The army of the Malory Isles was beautiful. The high ranking soldiers had shining, velvet polished armor. Beneath them stood those in finely tooled leather, and at the bottom were young people in plain clothes. Boys and girls, they all stood in dark green and liquid black. Polished wood made up their staffs while shining metal daggers were sheathed at their belts.
Athanasia leaned on the roof of the guard house, watching the ranks march in. From the broadest leader to the smallest recruit, they stood with straight backs and forward facing eyes. Well trained.
There was no luxury to their garb, she noted. It was plain cloth, not silk or satin, or the fine goat cloth that draped around the royal family.
Athanasia crept along the roofs, watching them march in to present themselves to Albion.
They went through drills, showing off staff and knife work in mock duels. Athanasia picked her way down to roof of the stables, waving to the guards who saw her clinging to ivy. She was still a bit too small for her own taste, but it served her purpose for now.
Until she was standing at the edge of the stable, watching two boys face off. They were fast, their blows were hard, and they were only a little older than she was. From where she stood Athanasia could see a bruise on the edge of the taller ones cheek, beneath where his short hair cut off.
A second later she understood why it was there.
The shorter boy spun with a dancer's grace, turning under the opposing staff and smacking him sharply across the face. Athanasia cringed her sympathy.
To his credit, the taller did not stumble. He winced before he set his jaw and shoved the smaller away. They stepped back, dipped their heads, and moved in again in another bout.
Athanasia did not move from her place near the horses. She pet the velvet nose of the one she called Dell and whispered her admirations to him. She was positive that Igerna, the stable girl who always smiled sweetly when their eyes met, was listening in.
A soft clink of metal confirmed her suspicions, and Igrena's head poked out of the stall to look at the princess. Athanasia peered at her out of the corner of her eye before she smiled at the girl, who ducked away. They were almost the same age, and they were so far apart.
Athanasia, a princess with curling green hair and eyes of the same shade, who could only touch the horses when her parents weren't' watching or they were on precession.
Igrena, a slave of blonde hair and brown eyes, who could not leave the horses if she wanted to.
Athanasia loved horses. A thousand lifetimes ago she had broken sacred law and taken her horses through the Games, chariot bouncing beneath her feet and reigns held tight in her hands. A thousand lifetimes ago she had bared herself to the world with her brothers encouragement and burned her name into history for a great deed.
She wondered, idly, of these boys before her would do the same.
Athanasia was broken out of her musings when a staff was shoved in her chest. She startled, looking up at one of the boys, who was barely paying her attention as he and his sparring partner moved to gather the reins of horses that Igrena had brought out.
"Clean my brother's staff well," the bruised one ordered her shortly.
The little slave girl stared wide eyed at her princess, who accepted the other staffs shoved at her. This was a very surreal moment, and she wondered idly if this was what it was like for Igrena. To be looked at but not seen.
Athanasia leaned the staffs on a wall and, with a smile tossed at Igrena, she ran off, scrambling up the walls and onto the battlements, right in front of one of the guards. The two boys were too preoccupied with leading mounts out that they didn't notice the girl disappearing at all.
"When I'm older," she told him, "We're going to refortify this place. Or an army of kids is going to take us down."
The guard, whose name she had never been given, smiled indulgently at her and said simply, "Yes Princess."
The little girl went running off.
It was later that eve that she found herself sitting in her small throne, beside her mother. The seat that was situated beside her father was reserved for a fidgeting boy of only four. Galatyn had no patience and even less interest in the goings on of his country.
He was much more intrigued with sailors stories and warriors practices. Athanasia did not fault him for it. In fact she understood his interest quite well. The fact of the matter was, the classes taught by the Royal Tutor, Alator, were so boring that even someone as thirsty for knowledge as Athanasia was could be lulled into sleep. And she wasn't a four year old who wanted to be nothing more than a traveller.
"Great King Albion, Great Queen Loudine, Great Prince Galatyn, First Princess of Carleon Ganieda, and Second Princess Clarine," the voice of the General carried through the room, echoing through her bones and shaking them though it was he and the two children at his side who bowed. "We thank you for your welcome."
"It is We who thanks you for your brave service, General Duran," her father recited with no truth to his voice. Athanasia very pointedly did not frown at him. Instead she faced straight forwards, eyes locked on the men.
The two boys, one with a mark under where his hair stopped falling. The ones who had handed their practice staffs off to a princess and now held new, shining ones at their right sides.
Thom and Cei.
"We would ask the honor of demonstrating the best of your future army," Duran said, gesturing to the boys behind him. They were in finer clothes now, but ones that would be easy to move in and would not be ruined by sweat.
Ganieda's father fixed them both with a hard, chilling stare that made the boys stiffen up past even their former Attention.
"Very well," the king consented, inclining his head. "Begin."
Duran tossed a glance behind him and just like that the two boys were throwing themselves at eachother, power and skill in each move, in each crack of wood against wood. They would be powerful.
Athanasia took a breath and looked down at her small, soft hands. They were not even pricked by needles. No callouses existed, no muscles worked beneath her skin. Her power was in her name alone and she knew all too well how quickly monarchy's shifted. How often the names of a ruling clan changed.
Power was everything in this world. Power was everything in every world.
She took a breath and turned.
'Ganieda' smiled up at her father with a child's pride. He was a ruler, he needed soldiers and warriors to keep the peace and she was an heir, or could produce them at the very least. It would only make sense that she should live. It seemed a perfectly reasonable statement to her.
"I would be of them," she pointed to the pair who she had been speaking of. The two boys, still sparring. The man, their minder, teacher, and general. Father as well, she figured. Two of the three looked enough alike, and they had called themselves brothers. That was good enough for her.
Her father narrowed his eyes at her. Her mother looked aghast and paled beyond the soft pink of her fine clothes.
"You will do no such thing," his voice was sharper than she had ever heard.
Athanasia stood up straighter and frowned at him.
"There's no reason for me not to. I saw a girl come in in their uniform. She wore their symbol, if she can then so can-"
"You will have nothing to do with them," he snapped.
Her mother added, gently, "think of all the mud you'll be tracking in, and how rough your hands will be."
"I don't care about that!" Athanasia argued. She had been a soldier before. She knew their aches, their pains, their sorrows. She knew their strength and pride.
"Your blood is too old to be spilled in a field," her father retorted.
The girl stepped towards him, anger bubbling in her small chest. How dare he say such things? Especially when his own warriors stood in the room, staring at him with as much surprise as she.
"Who care's whose blood it is! It's not like you can't have more heirs to inherit your land. Blood is blood, if it is spilled then mine is worth no more than his," she pointed to the smaller of the boys. She saw the flash in her father's eyes before his hand came down and her face snapped sideways. Her ear rang sharply and her face stung smartly.
Her mouth was open, shocked. She could see, out of the corner of her eye the steadying hand the old general put on his trainees shoulders when they moved closer. Her mother's gasp was silent to her, her dark eyes wide with horror.
"No daughter of mine will lower herself to such measures," His voice was as cold as ice, "You will never speak of this again, and you will banish any delusions you have to inheritance. That is a man's place. Not yours. "
A mans place. Why did it matter for her, but not the girl in the army? Why did it make a difference if she spilled blood or the people she was born to lead did? What made a princess worth more than a soldier girl?
Athanasia bowed her head to mock submission. She hid her burning eyes from him, pressed her lips together so she would not bare her teeth like the animal that clawed to be released upon him.
"I understand," she said simply.
She understood all right. If he would not give her power, if he would not award her respect, she would take it from him by force. If she had to force her voice loud and harsh enough that an assembly would listen to her, she would. If she had to raise an army and drag him into the streets he owned, she would. If she had to make herself smaller to hide her poison laden rings she would. But she would not let go of this disrespect.
And she would not let go of her claim to his crown.
