? What could his father possibly have meant? The only thing he had ever felt was weakness, a constant target for bullies and his father's wrath. Yet, the letter clutched in his hand felt like a lifeline, a message from the man he had both feared and craved approval from.