"Crashing Down" has been revamped, and is ready to be rewritten and reimagined. Some names will change, some characters will be given new roles, and, hopefully, my awful procrastination skillz will release their hold on me, because this is getting ridiculous.
It was a pleasant Sunday morning, and the streets were crowded with churchgoers, young and old, male and female, rich and poor. The capital of Araluen was a fairly pious city, and the young assassin had no difficulty moving through the crowd, his hood pulled up to hide his foreign features and olive complexion. The Araluen populace was generally pale, or at least paler than his fellows in Tuscano. He had to be careful, or he'd be recognized as a foreigner hailing from a country renowned for its assassins, and while that wasn't cause enough for the watchful city guard to grab him and drag him to the gallows, it was enough for them to keep a closer eye on him.
The people paid him no attention, however, and he made his way to the church with little trouble.
The assassin had planned his approach to the situation carefully. Sunday Mass was both crowded enough for him to slip in, and public enough that his target was easily accessible. The church doors were open for an hour or more before Mass itself, but no one entered before the king and his daughter, and the main room of the church as large enough for one to enter without the priests noticing, as they were always on the far side of the church, readying the altar for the ceremony. Immediately to the left and right of the doors were ladders to the upper windows and the top half of the first stained glass mosaic. The windows there were easily opened, large enough for a clean shot, and offered an unrestricted view of the courtyard below and all its entrances.
The church itself was really quite lovely. Not as lovely as Tuscano's own Cupola del Signora, but the Araluen center of the Church was grand in its own way. While the Tuscanos favored domes and brightly colored mosaics on the walls, the Araluen's had their own charming spires and gardens, along with two stunning stained glass mosaics, one above the entrance and another above the altar. The square before the great double doors was simply cobbled, but the fountain bubbled cheerfully, its water catching the bright sunlight, young but strong trees lining and framing the square itself. Guards stood at various, strategic places, but there were far too many people in that space for them to notice one man, particularly when he was hidden in plain sight.
The assassin slipped easily through the crowd and, using the people of Castle Araluen as cover, went into the church.
The main room was cavernous, the beautiful stained glass windows on the wall facing the square casted multi-colored shadows on the stone floor and across the pews. Ladders leading up to higher lofts were on either wall, and the assassin climbed the nearest quickly. The priests readying on the far end of the room didn't notice the assassin as he settled himself in a small alcove by a window, and took out his weapon of the choice.
The crossbow was stout, well-oiled, and readied in less than a moment. The bolt that the assassin place in it was spiked with a deadly poison that would pass quickly through the victims body and, if it the bolt hit a decent vein or artery, would leave him or her dead before the body hit the ground. It was the assassin's personal belief that there was no particular reason to draw out the death, or leave the victim in great suffering, as some of his brethren reveled in.
Glancing at the statue of the serene woman that stood in a place of honor, the assassin quietly murmured a prayer for forgiveness. He wondered vaguely how many times you were allowed to ask forgiveness for the same sin, but was jolted out of his reverie by the roar of the crowd, and looked down to see a regal pair walk into the square, flanked and followed by many armored, armed guards. The princess, he realized, was lovely, her hair a coppery blonde and tied back in a simple, yet elegant bun, her skin tanned and healthy, her face lovely in strong, wholesome way, her dress long and richly colored in purple and wine-red. It was a pleasant change from the paper-thin, almost unhealthy prostitutes that adorned the streets of his city like fake jewels.
The man whose arm she graced with her presence was clearly her father, the king. A tall, muscular man with the same coppery blond color to his hair and beard, only they were streaked with gray. However, this didn't make him seem weak or feeble; on the contrary, it suffused his already regal bearing with a sense of wisdom and experience. Like his daughter, his clothing was rich, but simple. The only gaudy thing was his crown, gold and bejeweled, but crowns were supposed to be gaudy.
The assassin felt a small pang of guilt. The king was clearly beloved by his people, and he and his daughter seemed so happy. His country had no real, centralized form of government, but if it had, he would have wanted a king like this. Even in him, a foreigner, both the king and his daughter instilled a feeling of respect, even loyalty.
But he was running out of time, and he'd wasted precious moments on his thoughts. He took out the crossbow and aimed carefully for the center of the king's chest, hoping for a wound that would leave the man dead in an instant. It was marks like this that made him glad he had no stomach for unneeded suffering.
The princess glanced at one of the guards, a tall, handsome man with a sword, and smiled brilliantly. Stepping away from her father for a moment, she took the guard's arm in her own, and the two shared a smile. Taking the chance, the assassin pulled the trigger.
True to his intent, the king was dead before he hit the ground.
The there was a stunned moment of silence as the cheering of the crowd died instantly. There were no screams, just the sound of the breeze shifting through the leaves of the trees and the fountain gurgling.
Then, pandemonium.
The princess shrieked and flung herself onto her father as the citizens scattered. The guard that the princess had shared a moment with immediately looked up at the church, and as his eyes locked with the assassin's, the Genovesan felt a flicker of respect for the young man as he jerked back and jumped down the ladder and realized he was doomed. His plan of escape had planned on the guards being as confused as the populace. The young, intelligent guard had clipped that plan neatly.
The guard and his compatriots were in the church in a moment, and their painfully mailed hands gripped him tightly as they dragged him away, past the sobbing princess. Her guard broke off and went to her as the others propelled him through the empty streets, towards Castle Araluen and her dungeons.
Behind him, he heard a priest, his voice clear and carrying, yet breaking with sorrow, cry, "The king is dead! Long live the Queen!"
()()()
The Glade was alive with talk. The tests were over, and the next day, the Rangers and their apprentices would return to their respective fiefs. Two Rangers in particular, Will Treaty and his friend and former master, Halt, looked forward to returning to Redmont and their wives, the ladies Alyss and Pauline, respectively. The two of them sat at a small campfire, along with Gilan, Gilan's apprentice Lily, and Will's own apprentice, Morgon.
Lily's elegant, tapered fingers plucked at Will's mandola. The older Ranger had, with absolutely no sarcasm, told Gilan that his friend's apprentice would go very far in the Corps, mainly because the young lady was one of the first people Will had ever meet who had immediately recognized the instrument as a mandola. The apprentice, who was one of the first women to even be considered for admission into the Ranger Corps, was in her late teens, a lovely girl with light blue eyes, light blonde hair, and features too strong to be considered beautiful, but too elegant to be plain. Her smile was brilliant, her disposition sunny, and Will enjoyed her company immensely. From the looks she and Gilan had shared when he asked how she was recruited, Will suspected the story was a sad one. He didn't pry.
His own apprentice had caught his eye when Will caught the boy's hand in his pocket. Morgon had led Will on a merry chase through the streets, alleys and even country trails of Redmont Fief. What started as a desperate chase had quickly become an immensely entertaining battle of wits. While Will had ultimately caught up with Morgon, he was impressed enough to hold off on dragging him off to prison and asked the young man why he was thieving.
Morgon explained that his father had died when he was a boy, and while he was the only child, the fact that he was ill-suited to any mainstream occupations made him, in his mind, a burden on his mother, who worked in the castle as a maid. While Will was initially skeptical, Morgon quickly introduced the Ranger to his mother, who was thoroughly startled at being introduced to a hero of the realm while she was washing laundry with an ash smudge on her nose, and both of them were startled out of their wits when Will offered to take Morgon in as his apprentice. Needless to say, they both had been overjoyed at the opportunity that had arisen for the boy, and it took no amount of persuasion to get Morgon to accept the offer, and for the mother to give her blessing.
That had been two years ago. Morgon was an excellent apprentice, if occasionally a bit unfocused. Though Morgon was often in his own world, once Will got his attention, it took one, maybe two explanations for the young man to understand it. Will was thoroughly pleased, but often baffled by his apprentice. The young man had an insatiable curiosity that often led to him being gone for hours at a time, but always come back with pleased expression on his face. Common reasons for these outings were "I was watching the birds" or "I was looking at plants". Since his chores were always done, Will never did anything to stop his walks. But they left him very curious himself.
Morgon had been taller than Will when they'd first met, and he'd grown even taller over the course of his two years as Will's apprentice. The Rangers had a serious suspicion that the man came from knight stock, as the young man had finally topped off at over six feet. While he displayed remarkable grace, and a talent for silent movement, it had taken the majority of his apprenticeship to master his gangly limbs. Will had found the whole, rather painful trial immensely amusing. However, Morgon's height, in combination with the toned physique that came with the Ranger training and his simple, handsome features, made the girls of Redmont swoon and sigh like any Battleschool apprentice. While the rarity of a Ranger heartthrob was interesting, the intense shyness and embarrassment on Morgon's part was even more amusing for Will that his apprentice's past clumsiness.
The faint sound of a cheer echoed faintly to Will, and he grinned, imagining Crowley's last formal apprentice, the first woman to be initiated into the Corps, be welcomed into the tight-knit group. He was a bit disappointed that he was unable to be there, but there'd be time enough for congratulations. After all, she was now part of the family.
"Will, what if I die tomorrow?" The Ranger was jolted out of his reverie by his apprentice, who, along with the rest of his companions, was looking at him closely.
"Sorry?" Will asked, and Morgon sighed.
"I was just wondering how you'd feel if I died tomorrow. Struck by lightning, gored by a pig, mauled by a raccoon… Without knowing what goes on in that glade." Will laughed. Morgon had been desperately trying to weasel out the secret of the initiation ceremony for nearly a year, with no luck. Everyone found it very amusing.
"You'll be added to a long, proud list of apprentices who Died Without Knowing, Morgon," Will said sadly. "It's unfortunate, but just the way it is."
Dropping all pretense, Morgon asked, "Does it have hallucinogens?"
"No."
"Dire chinchillas?"
"No…"
"Shooting matches to the death with your master?" At this, both Gilan and Will looked from Morgon to Halt, who was quietly amused, and back.
"You realize Halt's right there, right?" Gilan asked slowly. Morgon frowned.
"Add 'Black magic resurrection ritual" to that scenario," he said. Will raised an eyebrow.
"No. Definitely not."
"Fine. Then the only conclusion left is that it is a ritual in which we sell our souls to the Devil for our archery abilities." Morgon stated firmly. Lily snorted, a distinctly unfeminine sound.
"Yes, Morgon," she said dryly. "They're making us practice day and night for the final exam, all so that we can sell our souls anyway." Gilan and Will both collapsed with laughter as Morgon sniffed.
"Be quiet, Halfling. At least I'm trying to figure it out," he said peevishly. Will grinned.
"You know how you can find out what goes on in that ceremony?" He asked his apprentice slyly. Morgon groaned. "Passing your final exam. And you know how you pass your final exam?"
"Practice." A small, rather pixie-like woman sat down gracefully beside them, Crowley coming up from behind.
"Hello, Gwen," Halt said. "Congratulations."
"Thank you, Halt," the dark haired Ranger replied with a grin. "It's quite an honor." She looked at Morgon seriously. "But really. Practice is important. Especially if you're a certain apprentice who couldn't throw a knife to stun a man to save his life…" she trailed off pointedly. Morgon glared at her.
"I hate you." He stood, clearly nursing injured dignity. "I'm going to go practice."
"Good." Will said fervently. "I want to see movement! Don't just stand in one place!"
"Crowley, Will probably wants to hurry and finish this meeting up!" Morgon called. "You know, so he can get back to his pregnant wife, and the hobbit she's carrying!" The girls and Gilan cracked up as Morgon ran over to the edge of the glade to practice throwing knives by the horses.
"He thinks he's clever," Will said dryly as he stood. "We'll see how clever he is as he cleans the Old Bob's stables for the next two months." The three Rangers stood, and with last, sincere congratulations to Gwen, headed off towards the large pavilion in the center of the glade.
"So," Lily said in a hushed tone. "What was the initiation like?"
"I've made a solemn oath to say nothing to any apprentice," Gwen replied, her tone equally quiet. Lily nodded.
"There's human sacrifice, isn't there?" The younger woman asked sadly. Gwen made a sound of disappointment and nodded. The two grinned abruptly and chuckled as the sound of a knife hitting a tree began to ring through the glade.
Morgon rolled this way and that, his knives burying themselves, sometimes in trees, other times in the ground meters away from his intended target. The young man groaned in irritation, but stopped as the Ranger horses stamped their feet and snorted, and the sound of hooves approached. Morgon whirled around, his single knife at the ready, his saxe too far to retrieve.
A messenger on a small, obviously exhausted horse came to an abrupt stop. The man gasped for breath, sounding as if he was the one who'd run all the way to the glade. He looked at Morgon closely.
"Are you a Ranger?" He asked. Morgon nodded, confused. The messenger gave the young apprentice an official communication, sealed with the official wax stamp of the royal house. "Take this to Crowley. Or Will Treaty. Or Halt. It doesn't matter." With no further explanation, he whirled his horse around and galloped off into the night.
Morgon looked at the envelope in his hands, and his incurable curiosity urged him to open it and read it, while his Dutiful Apprentice/Ranger side urged him to take it to the pavilion.
Ultimately, curiosity won out. His fingers broke the seal without a second thought, and his eyes skimmed the short, abrupt letter in an instant.
One simple, four letter word made his heart stutter dangerously in his chest. Swallowing hard, he turned and ran to the pavilion, past his confused friends and several startled Rangers. He barreled into the meeting, causing the older Rangers to look up in shock.
"Morgon!" Will gasped, too stunned to be angry. "What on earth-?"
The apprentice held the envelope and letter up in one hand, his entire body feeling as if its lifeblood had been replaced with ice water.
"The king is dead."