Heavy Crown
...His body shuddered, and he reached to his side, searching of something... Anything, that could be used as a weapon.
His fingers wrapped around a hilt of cloth that he was surprised to find. Mysteriously, he felt his body rise... buoyed by the heat in his heart, which filled his entire chest. It was an inhuman urge, he knew, something that was planted when that blade impaled him, when his body failed him only moments before.
The dark figure's complexion changed into something that looked like pride.
"Come, then."
Tryndamere roared into the howling blizzard, his body alive and hurting, with a mind of its own. He jerked the hilt, swinging whatever the object was towards the demon's head as he rose towards the enemy. The object felt as light as a feather...
A loud metallic echo rang out as an enormous claymore slammed aside the lively blade of his opponent, crushing one of the creature's shoulders. His foe's blade screeched as it whipped towards the Barbarian's flank in a quick counter.
The bloody opponent retreated a couple of steps, his demeanor unaffected. Only the sizzling hiss of his sword gave away his muted surprise of Tyrndamere's initiative.
Tryndamere stumbled forward, mind lost in the fury, unaware that his stomach was sliced open. Steam billowed out from his guts as the skin grew over the open wound with fearsome speed.
"My, my...Biting the hand the fed you..." Aatrox muttered curiously, ignoring how Tryndamere screamed and lunged forward.
Aatrox parried the blow cleanly this time, directing the enormous sword straight into the permafrost.
"Look after that blade, sir." Aatrox continued, "And it will look after you. Let the fury sustain you, heal you, and feed it well. My gifts to you..."
The Darkin spread his banners, and disappeared into the dark, tumultuous Freljordian sky.
Tryndamere woke up on the cold, hard earth, the noise of the city rousing him from slumber. He got to his feet.
The city of Rakelstake spread out before him, shaking off the morning cold, lighting up under the sun's advance. Not that it mattered, since Tryndamere never could be cold... Not since that blizzard in the dark, empty tundra. The inferno within him dispelled it from his body, a fever that never subsided.
Felt his hands rest on the Royal Balcony. Behind him was the Royal Suite, not that he asked for such luxury. It was forced upon him, only a number of months before...
...He could still remember how his hands gripped the tiny silver forks and knives of royalty, on a grand table that only seated three people when it was meant for a dozen. No sooner had he entered the Crystal Hall was he sent to a basin to clean up and sit for a meal.
Lissandra was waiting, and at once Tryndamere's flames nearly leapt out of his nostrils when he took her hand and bowed. He could feel the ice on her hand... and felt how his fire burned her. She was cold... Too cold for a human. Tryndamere was not charmed.
Still, he mimicked Lissandra in how she handled the tiny scalpels. He knew better than to appear like a barbarian, the letters Ashe sent him made that much clear. He was meant to look like a vassal, and he would not be shamed in this fancy hall for anyone's amusement.
Luckily, the meal was short, as Tryndamere liked it. He did not care much for feasts and flights of fancy, and a simple entree of elk satisfied him well enough.
Ashe broke the ice, addressing Tryndamere. "Was the meal tough enough?"
Tryndamere hid the frown as best he could. The assumption that he was used to eating hearty meals irritated him.
"Adult... very young...Very good catch. My compliments to the hunter."
Ashe smiled, with a touch of pride. "The hunter made the kill in the late morning. Truly, it was a nightmare to skin and cut, but in the end it was worth it."
"Yes..." Lissandra added with a sliver of impatience, "A fine meal. Now, to business."
Ashe's blue irises narrowed slightly, Tryndamere could see, but her smile never faltered. Who was it directed to? The business, or Lissandra?
"Of course. It is a tedious time, especially with Sejuani's threats and absence from our table."
"What business are we discussing?" Tryndamere started, putting his hands on the chilled table.
"Statehood." Ashe replied neutrally, "So long as the Freljord is without a ruler, our petition for statehood will fail. We need a ruler. A King."
"So find one."
"We already have a suitable candidate." Lissandra responded.
Tryndamere groaned then, realizing Lissandra was alluding to him. He put his head in his hands and his elbow on the table, trying to order his thoughts.
"Please, no."
"You're perfect for the role." Ashe insisted, "Its hardly a difference from your usual title."
"Think of the privilege, having your name forever be remembered as royalty." Lissandra added, in a voice that dripped with promise. Tryndamere was surprised to find he hated her even more.
"I am a fighter. A warrior. I am meant to fight in the fields. I am not born to wear fancy cloths or don a crown." Tryndamere growled, angered by the unfair odds. Two against one?
"A king can still lead." Ashe shot back.
"A king must rule." Tryndamere spat, irritated. "You trust me to handle everything from courts to crops?"
"A queen can see to that." Lissandra mentioned quietly.
Tryndamere exhaled slowly through his nostrils. He was to be wed as well? Please, Sejuani. The boar-riding fighter was a woman Tryndamere respected, not these frilly princesses.
But he knew it was not to be. She was a warrior, like him. She could not handle statecraft no better than he. He knew who was to be his Queen. He did his best to resist, but his arguments fell short. He made an oath.
Soon after, he was walking back towards his camp, hot and sulking. He wanted to sleep, but the day wasn't over.
The Summoner pestered him with questions, from the Summit to the future of Freljord. He remembered how he dodged and dived through all of the questions, all the while wondering what sort of questions the Summoner would have asked if he had his throat constricted or an arm lopped off.
"I don't know why people are so curious." Tryndamere concluded desperately as he rushed towards the camp. "Freljord is a lovely place; the air has the kind of sting we barbarians can appreciate."
"Yes, bu-"
"Besides, would you decline an invitation from the Frost Archer?" He finished sarcastically, but the Summoner didn't catch up on his humor. Idiot...
...Tryndamere spat off the balcony, right at the spires of his castle. Her castle.
He turned around, passing through the bedroom as he made his way to the stairwell. Following tradition, they shared the same room, Queen and King. But every night he slept on the balcony, breathing the brisk Freljordian air, while she clung to sheets to stay warm, like a babe who has never seen the permafrost of the north.
He hated her for that.
End Chapter