Druidic Champion
Chapter Four:
To say that Lucas was surprised would be an understatement. He jumped back, body whirling around in a frantic attempt to locate the source of the speech that had broken the still, silent air. The ruins of Oldstones were as they had always been, save for one alteration. There was a man standing in the middle of the ruined castle grounds, staring intently at Lucas.
…No, standing was wrong. This...thing did not stand atop the ground, instead, it floated, hovering just above where the grass would graze the bottom of his armoured boots. He was an imposing figure, far taller than Lucas, with dark brown hair covered by a war helmet in a style that Lucas did not recognise.
His arms, where they emerged from the bronze, battered armour were thick, like the trunks of trees, with crisscrossing white scar lines that adorned his flesh. He was quite imposing, with a steely piercing look in his sharp green eyes, that even now stared down at Lucas with an emotion he could not recognise.
"Wh-Who are you? What do you want?" Lucas' voice came out in a dry croak, as he stared mouth agape at this clearly supernatural figure, this somehow feeling more real than the stag from earlier.
At this, the figure turned, looking contemplatively out at the ruins of Oldstones, seemingly lost in memory. Now that Lucas had a moment more to consider him, he saw that he bore a striking resemblance to his father.
"Who am I…?" the man paused. "I have been many things through my long years of life, and many things after it as well." He turned his head to once again regard Lucas impassively.
"I was known in life as The Hammer of Justice. I was called King of the Rivers and the Hills, and I am a veteran of one hundred battles. My name is Tristifer Mudd, the fourth of my family to bear that name, and you, young Lucas, are my descendent."
At this proclamation, a tumultuous storm of emotions surged within Lucas. Excitement that all his childhood stories and daydreams were true, fear at this walking revenant, a dead man come back to haunt the living. But most of all, confusion filled Lucas' mind, not just regarding what he had been told, but also the situation he found himself in.
"What is this? What are you? Why me?". The questions spilt from Lucas' mouth, without thought or pause, and in response, instead of taking offence the spectre simply threw his helmeted head back and laughed uproariously, a deep chuckle filling the silence here at the top of Oldstones.
"Haha, a sharp and inquisitive mind on you boy, and not afraid to ask questions either it would seem. Good, those traits will be needed, and will serve you well in the future to come."
Returning to his stationary hovering, he continued "Why you…? You are of my blood, it runs in your veins. But more importantly than that, you are worthy of being called my descendant. It has been many generations since I fell in my battle against 7 Andal kings, and many of my bloodline have for some reason or another made their way here, to the top of Oldstones."
He looked around, green eyes taking in the rubble and ruin of this place, clearly seeing something else, long since taken by wind and water.
"This place used to be the seat of my power, a great castle was built here, and at its time, it was the strongest in Westeros. It shames and saddens me both to see it in such a condition." The booming voice of Lucas' supposed ancestor quieted here, moving from loud confidence to a lower and more contemplative volume.
"Surely I can't be the first one you consider worthy." Lucas retorted. "I am nothing special, I have no gifts or extraordinary talent for you to consider."
"You are correct" mused Tristifer. "There have indeed been many worthy successors through the ages, but none live now, and now is when action must be taken." His words rang with purpose, stoking the very same feeling within Lucas that he recognised from earlier that very day.
"A storm is brewing on the horizon" continued Tristifer. "Magic is soon to return to the world once again, the swelling tide bringing with it the harshest of winters, and unless stopped, an ending to all things."
As he said this, his voice grew lower, harsher, and Lucas could swear he could hear the biting chill of winter within it. "In reference to your earlier question, I am nothing more than a dead king. In my life, I held prestige and importance. I was a faithful warrior of the Old Gods and fought back many an invading Andal. My exploits on the battlefield, my position of power over others, my faith and passion towards the Old Gods, all these provided me with some measure of power and cohesion within the Greater Greendream."
Here, he seemed to grow more transparent, seeming less there, more an imprint in the world than the image of the man he had been beforehand. And behind him, or perhaps through (Lucas could not tell), something greater, vaster than he could imagine or conceive existed, and simply looking at it burned his eyes, and forced him to avert them.
"It is not through my power that I now speak with you. I am simply a conduit of something greater. I was an avid tool of the Old Gods during my life, and I still serve them, even in death. They have need of you Lucas. They need a champion in the coming days of conflict and war. For too long have they slumbered, for too long have these foreign heathen gods laid claim to Westeros, to what is rightfully theirs. Magic rises, and with it, the Gods awaken. Would you answer their call?"
The weight of this seemed to press upon Lucas, the enormity of what was being asked, even if he did not fully understand what they wanted from him yet. And so, fighting the urge to simply agree, to submit, Lucas asked "What would they have of me? What would they have me do?"
Replying, Tristifer spoke, though it seemed more and more as the conversation continued that something spoke through him, using him as nothing more than a puppet as gravity seemed to grow around Lucas, pressing him down into the earth.
"We have spoken. We require a champion, to combat all those who threaten us and to protect our loyal followers and chosen people. Our supremacy must be reclaimed, too long have we waited and slept, our people persecuted and forgotten amidst heathen foreign religions that care not for their people. Blood must be spilt, shrines must be rebuilt, strength must be gathered. All in preparation for the coming of The Long Night."
At those last three words, Lucas fell to his knees, mind awash with images and feelings forced upon him. He felt the icy touch of death, the warmth leaving him as he succumbed to its frigid embrace. He felt himself leave his body, not his mind, but what made him truly him. He felt his soul scream and writhe as it was consumed by the ever-ravenous, all-freezing hunger that he now witnessed. He was being flayed to shreds and torn away from himself, reduced to nothing, nothing but food and fuel to this monstrous entity of Ice, Winter and Death.
And then he was back. Lucas lay on his side, curled into the fetal position amidst the tall grasses of the courtyard. He could feel every limb of his body shaking and quaking in response to that terrible memory. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, a worryingly welcome sound proving that he was still alive, and not within its icy grasp. Above it all, he could hear a harsh whining, a terrible screech that it took moments to realise was coming from his own mouth. It was an animalistic sound of terror and pain, one he had never heard from any animal before and did not think he could replicate again even if he tried.
Standing above him, Lucas could feel more than see what was now inhabiting Tristifer's body. His boots now resting upon the earth that Lucas lay curled upon, it spoke even as Lucas continued to writhe, his mind instinctively veering away from replaying any portion of that forced, horrific vision.
"Do you now know why we need a champion? Do you now truly understand what comes for humanity, for all the people of this world? There is nowhere you can hide from what now comes, no place of safety or refuge you can crawl to. The Long Night comes again, the Breaking of the World is upon us, and it will be up to the Champions to see whether it is truly consumed, or forged anew from the ashes."
Lucas tried to speak, to rail against the injustice that had been done to him, to ask if it was truly necessary what had been done, but he could not. Blood filled his mouth, choking his throat, and only producing gargling splutters as he tried to form words. He realised that at some point, he had bitten his tongue hard, nearly severing it at the stem.
"Do you think yourself unique?" continued the terrible being above him. "There are others like you, gifted with veins that run with First Men blood, pure and powerful in the ways of The Old Gods, in our ways. You are special, yes, but not unique. If you will not do the job, then we will find others that will. And you will be fated to die, to be consumed along with everyone else. You will remain worthless, forgotten, with no destiny or agency of your own, just another character in someone else's story. Is that the life that you wish for yourself, is that the life that your mother worked herself to death to provide for you."
At the mention of his mother, Lucas found some vestige, some iota of defiance within him, just enough to force his head up to glare at the entity that stood above him. He had not the strength to speak, so he simply stared, attempting to put all his anger, fear and resentment into the gaze he directed at Tristifer's body.
Yet despite the rage he felt at this thing invoking his mother's death, Lucas could not help but resonate with what this being was saying. He had spoken true, finding a fear that Lucas did not even know was there. Yes…yes he was afraid of never amounting to anything, of making all the sacrifices that had been made for him worthless, afraid of never leaving this fucking town, never doing anything worthwhile with his life.
Despite everything they had said and done, these things that he had worshipped for so long, they were offering him a chance to change his life, to grow into someone worthy and respected, someone that could hold real power within Westeros. He was being offered the chance to write his own destiny, and he could not let himself throw it away simply due to the pain he felt.
Above him, 'Tristifer' laughed, a terrible discordant noise, almost sounding elated at the defiance that Lucas directed in his gaze, or perhaps due to the acceptance they saw within it.
Through gritted teeth and a bitten tongue, through blood welling up within his mouth, Lucas spoke "….It shall be done!".
Author's Note: This was mainly planned out, but it kinda went off the rails at the end there. Originally, the agreement between Lucas and the Old Gods (through Tristifer) was going to be a far more...amicable one, but then I remembered that the Old Gods are considered to be far harsher (or more uncaring) Gods compared to others (The Seven especially). As such, I kinda got stuck in a mania writing that last part, voice acting out the lines as I wrote them, and considered trying to set up a good cop/bad cop kinda dynamic with the Gods v.s Tristifer in the future (maybe). Let me know how u feel about the chapter, but also the last, most confrontational section as well, cos I wanna know how it was received. At least this way, Lucas will be really motivated to do something about the long night. :)