The Archduke's Songbird-Chapter 285: His Ancestor

Jerrick sat beneath the sprawling elm tree, its ancient branches casting long shadows across the gravesite. The night was still, save for the occasional whisper of wind rustling through the leaves.

He had been coming here for weeks, hoping—no, desperate—to receive some guidance from his ancestor, Brennan Theodulf. Jessamyn had prophetic visions that guided her, giving her insights into their uncertain future. But for Jerrick, there was nothing—no dreams, no visions, no voices from beyond. Just silence.

He stared at the tree, its gnarled bark a testament to centuries of existence. The elm was unlike any other in the kingdom. Its trunk was taller than usual, with short side branches every foot or so—a peculiar growth pattern that reflected the Theodulf family line. Each branch represented a single heir, stretching back over generations.

Jerrick’s eyes traced the twisted branches upward until they ended abruptly at a jagged cut near the top. That part of the tree had been severed long ago and fashioned into the crossbow Jessamyn now wielded. The council had believed that a weapon made from this tree would be the key to ending the Theodulf line, that it could bring death to even the most resilient of their blood.

But Jerrick scoffed at the notion. He knew better than anyone how difficult it was to kill a Theodulf. Their blood ran deep, imbued with the kind of strength and resilience that no mere weapon could easily extinguish.

"You are the worst ancestor anyone could have," Jerrick muttered bitterly as he kicked the tree trunk in frustration. The impact was met with a dull thud, the tree remaining as unyielding as the silence that had accompanied his visits here.

He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of his helplessness. He had tried everything—meditation, rituals, even offering his blood to the soil in a desperate plea for some kind of divine intervention.

But nothing worked. His ancestor remained indifferent, buried beneath centuries of earth and time, leaving Jerrick to struggle alone with the impossible choices ahead.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint, bittersweet scent of datura. The flowers were scattered across the gravesite, their pale petals glowing eerily in the moonlight. Datura was a cursed flower, poisonous to humans, and its presence here had always puzzled Jerrick. This was supposed to be one of the kingdom’s holiest sites, second only to the resting place of Lady Selena herself.

Why then, did it abound with these cursed blooms? Was it to ward off the unworthy, to prevent the living from trespassing where only the dead belonged?

Jerrick’s lips curled into a half-smile as he watched the flowers swaying gently in the night breeze. The sight stirred a memory within him, taking him back to the night he had first found Jessamyn.

He had been lost in the depths of the great green forest, tormented by thoughts of her, when the scent of datura led him straight to her. It was as if fate itself had guided him through the darkness, bringing him to the one person who could save him from himself. She had clung to him that night, her warmth banishing the cold emptiness that had gripped his soul. It was a night that had changed everything—a night that felt distant yet vivid in his heart.

"These flowers were her favorite..." The deep, resonant voice cut through the silence, pulling Jerrick from his reverie.

Startled, Jerrick’s eyes snapped open. Standing before him, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, was the spectral form of a young man. He appeared no older than a teenager, yet he radiated an aura of ancient wisdom and power. The figure shimmered like mist, the edges of his form blurring into the night air. He glowed faintly, as if drawing energy from the moon itself.

Jerrick’s breath caught in his throat as he realized who it was. "Sire," he whispered reverently before dropping to one knee in front of the ghost of Brennan Theodulf.

It was hard to reconcile this youthful, almost boyish figure with the image he had always held of his ancestor. The paintings depicted Brennan as a wise old man with a flowing white beard—a symbol of authority and gravitas. But here he was, appearing as a young man, younger than Jerrick himself.

The realization struck Jerrick as absurd, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation. Here he was, facing the spirit of the man who had single-handedly cursed their entire bloodline, and he looked like a carefree youth untouched by the burdens of his actions.

Still, Jerrick felt an odd sense of comfort in his presence—there was no oppressive aura, no weight of judgment. Brennan’s spirit was calm, almost serene, as if unburdened by the sins of his past.

As Brennan’s gaze drifted around the gravesite, taking in the sight of the datura flowers, Jerrick couldn’t help but ask, "Do you have these flowers around you because of that?" His voice was tinged with sarcasm and a flicker of frustration.

The ghostly figure’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "I heard these turned poisonous to humans," Brennan said, his voice lilting with curiosity. There was something almost childlike in his tone, an eagerness to explore the world that grated on Jerrick’s nerves.

It was infuriating. Jerrick had been tearing himself apart for days, wrestling with the responsibility of protecting Jessamyn and their unborn child. And here was Brennan, centuries dead and still more interested in the flowers than the suffering of his descendants.

"You care so much for the flowers," Jerrick snapped, his tone dry with bitterness.

The smile faded from Brennan’s face, replaced by a sober expression. "You forced me out of my rest. Why?" he asked, his voice tinged with reproach.

"Resting?" Jerrick scoffed, his anger bubbling to the surface. "Do you even know what you did to us?"

The ghost’s gaze remained steady, unflinching. "You’re mad and yet, you are here, asking for my help," Brennan replied calmly. His voice held no defensiveness, only a quiet observation.

"Didn’t Lady Selene bring her to you using these flowers?" Brennan asked.

Jerrick furrowed his brows. "You know what is happening here and yet you were resting..."

Brennan bowed his head, his once youthful demeanor shadowed by a sorrowful weight as his thoughts delved into the past. His eyes, previously filled with a kind of playful curiosity, now reflected the torment of lost years. "I lost everything," he murmured, almost to himself. "She was released from her torment recently. It was her, wasn’t it?"

Jerrick’s brow furrowed in confusion. "You’re talking about Jessamyn?" he asked, sensing a connection he hadn’t made before. "Jessamyn released the Queen Mother? Was she trapped in the tree all this time?"