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The Myrmidon sat awkwardly at the small round dining table, hands nursing the cool mug of iced merlot. Everywhere he looked in the house oozed with opulence, it almost felt like a dream. His mother sat on the opposite end of the table, having distanced herself after just letting her bleeding heart show at the gate. He still couldn't believe that she was one of the nobility of Cintra, though bound only in title by her long dead husband. She in turn couldn't quite fathom the reason why he'd return to her after all those years. Serah eyed Averon suspiciously, scrutinizing every move and every expression he made. When he wouldn't say a word, she decided to be the one to start.
"Seven years, Averon." The marchioness declared, "Seven years, not one word. Not even a letter home."
Her son refused to meet her gaze. He knew this was coming and faced the brewing storm that was about to fall head on. Averon wasn't one to fumble about with excuses, so he put his intentions in a most blunt manner possible. "It's not that I didn't try. I didn't know what to say, mum. What could I write home? Every word would've reminded you of my choice, probably made things worse. So's I crumpled the paper and tossed it away, till I no longer had the courage to even pick up a quill."
"Not known what to say?" Serah gasped, "Made things worse? The silence was definitely worse, gods be damned! All those years I raised you, were they all for naught? I would've forgiven you, even prayed for your return, had you even written a peep. But no, you had to make your poor mother think the war took you from her! Just like your father!"
"But it didn't." Averon offered weakly, in a rather hushed tone.
"Truth in that, but besides the point." Serah hissed, "You broke my heart, boy. That you did. And then you made me suffer for a long time with your absence."
"That why you chose to start over?" The man retorted, not even caring if his words cut deep. "Spread your legs for a nob, get a taste of the high life?"
Serah's hand flew quicker than his eyes could catch, and a stinging crack sent his head turning to the side. Her slap left a burning pink mark on his cheek, and all of a sudden Averon felt himself revert to his meek little schoolboy self. He looked at his mother, saw the hurt in her eyes and realized he went too far. Still, he was glad she got a bit of the weight out of her with that strike. With a soft voice, he spoke up. "Alright, that may have been unfair. But is it not true? Am I truly that replaceable?"
"No." Serah blinked back the tears and sternly corrected her errant child. "And don't you ever think for a second that I whored myself out to get here. Archardee gave me great comfort in a time when I was in my darkest of moments. When I was with him, the pain stopped. I didn't... I didn't care about anything else. I was happy, Averon."
Averon's gaze faltered as shame crept up his shoulders.
"And when I became pregnant, only then did he ask to marry me. I suppose you can say I made him happy too. Whatever else I gained in that marriage was secondary to the healing it brought to my soul. Do you understand?"
Her son remained silent.
"Nothing will ever replace you or your father, but I love Lyra." Serah declared, drawing close to her boy. "And if you're looking to bridge the gap between us, you will love her too." The ultimatum rang clear in the Myrmidon's ears. For a full minute, he gauged his words carefully before he gave his answer. After the storm had passed, there was a light streaming through the proverbial skies. He hadn't earned her forgiveness just yet, but this was a good start.
"May I see her?"
Serah nodded and led him upstairs. Averon followed her to his half-sister's bedroom, where the girl lay still covered up and burning with fever. As it turned out, the medicines did do their work as advertised, though rather late by Serah's standards. Lyra opened her eyes and weakly propped her little head against her pillow. When she turned to look at her mother, she saw a strange man peering down at her with a curious look about his face.
"Who... who are you?" She asked.
Averon threw his mother a glance as if to ask her permission, then turned back to Lyra. He sat down beside her and took her small hand in his rough calloused fingers. The man was more accustomed to holding weapons or whetstones for sharpening blades, but when he felt the delicate softness of that child in his hands, a peculiar warmth burned in his stone heart. With as much gentleness as he could muster into his voice, Averon rumbled like a purring lion. "Hello Lyra, my name is Averon. I'm... I'm your brother."
Serah stifled down a sob, touched by the poignant scene before her. She never expected a homecoming like this one, a reunion with her prodigal son and a future shared with her daughter as well. It was better than she'd hoped for. For hours, the little family spent the night trading stories while seeing to Lyra's health. Eventually, Averon had to say a reluctant farewell. He was needed at the palace barracks and he was expected to at least meet the queensguard recruits he was going to train for the rest of his time in Cintra. Serah bade him not to go at first but relented when he promised to see her again sometime on the morrow.
With that, he was back on the streets and on his way to the palace. As the hour grew late, the festivities that flooded the main passageways gradually dissipated. Drunks and pickpockets were the only ones that remained, but they too wandered off into the dark after the city watchmen started patrolling the streets. Averon saluted the sentries standing watch at the barracks and showed a scrap of paper with the seal of the queen upon it. He was allowed entry, and the Myrmidon soon stood face to face with the two dozen first recruits to the Cintran queensguard. Seeing him enter, the guardsmen ceased in their activities and stood at attention.
Averon didn't inspect the men themselves just yet. He went for their equipment, their armor and their shields. The queensguard were, first and foremost, defenders of the crown and the royal family. They were not to seek glory in battle like knights or heroes, they were to be the bastion of safety at all times. Their tower shields, each the size of a man, were crafted specifically for tight formations, they were well oiled and polished to an unearthly sheen. Their swords and spears as well. Averon assumed that Calanthe had been thinking on his promotion for a while, even went as far as preparing the recruits in advance. He then turned to look at their armor. Every guardsman wore a mail hauberk and a steel cuirass of the finest quality. Their helmets were shaped into the snarling snouts of ferocious lions, serving a more ceremonial purpose.
He rapped his knuckles against one of the shields, marveling at the intricate etchings cut into the surface. The recruits watched their new commander patiently. They may be fresh for the queensguard, but every man in that room had his fair share of experience in battle someplace. They knew how to fight, they knew how to take orders, but they had enough youthful vigor in them to be eager to prove themselves.
"Alright gents." Averon finally spoke, bidding them to stand at ease. "Welcome to the queensguard. If you're expecting a rousing speech for this first night, don't bother. I'm too fucking tired." The men smiled but maintained a respectful silence. "Our job is to protect and serve the crown. We're not knights and we sure as hell ain't city watch, anyone tells you otherwise you have my permission to give 'em a good proper sock in the throat. For now, standing order is to get a good rest. Tomorrow, party and festivities be damned, we'll get started on drills. Good night, men. Dismissed."
The guardsmen saluted their commander and did as commanded.
"Sir, if I may have a moment?" One of them trotted forward, a smile on his young freshly shaven face.
"Name, guardsman?" Averon said curtly.
The man looked a great deal younger than he sounded, with an unruly shock of ginger hair and boyish freckles all over his cheeks. And yet his voice had the commanding grate of a sergeant born for battle. His bright blue eyes twinkled with heroic adoration as he looked at Averon. "Sergeant Silas, of Sodden, sir."
"You may have that moment, sergeant."
"I just wanted to say, sir, I always wanted to meet the Myrmidon in person. I'm honored to have you as our commander."
"Thank you, nice of you to say. Your rank intertwines with mine, as it so seems. When you speak to the men I expect you to carry out my orders to the letter, as though it were from my own lips. Is that understood, sergeant?"
Silas nodded, "Yes sir."
"Right then, off you go." Averon dismissed, heading for his own quarters which was separated from the rest of the barracks by a small flight of stairs. Inside was a simple bed and a desk for all the paperwork he'd have to handle for the duration of his lofty position. Atop the wooden platform sat a quill and an inkpot, a stack of papers, and red wax candles partnered with an official seal for the queensguard commander. The Myrmidon hung up his shield and spear, and paused when he noticed a strange crate sitting next to his bed. Inside he found a new cuirass to add to his entire ensemble, along with a cape made out of real lion's skin. A gift from the queen, and a symbol of his new rank. Averon felt honored to have gotten that far, and all he had to do was kill all the right people.
The next morning, Averon donned his new armor and lion's mane.
Spear and shield in hand, he assembled the queensguard in the courtyard and instructed them in the defensive tactics that would be the foundation of their maneuvers. Shield wall, wedge, tortoise, all their formations involved the use of a pair or more. Averon pressed the idea that no man in the queensguard must stand alone, just as a single brick is useless when standing before a hurricane. Spears were to keep the enemy at bay, shields were to tightly press together. The smiths that made those tower shields included several modifications to allow spears to rest their shafts atop a little divot, so Averon had his men use these to their advantage. When they finished poking and stabbing at target dummies, the guardsmen were pitted against each other in mock battles. Shields were used like battering rams, testing the fortitude of each man and then a pair. Finally, they were split into two groups, and each one smashed into the other to gauge how they'd weather against an actual clash.
Be it an advancing army or an angry mob, the queensguard was the crown's bastion of safety.
As the early morning turned to high noon, the barracks got a visit from the queen and her guests. Calanthe wanted to show off her queensguard to the dignitaries in a not-so-subtle show of power. They watched the men at their drills from the cool shade of the palace watchtower, sipping wine and trading idle gossip. Averon bade the guardsmen to carry on unless addressed directly by the queen, having caught on to the general idea of providing a spectacle. Although the commander couldn't hear all the words, he was sure Calanthe was bragging about something concerning them.
Sure enough, the queen's voice rang through the air and set all the guardsmen to a halt. "Commander Averon, come up here!"
Averon bade Silas to take over and obeyed the queen's command. He marched upstairs and entered the tower, wading through the sea of dignitaries with ease as his presence gave off an unpleasant trepidation. He stood before Calanthe and bowed, "Your Highness?"
Queen Calanthe, all gussied up in royal silks of gold and silver, held up a goblet of wine and toasted to the victories of Cintra against Nilfgaard- claiming the proxy wars as her own. "Behold, friends, Commander Averon of Cintra- the Myrmidon."
"The bastard of St. Vandal!" One less-than-polite courtier exclaimed, to the embarrassed giggles of a few handmaidens. Averon's face was a mask but beneath it was a subtle flare of contempt. He was a long way from the years of breaking the teeth of noblemen who slighted him. He could ill afford lashing out, not after getting this far in life.
"Careful now." Calanthe warned, "This one's a dragonslayer, just like his father. His spear knows Nilfgaardian blood intimately. Would you rather earn his ire than his goodwill?"
"My apologies, Your Grace." The courtier said with a flourishing bow, "I spoke in haste."
"Is it true..." A balding man with a king's circlet inquired of Averon, "You wear your skin like armor? I would very much like to see this."
Averon's eyes narrowed slightly, he glanced at Calanthe. Upon seeing her nod of affirmation, he turned his flesh to iron. A collective gasp, some resounding oohs and ahs, filled the air. The Myrmidon bore the potent stares of the nobility with statuesque resilience, he felt like a prized bull being led around a fair and he hated it. Calanthe let them crowd around him until they grew bored of the spectacle. She led them away to tour the Blackbone Inn, an establishment of much prestige given its unique architecture. The dignitaries loved the thought of seeing the remains of the great dragon Idlekkarnhamth, leaving Averon to heave a sigh of relief as he returned to his duties.
The Myrmidon resumed training with the guardsmen, giving them pause only when the hour drew near for the banquet at the palace. When the time came for the Cintran queensguard to take their place at queen's side, Averon put Silas in charge of making them as presentable as possible. Their armor and weapons were cleaned and polished, and their formations known by heart. It had only been a day since they trained together, but there was nothing like first impressions to bring out the best in each guardsman. Averon believed that they would act as a purely superficial unit, another spectacle to impress the guests. Indeed, it would take weeks before they could be at their peak no matter how hard he drilled the men.
"Commander, may I ask you something?" Silas inquired as the queensguard assembled for the march into the palace.
"Yes, sergeant?" Averon said, snatching up his helm.
"Who taught you how to fight?"
The galea closed down over Averon's face, hiding it beneath the terrifying visage of brass and iron. His fingers tightened over the black spear, "No one did. I taught myself, with whatever I could use as a target. Do that for enough years, rack up enough bodies, and you'll come up with your own style. It worked, so I strive to perfect it."
"Will you teach us how to fight like that?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because, sergeant, how I fight is how one man fights." Averon explained, "How the Cintran queensguard fights is an entirely different thing. Duelists have no place in it."
The men marched, following the beginnings of music played from basolias and zithers. The banquet had begun well ahead of the arrival of the queen, which was fine by Averon. They were met by the palace staff, who issued some decorative accoutrements to make the guardsmen more fitting for the occasion. Averon forewent the colorful additions, choosing to remain apart from the festivities. When they got to the banquet hall and the doors were pushed aside, the faint cacophony of songs became a burst of dissonance that rung incessantly in each man's skull. The sudden rush of sensations; the taste and scent of steaming exotic foods, the clamor of jovial guests fighting to be heard over each other's conversation- it was enough to overwhelm Sgt. Silas and a few of the guardsmen who had never been a part of such exuberant revelry.
Averon had to nudge them forward, reminding the men of their job. The queen was on her way with the birthday girl in tow. Princess Pavetta was to be put on display, just like them, to draw out the best of the dignitaries vying for her hand and the friendship of the Cintran crown. Politics, again, had its place even in the dining table. A warrior in heart, Averon found the entire atmosphere stifling. Statesmen and rulers were rubbing shoulders, as well as subtly backstabbing each other in tandem with the superficial clinking of wine goblets. Friends and enemies alike mingled together in droves. The heart of the kingdom didn't reside there, only a dark and gritty world of skullduggery.
The Myrmidon supposed it was only natural. No kingdom existed without it.
"My lords and ladies, honored guests..." A herald declared, calling for the attention of all who were present. "Her Majesty, Queen Calanthe! And the realm's delight, Princess Pavetta!"
The women's arrival evoked a strong response, as befitting the royal pair. A thunderous applause and a chorus of praise were heaped at their feet. Calanthe and her daughter took their seat at the high table, escorted by the queensguard and a newly arrived guest- the White Wolf himself. Averon masked his surprise well at the sight of the witcher, although he couldn't quite keep it up when they both sat down to partake in the abundance arrayed in the table before them. Geralt of Rivia hadn't changed much over the years, save for a few new scars given his particular line of work. Why he was there, Averon hadn't been informed. He simply assumed that the queen had a contract for him.
"Hello Geralt." Averon greeted his savior as he kept his eyes front. "Been a long time."
The witcher looked at him, perplexed at the iron golem's familiarity. "Do I know you?"
A smile formed on the man's lips, "Perhaps too long. My name is Averon, you once saved me from a mad scientist back when I was a child. My half-brother Reyncourt too."
Geralt narrowed his eyes, thinking back quickly on his previous visit to Cintra. He then nodded, "Ah, I think I remember now. So, commander of the queensguard huh?"
"Yes, and you're still doing witcher work. I'm glad to see you haven't found a monster that could best you."
"Yet."
There was also a new addition to the banquet performers, a new singer to play a song for the princess. Averon's smile widened when he realized that the singer was Half-Leaf, hired by the staff to make the night memorable for all who were present. There would be another bard to play with her, some well known gaily-feathered poet from Oxenfurt known by the moniker 'Viscount de Lettenhove'. The herald hawked on behalf of the elf's introduction, referring to her simply as 'the minstrel'. Although there were some who frowned at the sight of an elf in the Cintran courts, no one objected to her performance when she almost magically captivated them with her ethereal voice. The other minstrel played exceptionally well himself, adding his mirthful voice to hers.
"Robert hath a swift hand, he doth gaze upon the fyrd and he maketh a plan.
and he hath a jaunty cap- perched upon his head, he's a longbow man.
He doth find an old bow of yew and a quiver of arrows in his father's chest,
wherefore I cannot say... but he cometh for thee- yea he cometh for thee.
All ye bully rooks with your buskin boots, best ye go, best ye go- outrun my bow.
All ye bully rooks with your buskin boots, best ye go, best ye go- faster than mine arrow."
Half-Leaf wrote the ballad herself, about a boy slaughtering noble boys. The tune and the jaunt of its tempo overshadowed its dark meaning, completely winning over the nobles who otherwise would have found the song insulting. Queen Calanthe was not among them, and her brow arched with her growing indignation. To save his friend from a harsh punishment, Averon turned to the queen to offer an explanation. "If I may, Your Grace?"
Calanthe leaned back on her chair, "Yes?"
"I know the elf, she's a good friend of mine." He assured her, "The ballad she sings is about the time when we were children. A group of nobleborn rascals came to our side of the city and were harassing the poor girl. One of them started cutting up her ear with his knife..."
The queen visibly recoiled in horror, even Pavetta who was listening in put a hand to her throat. "How ghastly!"
Averon nodded, "Me and the lads drove them off, but the damage had been done."
"Hm." Geralt grunted, remembering the elf's aid pointing him in the right direction on his hunt for the missing boys. Now he knew why she was called Half-Leaf.
"That poor girl." Pavetta said, moved with pity. "Mother, can we make her the court minstrel?"
"My dear, it's not that simple." Calanthe objected at first. Having an elf in her court in a human-centric kingdom as Cintra, even as something as insignificant as a court performer, came with its own ramifications. As ruler, and with a fragile alliance with certain sensitive elements, she couldn't just decide on something like that willy-nilly as her father once did.
"Please, mother?" Pavetta begged, "I would love to have her in court."
"She's not just a bard, Your Highness." Averon said in a hushed tone, watching Half-Leaf and her minstrel partner take a bow before the adoring crowd. "She knows her way around blades. She could protect the royal family as well as your queensguard, and listen in on things... certain things important to the realm."
"Hmm..." Calanthe hummed, a scheming smirk twitching the corners of her lips. "Yes, that would be useful."
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