Two – The Knight of Elric

Heart pounding as loud and swift as a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil, Edvard tucks his body into a roll, metal-clad back pressing against frost-bitten ground until he finds his feet beneath his body again, shield raising to protect his front automatically - and just in time for his shield to catch the impact. Edvard grunts at the force, the heels of his boots bracing his weight as he throws his body into motion, longsword blade glinting in frigid winter sun, which remains low on the horizon in spite of the mid-day hour.

There is a strange beauty in such deadly weapons; the fine craftsmanship benignly elegant, but malicious in use, the blade so thinly silver that bisecting human flesh was no more difficult than the inhalation of air. Often, Edvard was struck by how much he detested the inherent violence of the path that had been lain before him, perhaps just as often as he was struck by how alive he felt with the hilt of a weapon snug and warm in his calloused palm.

His lips curl away from his teeth, a sharp smile.

The clang of steel rings through the courtyard as metal meets metal, the force of the collision vibrating through his fingers and wrists, all the way up to his shoulders. Sparks fly when the blades meet again, a testament to the level of training; dull blades did not spark and he was learning that sharpened ones did. Training with true blades was a novel experience, still, though he was quickly rising in the ranks, becoming more and more comfortable with deadly steel in his hands.

Sweating beneath the weight of chainmail and his training tunic, Edvard pivots, drawing his shield arm up to block his opponent's sword, his own blade coming down in an arc on the vulnerable side of a fellow knight. He curses beneath his breath when his attack is dodged, and retreats to contemplate his next move, weight rocking on the balls of his feet, knees hinged in an easy bend.

With certain intensity, eyes an arresting shade of grey size up his opponent, mind swift in cataloging the various strategies that would end this match as deftly as possible. If Edvard circled to the right, he might be able to feint into a lunge-

"You never parry left and all the knights know it. That's why you're losing," says his sister, Ealice, who sits leisurely beneath the shade of a wise old tree, book in her lap, apparently unbothered by the cold weather that had sent other ladies of her station indoors for refuge. With some annoyance, Edvard realizes that she did not even have to look up from her reading to be right, but he supposes that is the way of sisters, and he takes her unsolicited advice.

To the left it is.

Edvard swiftly wins the match, knocking the knight onto his back and demanding he yield, tip of the blade pressed into links of pewter chainmail, his heart racing behind his sternum from exertion. The knight, Carlisle, is a veteran who has been training Edvard since he was old enough to understand what a sword was. Carlisle grins good-naturedly, clapping Edvard on the back in congratulations. Though Edvard may have acquired a certain prowess during his time in the Knighthood, he was still learning - and it was a rare day when he was able to beat Carlisle.

One day, though, when his victories are consistent and unchallenged, Edvard will take Carlisle's place as the First Knight of Elric, as it is his duty to hold such a position. A Prince can possess no power without first possessing evidence that he is worthy of such power. This is a lesson that has been drilled into Edvard's mind, buried beneath layers of training in swordsmanship, etiquette, and academia - and perhaps was the most important lesson yet.

Scowling, mildly disgruntled at his hard-won victory, Edvard shakes his head. "But I would not have won if not for my sister's input," he admits, reluctant to point out his failure and yet knowing that it must be done. Knights have died from false confidence. Edvard could not afford to be foolishly arrogant.

Anderson concedes the point, bowing his head respectfully. "Then you know what to do better next time."

Parry left, apparently, Edvard thinks with self-directed annoyance. It would not do to become so completely predictable. His father had not become King by telegraphing his movements - he had done so by utilizing creativity, something which Edvard had in spades when he was not on the battlefield. Edvard had a great number of ideas on politics and economics and even philosophy, though philosophical query was not a necessary skill for a Prince. But he most emphatically did not have the same ease of thought while clad in chainmail, even if the thrill of violence sent an intoxicating sense of being alive through his veins.

It was one of the many tasks he would learn to master - by sheer stubbornness, if necessary - before his father felt comfortable in the notion that Edvard was a true Heir to the House of Elric. As it was, his little sister was better suited to the running of a kingdom, if not to the command of an army, and his little brother had a mind for strategy, though not a mind for compassion; Edvard, being the oldest, was expected to possess all the strengths of his siblings with none of their obvious weaknesses.

An impossible task, to be sure, though Edvard relentlessly pushed himself to achieve it. His good King and father was not getting any younger - and Edvard, who abhorred the very idea of disappointing his Lord, was determined to manage this feat well before his father was ready for the next world.

That Edvard had to also obtain a wife while doing so was left unsaid.

Every King needed a Queen - and the sprawling lands of Nordalta had been without a Queen for far, far too long. His duty, and his siblings' duty, was primarily the continuance of the Elric line, as it was expected that a Great House would have a bloodline of equal great measure. Edvard felt additional pressure as first born to lead by example in this area, but his eye had not been caught as of yet. In moments of honest doubt, he wasn't sure that his attention could be ensnared by a Lady of the court, or any of the daughters of Lords. He thought, perhaps, if he were able to search outside of the most elite bloodlines - but that was unheard of and Edvard didn't make a habit of making waves.

Just as taking up a sword went against his nature, so to did overt rebelliousness. He could only hope that the mantel of King would be so natural.

"I'm cold," says Ealice imperiously, closing her book with a snap loud enough to rouse Edvard from his inner musings. Sheathing his personal sword, he waves off one of the maidens that rushes from the warmth of the castle to assist his sister and instead offers Ealice his hand. She gives him the book she'd been reading and stands by herself, awarding him an arched brow for his efforts. "I didn't say that I required a hand, brother mine, only that I've tired of watching you play in the snow."

Sisters.

"I'm hardly playing," he argues lightly, allowing her to tread through the shoveled snowy banks before him, the rest of the knights falling in line while servant boys rush around them to clean up the courtyard to restore it to pristine condition. Edvard spares a glance to ensure that the young boys are properly outfitted in winter cloaks and boots, as it wouldn't do for sickness to spread due to the carelessness of children, then disappears into the relative warmth of the stone castle.

"You're hardly training, either," Ealice replies just inside the eaves, standing still with her chin held high so that one of her handmaids can remove the heavy furs from her shoulders.

Edvard stills as the other knights disperse, leaving the Prince and Princess to their sibling chatter, though not before Carlisle claps Edvard on the shoulder once more. Though chainmail does little to provide warmth in the winter months, Edvard has found that he did not require the heavy fabrics that his sister preferred to stay warm and so he waits for her to free herself from such constriction.

"Honestly, sister, I urge you to rethink your perceptions. That was training, not playing."

Ealice catches his gaze, her eyes the same shade of Elric grey - a marbleized coloring that spans from the lightest silver to the deepest charcoal - before she shakes her head. He recognizes the expression as one that indicates her thoughtful mood, which spelled equally great insights or tactless observation, and braces himself. "I detect no true difference between the playing you did as a child and the training you do now, save that perhaps your playing was more productive," she tells him blithely pausing as she notes his tense reaction. "Edvard…"

"What would you know of training?" he demands, hushed in tone, ever mindful that the walls have ears and eyes that all dutifully report to their King. "The heft of a blade has never met your hand, nor has your mind ever strained beyond what you allow it. You cannot judge me or my efforts when you have not been required to participate in any activity that did not suit you."

Ealice frowns, a true and distinct emotion playing across her pale features, one of surprise and mild hurt that reminds him of the expression she'd had as a child after tripping and skinning her knee. As if she couldn't quite believe that it had dared happen to her. "I meant no offense, Edvard."

He sighs. "I know."

It wasn't Ealice's fault that the expectation of ladies was different than the expectation of men. Though it was obvious that his sister pushed at the boundaries that limited her function in life simply because she was born female, it was equally apparent that her efforts in progression had been nothing more than a father amusing the wishes of his daughter. Ealice experienced more freedom than any girl in the land, yet it was a false freedom. Her academic efforts were impressive, but she had no clear desire outside of her station in life; she would always be provided the privilege of royal blood regardless of which of her male relatives was King of Nordalta, and thus had no reason to seek knowledge that could be practical. Edvard wasn't sure what might happen if Ealice ever found herself outside of the throne room - he wasn't sure how any courtiers would fare if they were made to survive away from their manors and it was for this reason that he felt so dispassionate toward the ladies who competed for his attention.

Spotting the tentative glint in his younger sister's eye, Edvard offers his elbow to her arm, dispelling his prior thoughts. It was often easy for him to forget that Ealice and Emett were still shy of fifteen and not wise to the world outside the castle walls. "I know you didn't intend offense," he repeats, guiding them through the candle-lit stone corridor with genuine care. "But I should warn you to mind your tongue, as there are others who would not be so understanding of your perspective, particularly that rascal twin of yours. However, I do appreciate your opinion, Ealice, and I will continue to encourage you to voice your thoughts."

Intellectual as she is, it is no difficulty at all for his sister to leap immediately to the right conclusion, casting her eyes about guilelessly as they reach the corner of the adjacent hallway which led directly to the public venues the castle boasted. "You mean that this is not a perfectly safe location to rebelliously opine?"

Edvard covers his snort with a well-practiced cough, quirking a brow. "The castle is the most safe location, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh, undoubtedly," she replies lightly. "Though, I will admit there are better places to express myself. Perhaps in the middle of the throne room during the Winter Feast?"

"Ideally," he says dryly.

Ealice pats his arm delicately, silently communicating her remorse for her slip-up - it was not far from either of their minds that only a year ago, a similarly expressed opinion from a daughter of a Lord had been overheard and resulted in the near-immediate banning from court until she had "better learned her place". And while Edvard was sure their father would be reluctant to remove Ealice to the countryside for daring to think for herself, he was equally as sure that Ealice was unwilling to take the risk, especially by accident. No, when Ealice truly rebelled, it would be planned to the last word and in the most obnoxiously theatrical manner she could think of - and it would be inarguably done with deliberation.

"What ever would I do without such a dedicated guard?" she inquires as they pass through the expansive open-arched hallways that, for the most part, entertained the court of Lords and Ladies during the day. Her voice is pitched low and teasing, but he understands her question to be honest. They are both acting to their roles as they stroll beneath the arches to access the furthest edge that led to the private wings of the castle, smiles etched firmly on their faces.

Nodding at a Lord who he does not truly remember meeting, Edvard responds with a faint hum of consideration. "I imagine you would have to mind yourself, sister, and hope that luck was on your side."

Ealice sniffs in disdain. "As if I would ever rely upon the elusive charm of luck."

The corners of Edvard's mouth twitch in a true grin that he does his best to suppress, though probably with much less skill than he would prefer. Thankfully, none of the courtiers seem avid to interrupt them, hopefully noting Edvard's obvious appearance as someone who would rather wish to be cleaned from his dirtied gear than roped into a debate on grain rations.

"Indeed, it is best to leave luck to those who need it most."

He and his sister are able to slip past the guards at the entrance of the private wing and the guards at the staircase of the corridor with very little fuss; they trek up the private stairs into the part of the castle that is reserved solely for the royal family, esteemed guests, and a very select group of servants who are permitted entrance. It is no mistake that the private wings of the castle are considerably warmer than the portions open to the rest of court. Artisan rugs line the stone hallways and tapestries hang over the highest edge of the considerably long, narrow stained-glass windows, while candelabras spaced liberally offer flame-yellow light to see by.

"Such as my twin? Of this you have my wholehearted agreement."

Edvard barks a surprised laugh, then bids his sister a brief farewell. They separate, him to the left and she to the right, both off to other activities, though if Edvard were to guess, he would assume that his sister was off to the library in the more distant wing, which was widely-known to be her favorite location. For himself, he was off to rid himself of the dried salt that had accumulated on his skin in spite of the frigid temperatures and, considering the time of day, to change into proper attire for the supper that was sure to be served in a few hours. Perhaps, if he was not called away, he would have a chance to peruse the book on philosophy he had stumbled upon - but as he approaches his chambers and notices the manservant fidgeting by the doorway, his plans are dashed.

"My Lord," says the boy, bowing awkwardly due to his gangly height. "You have been summoned for an audience with, er, with my Lord. The King. An audience with my Lord the King."

"Where?"

"Th-the King's personal rooms. Where the King is, that is."

Biting his tongue to discourage himself from laughing at the poor adolescent, Edvard returns to the polite visage that his tutors had trained into him as a young boy - the distant, subtly superior expression one might expect from a prince that Edvard's aristocratic features hosted quite naturally, or so he's told. "Very well," he says agreeably, then plucks at his chainmail. "Come along. Assist me in returning to a state that can be presented to the King."

The young manservant falters, tugging on the starch woolen shirt hanging oddly from his coltish frame. His reason for hesitation is clear enough - someone had probably warned him not to delay or had perhaps exaggerated the consequences of delivering his message without the utmost haste. Of course, he wasn't to know that Edvard would take measure to keep the situation clear if the boy did wind up in trouble with his superior, but Edvard wasn't in any rush to clear the boy of the notion. It would do the new manservant well to understand the gravity of his duties and, in time, he would grow comfortable in the castle.

Though, why Edvard was always assigned the new manservants, he hadn't any idea. He suspected, however, that Emett was somehow involved. His rascal brother usually was - and typically with the kind assistance of Ealice. Edvard's siblings lived to torment him, he was positive.

"Er, well, of course, Sire, but should you not…er, that is, the King seemed to want your audience…"

"I'm quite sure my father would rather not smell me before he sees me."

The manservant's eyes widen and he quickly darts about, nervous energy filling Edvard's chambers as the obviously new and untried manservant goes about ridding him of the heavy chainmail and sweat-darkened tunic and breeches. The boy holds onto the bundle of training gear, awkward until Edvard nods to the woven basket in the nearest corner.

Moving at a brisk pace, Edvard crosses to the tall wardrobe pressed against the wall between a set of long windows, opening the cabinets and avoiding the left side with a grimace. He waves the manservant forward, strangling his impatience. "What is your name? I'll not be calling you boy anytime soon."

"Erm, Fergus, my Lord."

Edvard nods, then indicates to Fergus which ensemble would be most appropriate. He hopes that the boy would be able to detect the pattern by which he stored his clothes and be able to predict Edvard's preferences in the future if he remained in this post. With Edvard's luck, however, he would have yet another new manservant within the next week, which was probably also due to Emett' orchestrations.

From the bowl of chilly water near the vanity and silk dressing screen that partitions the room between his bed and the chamber pot, he uses a rag to quickly rinse the sweat from his body and does not delay in dressing in a set of deep navy breeches, tunic, and surcoat. Though he is royal, it is not required for him or his siblings to dress in jeweled finery unless the occasion specifically calls for it and he therefore does not don any frivolous accessories. Before he leaves, he instructs Fergus to have his sword and chainmail cleaned and returned by the morning, sure that his expectations are generous enough for someone who is so new to the castle. Never let it be said that Edvard was not kind, at the very least.

The King's personal rooms were in the second private wing of the castle, remarkably close to where Ealice's favored library was. The rooms themselves are a set of two rectangular spaces; a personal office, and a living room, where meetings often took place, both which were connected to the King's personal chambers through a set of hidden passages of which only Edvard and his siblings were aware. The King's chambers were actually on the other side of the wing and were under heavy guard near-constantly, but any Elric knew that access to the chambers could be achieved in many ways.

It was, unquestionably, a well-guarded secret.

Still, Edvard often yearned to utilize these passages rather than resign himself to the watchful eye of every knightguard under his King's rule. The novelty of such attention had worn off before Edvard had ever been able to appreciate it and truly, he found himself nearly as weary as the guards, constantly fighting the urge to look over his own shoulder to detect the cause of such suspicious glances, only to realize that they were suspicious of him. To suspect the Heir Apparent of possible foulplay - absolutely preposterous, if Edvard's silent protests were ever heard, but also unwittingly appropriate. It had been before his time, but there was an era in the Elric line where such betrayals of kin were done by rote.

Which, Edvard supposes wryly, is a rather well-known secret, a fitting contrast to the other well-guarded secret of his House.

Standing before the doors of the King's room, Edvard waits with his hands clasped behind his back for the guard to announce his presence and consequently permit him entrance to his father's living room. As a portion of the castle that was predominantly unseen by the greater public, it was outfitted in the type of heavy furs that his father preferred; bear skin across the wooden floors, rare mink pulled over down pillows on the stiff-backed chairs placed before the hearth, and of course his sire, draped in a cloak of what Edvard easily identifies as deerskin. A heavy, almost foreboding room by all accounts, but nevertheless a room that was easily balanced by echoes of feminine touch - from the day his mother had passed birthing the twins, there had never been a time where the blue crystal vase in the center of the room was missing flowers. He believed his father placed blooms there himself, though they did not speak of it.

The King is an imposing man, one of great girth and height with a head of closely-cropped inky black hair, just barely touched with the grey that betrays his age. Though Edvard is much more slim than his father, he shares the same height and the same dark hair, both readily identifying him - and, truly, his siblings - as individuals not native to the lands that they rule. Indeed, the House of Elric had once come from a land over the seas, but his great-grandfather had renounced his ties to the old lands and chose to instead conquer Nordalta and with it, the proper village of Alta, which had turned into a metropolis over the years of relatively successful Elric reign. Until Edvard's late - and insane - great-uncle, of course.

With some measure of force, Edvard turns his attention to his father - and away from upsetting thoughts - and dips his head in a bow, holding his position until the doors behind him are firmly shut. He relaxes marginally, wondering further into the living room and spying the leather-bound tome his father is leafing through.

"I believe you requested an audience?"

Perseus Elric grunts in confirmation, waving a hand to one of the seats before the flickering fire. This fire, as all fires in Alta and in the castle, is awash of orange-yellow flames, but Edvard often wonders what the magical fires might look like - he has heard rumors that their flames glow the most exotic of colors and wonders if those rumors are true at all, or simply the result of folly court gossip. Would he ever know for himself?

"How does your training progress? I trust that you are swiftly moving up the ranks?" says Perseus, sitting across from Edvard and granting his son the full weight of a King's attention. It is through rigorous control of his body that Edvard does not flinch from the searching gaze. "When I was your age, the knights had begun to answer directly to me."

Pressing his lips together at the reminder, Edvard sinks deeper into the chair, resolutely removing his eyes from the hearth. "I bested Carlisle once again today," he admits, then frowns. "But I do not think I am prepared to lead the men. There is still much I can do to improve myself and I believe they will respect my leadership more if they are satisfied that I have worked hard for it."

Seeming to sense Edvard's censure, the King huffs in amusement. "My son," he replies. "I did not say that they appreciated answering to me. If you feel that you should fully earn your place in the Knighthood, then I commend and support your efforts. It shows a measure of integrity and consideration. Very appealing traits for the future leader of this land."

Smiling easily, Edvard says, "I'm heartened by your approval."

Perseus raises dark brows. "But you have guessed that I did not request an audience to discuss training when I could just as easily gain this information over breakfast with your siblings."

Edvard inclines his head. That had been his exact assumption; there was no reason to formally request a meeting with Edvard for a topic so comparatively benign. He had not thought that this audience would be anything short of integral to his future when Fergus had relayed the request and while his leadership with the knights was certainly important, Edvard did not think that updating his father on his progress was the goal of the meeting. Though it was courteous of his father to open the discussion with a topic Edvard was most involved in - it evened the footing between father and son, rather than King and Prince, so to speak.

"You would be correct, then," his father confesses, heaving a great sigh and standing, installing himself before the hearth with an expression of grave contemplation. Edvard straightens his own posture in response, quite suddenly anticipating news of the worst sort. "I have received troubling word from one of the Lords that lives near the village of Sassa. He has heard of rumblings from the outer Houses…and I fear that the safety of the Clans is about to be tested."

Edvard connects the dots rather quickly and stands, heart thumping in his chest. "You mean to send me to this village?"

"I do," the King confirms, leveling Edvard with a severe expression. "But in particular, I wish for you to ascertain any dangers this Cursed Child of Sassa poses."