Hello folks! Here we go with another chapter! This one is a long single scene, so buckle up. We have a few snippets of our protagonist´s mind and a god makes an appearance. Also, I am filling some gaps in Bretonnia´s lore that I have either not found or makes no motion of. Any particular questions on that front, feel free to ask, criticize or add ideas.
For example, Louen Leoncoeur´s age. Either I read older lore, which is fine, and it was retconned during the End Times, or it was retconned by the Total War Warhammer games (which I bloody adore, by the way). The new lore says Louen only reigned for some 40 years, starting his reign a few before Karl Franz took the throne of the Empire by vote of the Elector Counts. While this makes sense in the context of the games… Well, Louen is considered, or was considered last time I checked, among the most revered warriors of the Lady, and the oldest ones. In Grail Knight, the last of the Knights of Bretonnia Omnibus, Calard saved the King from a Vampire lord, and in the epilogue he appears 50 years after that. So, timeline is fucked there. I remember Louen reigning for almost 3 centuries, taking the throne long after completing the quest for the Grail, when his own father, another long-lived Grail Knight, was killed.
So, I'm trying to keep with older lore in all of this. Another matter was silverine, the bretonnian faction metal, which I was forced to develop by myself, seeing as it has no lore compared to ithilmar and meteoric iron. Lastly, maybe some already saw this in the story, but I'm also going more for a 5th Edition Bretonnia, more Arthurian-style than Monty Python-style of the later editions, which made Bretonnia kind of a massive, self-destructive joke. I will try to keep the Grimmdark aesthetic balanced with some arthurian themes, elements and names.
Also, little detail, I wrote most of this chapter listening to Metal Gear Rising´s boss themes. Why, I do not know, but good Lord, they are a banger.
Anyway, now, normally I would answer comments, but I decided to wait for the next chapter to do that, so, feel free to ask anything you want!
Hope you enjoy it, my chivalrous friends, and may the lady watch over all of you.
"Normal speaking"
"Non-mortal speaking"
'Thoughts of mortals'
'Thought of non-mortals'
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
It was a dream. That much he understood, that much he could piece together inside his shattered mind. The green field he was seeing was gone, swallowed by a torrent of magic and seawater. The towers, white and blue, that rose to the heavens like stone banners, had crumbled not long ago, under daemon fire and hellcannon barrages. The crystalline river had been so choked with dead bodies, guts, and blood that its waters had turned to a bloody mud that did not run. The wheat fields had been burnt and the ash used to paint the armor and faces of the attackers in their dark rituals.
All he beheld was dead.
Was he dead as well?
He had asked himself that question the moment he had opened his eyes. It wasn't a bad last sight, nor the best one he could imagine, but it was far from the worst. He was sitting on a flat rock, his back to a mighty oak that offered plentiful shade, a spot he had enjoyed many times, where he could look at his city, his home, as the sun rose, and wonder what everyone would be doing.
His wife would be waking up, not surprised to find him gone, but slightly worried still. His Knight Outrider would be already preparing his steed for his morning ranging, the Lady Protector hot on his trail, eager to lose yet again another race. His Castellan would be already at his post, preparing the good workings of the Castle. His Champion would still be asleep, not moving from his bed till the sun had come to full view. His Tidelord would be hauling his crew to their feet, preparing them to set sail with the tide to patrol the seas. His Court mage was so unpredictable that he dared not guess what he was doing. But he was certain that his Knight of Melancholy would be writing some saddening passage in his little book, that he would later transform into some beautiful speech or inspiring song.
His little fairy would be also waking up, eager to do anything and everything, and would probably be searching for him, skipping around the castle, his Lord Executioner close behind. The High Justice would be doing her rounds, as always, walking the streets with her warriors and justiciars. The Black Warden, his ever-loyal Raven Knight, would be with her, both going district after district, one the kind shining light of justice, the other the relentless hunter of the wicked. Would his Forest Marshall have already left to check on nearby settlements with his followers?
Would his documenter be arguing already with the Chief Handmaiden of his wife, like the bickering of an old married couple? Would the envoys from the Dwarves, the High Elves, the Empire, and Grand Cathay be already in one of the meeting rooms, waiting for him to appear, and trying to not kill each other?
Would the Twins be pestering the "Little Dragon" for a rematch, or would his Knight of Crimson Thunder already beat them to it? Would the Sisters be on their duties, or would they be gossiping in their tower, waiting for someone to call on them?
His mind dove to more memories. He could smell the bread the Aquitainian bakers would be cooking, and the Chapel of the Sacred Lady would be ringing its bells for the first sermon of the day. Blacksmiths of the Silver District would be awake already, grumbling as they traded with dwarves from the Grey Mountains and elven artisans that deigned themselves to trade with lowly humans. Fishing vessels would be already preparing to set sail, for fish and merchants travel with the tide, escorted by the navy ships that would be long prepared and manned.
From the Menagerie, sounds will echo as the morning creatures rose to life and the nocturnal beast began their rest. Bellicose would be waking up, stretching before galloping toward the city, until he would catch his scent, prompting him to change course towards him.
Home.
He took a deep breath, and relaxed, letting his eyes close, drinking into that peace, almost blissful. No pain, no harm, no pressure, no responsibilities, no wars to wage, just for a few moments of absolute peace. Even his old wounds were not hurting. He let his back rest on the great tree behind him, and smiling, enjoyed the peace.
All around him, grass grew, faster and faster by the second. Slowly, Sirius´s eyelids became heavier and heavier, sleep taking him slowly but surely. The tree´s roots began to writhe into the fresh air, and the view darkened. Like a thousand snakes, the grass began to slowly surround the young bretonnian, roots taking his ankles, grass reaching for his calves, the tree behind him opening like a coffin, a thousand tendrils of living wood reaching for him. His breath began to slow down, as he was slowly but surely wrapped in the living prison of natural death. The sky cracked, baleful light shining all in red and white under black storm clouds. The roots and tendrils covered him into the embrace of oblivion and death, climbing up his chest, then his neck, and finally his face, closing over his mouth, nose ears, reaching for his eyes, coiling like scorpion tails, ready to strike and gouge his eyes out.
And then he opened his eyes.
And all there was, was fire.
A roaring inferno was born into the mindscape, like the awakening of a raging soul, grass turning to ashes, wood to blackened nothingness. The green fields died and withered, the hungry flames roaring in a swirling vortex, a shining shield kept alive by will alone. The soulfire burned all, lighting the sudden darkness, the fire reaching the rivers, the castle, the shining towers, the wheat fields, and destroying it all, devouring it, like well-prepared timber.
"I am not so easily tricked." The words rang like cannon fire, as the flames parted to reveal the form of an amber-eyed man that stood at the center of the hellish maelstrom, calm and collected, eyes flaming with fury, the fire coruscating along his form, mental commands transforming his attire in full plate made of the fire that burnt the roots and leaves. "A good attempt, but you lack fineness for this. Or you haven't done this in a long time."
He strode forth as the fire reduced the little dream trap he was into absolute nothingness, only leaving ash. It pained him and it brought him infinite relief. He had willingly sacrificed his home for a chance to save those that lived in it. A choice that had bled the enemy hard, a willing sacrifice, and a pain and shame that he would always carry with him. It had been his choice, right and wrong.
No one would take that from him.
"Much less," Sirius breathed. "Whatever you are."
The ashes expanded and grew, as the fire was pushed back, massive roots, black like the eyes of a daemon, thick like mammoth legs, and yet minuscule like specks of sand, reared up, size losing meaning, rounding upwards, scarlet waters traveling through the roots and vines, crowning the massive creation in red leaves, the liquid spurting out in hundreds of places all over the massive tree that was taking shape, decorating it in red blood-like rivers that were born all over it, and seemed to never end. It took Sirius a moment to realize that the liquid was blood.
The three grew gnarled and twisted, millenary and mountain-like. It was constantly moving, constantly growing, yet decaying at the same time, the black turning to pale white, the red looking ever more crimson, as if he was looking at a pale face stricken by some sickness of the blood, marking every and all veins like a puzzle of titanic proportions, and some dark meaning.
Looming over him, almost like a giant wave frozen in wood and sap, the massive tree stood, writing with contained movement. The blood began to pool at the front, as the surface rippled, broke, shattered, and reformed. It took Sirius a second to realize what was forming.
Faces.
Human faces crying blood.
He tried to react in time
He failed.
He felt something, or someone, send an immense amount of hatred, fury, and spite in his direction, an emotional wave that sent the Great Ocean into an open storm around him. And this time, the Eye wasn't the best place to be. Slowly, too slowly to his liking, he managed to raise mental defenses and magical battlements around his mind, shielding him from the worst of the hurricane of contempt sent his way. It was a painful ordeal, to see his mind ransacked by powers so primordial they didn't quite fill the requirements to be considered thoughts. The faces fused, into a single, massive thing, one face of features that were too human and too animal at the same time.
He fell to one knee, as his flames died and were choked by the growing plants and the waves of red sap that drowned all. He was in the presence of something that defied the definition of sentient, of a thing made of bark and blood, bone and wood, death and life. He felt the pressure build, the tendrils reach out, slithering around his mind wards. There was no defense possible against such a power, against such a might, so basic it felt like simple, yet all-consuming hunger.
It was not demonic, it felt too neutral, too unfocused. There was no malice, no hatred, no desire or lust. Just Hunger. A pit of blackness that devoured all and thrived in blood and bone. It felt too close to vampirism, and yet, the sensation was too similar to what he had felt around the Oak of Ages. It took all sensation from him.
Until a golden light brought silence to the storm, breaking through the maelstrom that had almost swallowed him whole. The storm pushed back against the light, the advantage of elder powers, of the earth itself, rearing in its assistance. But the Light could not be stopped or slowed. The maelstrom's heart was annihilated, as a strange relief filled the kneeling man, and light flooded his vision, white fire consuming the hungry roots and evaporating the tidal wave of blood sap. The weirwood tree seemed to ooze resentment and pain. Hatred boiled the very air around it, as from the ground, more quivering and bloodstained roots grew to swallow him whole. The Light incinerated those roots, shielding him from the onslaught. It was an old light, one known to the knight. One prayed to, and so he gave his meager strength to that light, joining her psychic attack with his own dwindled reserves, his now pale face more reminiscent of the state in which he should be in, after barely scraping Morr´s Door.
"Begone, eldritch convocation of old! You cannot touch him!" Thundered the light, coruscating in a shape that stood in front of him, defiant, pure, and holy. A woman of black hair, golden eyes, and blue dress glowered in the center of the defiant light, his shield against the attack, and angel against the tempest.
WE BARK ARE HUNGER ALL CONSUME WE DESTROY TAKE EARTH ALL BONE
It wasn't a voice. It was pure sentiment given form, pure hatred leveled at his weekend mind and let loose. There were no thoughts to read, no hidden intentions. It was the primordial sentiment of something so old that not even the concept of truth or lie had been invented when it first ascended. It was translated because the meaning was clear, not because it was meant to be translated, as emotion took shapes understandable by his mind. And it hurt like being hit by a giant. His knees began to wobble under the pressure.
"Not here, not with me! Be gone! Retreat from my Light and into the Darkness you so well know!" The light grew, shielding him from the backlash as best as it could. But the distance and the foreign ground in which his physical body worked against her. While his mind was sacrosanct ground for Her Will, it would not be enough for her. She could do little, but she did all she could, and then some more.
YOU SLAKE STRANGER HUNGER YOU DEVOUR NO CONSUME POWER BLOOD HERE
The… thing that attacked them thundered again, and this time, Sirius almost feel face-first into the dirt, waves of magic and psychic pain roaring into his ears like the roar of a Terrorgheist. He smelled his flesh cooking itself as the energy directed as his person began to slip through his defenses, hastily erecting more, blocking the thin fingers of pain that tried to reach his mind and dig into his soul.
"You understate me at your peril, old gods!" The light thundered back, pushing the pain away, and Sirius forced himself to his knees one more, the blinding radiance a splendorous blessing. It hurt to look at it directly, so he closed his eyes and truly looked; he looked through the Great Ocean.
And then he actually saw her. Standing like a rock against the coming storm, a tempest to engulf the world, she the last thing to stop it.
"My lady…" He whispered painfully.
"My champion." Whispered the voice back. She was strained, faced with something that neither of them truly understood. "I need your arm, my champion. I require your strength." She called to him. And then he saw what she meant, in the floor, in front of him, resting like the first time he had seen it, gleaming in the morning light, absorbing and reflecting the light of the goddess, a dark-blue gleaming promise.
THIS POWER OUR EAT LAND MARROW THIS WATER OUR BLOOD PREY MEAT
Sirius growled furiously. He was no prey. He hadn´t been anyone´s prey in a long time. And he would be extremely pleased to show it. With silent determination and gritting his teeth, he redirected his eyes toward the tempest in the Great Sea and saw, he truly saw what brought such an onslaught. He saw the tendrils that moved through the lands, the old bones, and even older blood that fed it. He saw the ancient existence, and understood what he faced. He was staring at the biggest carrion eater in the world, a thing, a cumulative union of primordial essence that wished only to answer to one need.
Hunger.
It wanted to feed, to drink, to devour and consume. It was such a simplistic and completely overwhelming, like a landslide. Not even fire elementals or the enslaved spirits that Chaos Dwarves employed as soldiers could match its hunger, not even the legendary hunger of the Ogres could match them, theirs only a small drop to the sea in front of him. The only thing that could hold a candle to it, was that foreboding and horrible thing he had felt, the thing that resided in the craters in Mountains of Mourn. But while what he had seen in the Ogre Kingdoms remained a mystery to him, this did not. He knew what he was looking at.
The Old Gods of Westeros wanted him dead.
And they had invaded his dreams, to extinguish his flames and arrest his heart.
'Well, fuck you.' Sirius thought. 'I have faced worse than you, you rotten, cannibalistic sons of druchii whores.'
So he pushed back, this time with true and determined intent, and grabbed the thing lying in front of him. Such a movement redirected their fury at him. But this time, he was ready for it. And as he mustered all he had, his hands reached for the blade, its familiar metal missing its holy glow, its usual aura. It was not a mortal weapon, not forged for war against men, dwarves, or elves, but to fight the Hordes of the Archenemy and beyond. It had been forged not with meteoric iron or ithilmar, but in silverine, as light as the latter and strong as the former, its surface impossibly smooth, the runes inscribed in it, barely recognizable to the touch. Dwarves used their gromril, marvelously strong and heavy. Elves enjoyed their ithilmar, light and resilient, touched by their gods. The Empire had always famed itself on three things, faith, gunpowder and steel. Kislev brought to battle ice-wrought weapons. Cathay prided itself on its elite warrior cadres, armed with celestial steel from the forges of Kunlan, or their jade armors.
Bretonnains had silverine. A mineral mostly endemic to his homeland, silverine deposits were found only under Chapels of the Lady or on blessed lakes and rivers in Bretonnia. Only with the acquiescence of the Damsels of the Lady and the warriors that protected those shrines, was the metal extracted. The most skilled blacksmiths along the Fay Woods would sometimes find piles of the metal left on their doorstep, brought by the fay, who had little used for such metal, reserved for the warriors of the Lady, and were normally irked by it when it appeared on their forest. It had been blessed to be wielded by human hands, and by human will. As impregnable as any other of the magically gifted metals of the world, silverine forging required both a skilled smith and a blessed Damsel to be worked on, thus, leaving only the most favored of knights to obtain and forge such weapons. Not even with all the gold in Bretonnia would a noble that held no favor with the Lady obtain a weapon from silverine.
Tradition and religion in Bretonnia excluded the use of the mineral for certain things. Any weapon could be forged in silverine, from axes to swords. Arrowheads to be used by the Lords of Northern Bretonnia were spurred and criticized by those of Southern Bretonnia, while all used it on the creation of shrines, temples, and cathedrals of the Lady. Every holy or consecrated place to the Mother of Bretonnia held a chalice, a copy of the grail, made of silverine, while a chunk of the same metal was always buried prior to the construction, to bless it and sanctify the grounds. From there, the metal would then magically grow. Damsels and Prophetesses of the Lady usually taught that it was faith, purity and chivalry that beckoned this growth.
Armors made of silverine were spurred by most nobles, who believed the Lady´s will and blessing, paired with their own skill would be enough, although it was permitted to make armor for the horses and mounts in this holy mineral, even if it was ridiculously expensive. While weapons required the intervention of an agent of the Lady, armor for mounts did not, even if such intervention would make the barding almost impervious to common weapons and was greatly sought after, being seen as a sign of favor from the Goddess. Only the most favored of knights, and few of them could count themselves outside the ranks of the Grail Knights, would ride into battle wielding silverine weapons and having their steeds barded in silverine blessed by the Lady´s damsels. But if any knight managed to obtain such gifts, he could become a true juggernaut in battle, an instrument of hoy wrath that would know no foe too powerful, no challenge too difficult.
The blade resembled a common bretonnian longsword, but only in form. More than a meter of dark steel gleamed with inner azure flames as if they were trapped in it, with a simple and slightly curved crossguard, bereft of intricate designs and complex decorations, a heavy contrast to many of its sister weapons. The only decorations were the runes etched in the metal of the blade, the ones at both sides of the crossguard, and a beautiful symbol, a dragon´s head, open, roaring, its wings opened, extending halfway to the end of each side of the guard, made with incredible detail. But the thing about the dragon inscribed in the silverine that caught the most attention, was its eyes, shining with orange gemstones, yet if one were to pass their fingers over them, they would find the surface smooth, almost as if the picture was inside the metal, not etched on its surface.
The pommel was simple as well, with an engraved gemstone in the center, now dull and dimmed, the runes on its handle and the heart of the blade almost invisible to the naked eye, as was the picture inside the gemstone. The blade didn't look like much, a simple weapon for a simple purpose, war.
It looked no better than a decoration, no deadlier than any other common blade. Barely a slim sheet of silverine against a storm capable of destroying worlds. It wasn't regal like Brightroar had been. It wasn't imposing and great like Ice was. It wasn't as beautiful as the Blade of Corunne, nor looked as mythical as Darkfire. It lacked the otherworldly gleaming and aura of dwarven-crafted weapons as Dragon Tooth or any of the Runefangs. It lacked the elven light and shape of blades such as Sunfang or the Fangsword.
And yet, no sword had felt so light, so balanced, so unbreakable on his hands. Every other weapon he had wielded had been only that, a weapon, a tool, maybe blessed, maybe magical, maybe common. But not this.
This was his sword.
Maybe not made especially for him, a millenary heirloom that traveled no bloodline but the one formed by the Lady´s chosen warriors, a line of blessed men and women Sirius felt unworthy of even being in the presence of. This was a gift, a curse and a duty, all in one sword, and he took all of it gladly and willingly.
But, it was his sword. His oldest companion and possession. No son would inherit it, no children gather to its light and shine to tell stories of the exploits he did while wielding it. With his death, the blade would find a pond to sink in, and disappear following the Lady´s bidding, to new, hopefully, worthier, hands to carry on his duties, as it had happened so many times before and would occur so many times in the future, to the end of Bretonnia, and maybe beyond. Maybe, when a time came when gods walked the earth, when magic was unleashed, when the end of the world came, and new ones were borne of the chaos and death, would the blade find a final resting place, in the hands of the Lady´s mightiest chosen. Maybe, when that time came, Sirius would ride beside his predecessors and successors to a never-ending war on the Lady´s service. Maybe, a day when all he held dear would be behind his reach for all eternity.
Maybe one day.
But today was not that day.
Barely a microsecond before, the baleful energies of the tree realized that there was something wrong. They could feel the foreign goddess; its golden false glory standing like a petulant child that knew it had been beaten but refused, out of spite, to yield. They felt the traitor boy, and his pain. But, if those were the only ones there, then from where was coming this new sensation, this piercing gaze, this extreme sensation of heat, of pressure? This was new to them. They hadn't met anything that could make them feel like this.
Until they saw the blade.
But then it was too late.
Sirius´s hands closed on the leather handle. And he looked right into the red orbs of blood, hate and predatory hunger, right into the eyes of gods that wished him gone.
He smiled.
And he said the name, the word etched on the heart of the blade in ancient runes, runes only gods like his Lady could read and understand. This set, though, he knew by heart.
The blade answered the call.
Like a nova, energy roared from the blade forwards, pushing back the Old God´s wrath, feeding into her wielder, feeding into the very ground, waves of silver-blue fire mixing with energy the color of a dawning sun, energy that cascaded along the blade and the very essence of the air around it. And anyone that was evenly slighted attuned to magic heard the twin sounds that echoed in the Great Ocean.
A roar, majestic, and terrible, thundering like a storm, powerful like a mountain´s own wrath. A bellowing challenge, a blossoming of vengeance and fury.
The first line of runes shone with ethereal black light.
"I am the death of worlds, true honor in ash and fire."
The eyes in the dragon of the crossguard shone bright, eying the tree with baleful intent, as the blade came alive with sapphire energy that swirled inside it, gleaming like the sun itself, before giving way to be joined by a silver glow. Lines of starlight were born along the dark metal in the blade, like veins transporting energy from the guard to the edges of the weapon, and releasing it to form a glowing aura that made any who´s eyes looked at the weapon know that no defense would protect them from it. Its edge took a gleaming look, a new sharpness that would cut steel like it was bare paper. Inside the magical metal, one could see the outline of ghost flames, of silver fire that swirled and moved inside the weapon´s core.
The mighty sound of a war horn, powerful, deep, and otherworldly, like no other. The birth of hope brought in shining light, a new star in each heart that heard the call. A promise to the winds and the eternal darkness. This is what echoed in the Great Ocean.
The second line of runes shone to light in azure and white, gleaming like arrioca pearls.
"I am the line that thou shall not cross, the wrath hidden beneath."
The energy cascaded around Sirius, covering him, closing wounds, and bringing energy back to tired muscles and sore bones. His vision cleared, his senses sharpened, his pain was gone, and his heartbeat sounded steadily in his own ears. And he felt the familiar weight in his hands, the perfectly balanced blade, and the grip that almost seemed custom-made for him, no matter the time or the place.
The energy traced down his arms and chest, down his legs, and up to his neck. And then it condensed, in embedded itself painlessly into his skin, into his organs and body. Into his very being.
Into his very soul.
And thus, the link was reactivated. The Blade had a wielder again. And the knight had his blade again.
Westerosi houses usually had words, flamboyant phrases, intricate and cryptic words, or declarations of personality, intent, or values. Mostly, they were war cries, or threats when uttered in the right place and moment, that could also be promises and declarations. They were sometimes ways of life.
Similar to those of Bretonnian Houses. Not those of his house.
Many times he had roared the words of the Royal House of Corunne into battle, shouting the name and titles of the Lionhearted and roaring for the Lady and the Grail.
But these, were his words. These were the words of the House of the Dragonhearted, of the House of Amaranth. Not a phrase uttered to the winds in convenience and arrogance, but a promise, a vow to the darkness that lurks. And they carried more meaning than most though.
"For those we protect." A whisper in the maelstrom. Powerful, furious, unyielding. And then, the third line materialized, in white and black, in balance like nothing else, the full might of the blade brought to bear, gleaming, hidden in the crossguard.
"From the Beginning to the End, dread my edge. I am the Light of Wrath."
Amber eyes shone like roaring infernos, the only thing visible in the gale of azure and true-silver, like stars in the void, light in the deepest void.
"We will sacrifice." And the wounded boy was gone.
There stood a Paladin of Bretonnia, the Lord of Dragons, the Shadow´s Bane, Duke of now lost Avalon, the Dragonhearted, the Knight of the Dawning Dragon, Dragon-friend, Lion´s Choler, Honored friend to Shang-Yang, Mist-friend, and in the words of a dear old friend, "the bloody Drakk-Varn Vengryn."
Sirius smiled as the blade´s energy roared at the monstrous ancient deities that sought to lay him low. Let them try, he thought, let them come and die. The Old Gods looked the closest thing something like them would ever be to surprise, and fear. In the great Ocean, the boy was a sun, and the deepest abysm. Light and darkness came off in waves, all put together by strings and echoes of purest silver. And behind him, or more precisely, inside him, stood something that not even something as ancient as them knew. A towering presence, power unrivaled. Great scales of black and white. Wings made to tear down mountains. A heart that beat like the tremor of dying worlds. It wasn't the boy, but it moved around and inside him, it danced through the edge of the blade.
And it was looking right at them.
The weapon pulsated, happy to be in his hands again, before letting its energy shield him, directing its scorn towards the Weirwood tree, the monolith of wood and hatred that sought his destruction. The goddess felt his defiance and the buildup of energy behind her, and thus, she acted in consequence.
"Yes, this is your land! But he is my champion!" She answered, before pushing forward, sending the energy that had been used in defense to offense, carving a path through the hateful storm, dispersing for an instant the bellowing maelstrom that sought their end, as heavenly energy ate the wrathful tendrils and roots, gold eating dark red in less than an instant, and more than eternity, as all things in the Great Ocean were. She gave him only an instant.
It sufficed.
The Old Gods felt such a magic build-up and directed their attention to the knight behind the foreign goddess. They didn't know fear, for fear was something of the living, and they were wood, root, blood and stone.
Still, Sirius was more than happy to give them a taste.
In his hands, steel of celestial origin glowed with the power of the First Dawn itself, as the Light of the Lake concentrated its energy into its very heart, its killing edge, pulsating in silver-azure hues of light over blackened steel, darkened by the power in its heart. Eyes like stars stared from behind the deadly weapon at a conglomeration of beings so old that lacked classification in almost every tongue known to him, right into the crimson spheres mockeries of mortal eyes, which looked at him from the carved pale wood.
He threw his blade at the maelstrom.
Like a wave of sapphire flames and star fire, the blade carved the relatively short distance between them and the tree, with no defense or protection capable of stopping the strike as it found its mark. In the great Ocean, a cataclysmic meeting of energies followed suit, the power of gods passed their time colliding with the might of a mortal champion.
For an instant, the maelstrom prevailed.
FOOD DEATH ESSENCE DEVOUR NOTHING END
For a moment, the old gods felt victory. For a moment, their wrath proved superior. But this battlefield was not theirs. This was the Dragonhearted´s mind. It was Amaranth´s mindscape.
"Crawl back to your whole, abomination." Growled the Knight of the Dawning Dragon.
And then Sirius shattered the storm, roaring into the Realm of Magic, unleashing his full might forwards, energy tracing his very being into the words edged in the blade, becoming an embodiment of judgment, or furious onslaught. The power of a man that had enjoyed ignoring fate was leveled at them. He used as warcry the name of his sword, and the Gods would remember that name. Like a star in the night sky, the hidden letters in the blade came to life, as the runes formed a single word of seven letters for seven knightly virtues.
In the tongue of men, such virtues had been translated into simpler words that had profound meanings, or simple ones, depending on the listener of such words.
Courage. Justice. Mercy. Generosity. Faith. Nobility. Hope.
But, the name of the blade had not written in breonnian or reikspiel. The name had been born millennia ago, the tongue of a more primordial kin, of gods and titans that predated the dwarfs or the elves. Before mortals walked the planes, gods did. And the tongue of the children of Draugnir, Father of Dragons, friend and equal to Asuryan, was ancient, cast in fire and ash, in intelligence and cunning prowess. Sirius was among the only humans to have such a deep connection to the children of the Dragon God, and the blade he carried was a testament of such might. Forged in a time when gods slew each other, and where the Dark Brothers walked the plains of battle among the realms of existence, this blade was made to fight in such brutal times. A blade made not by Vaul´s skilled hands, but by other, more mysterious ones, yet still tempered by the Father of Dragons, both in his fire, and his blood, in a mysterious and forgotten alliance between him, and Sirius´s mistress. And the name had been born of the virtues for which it had been forged, the principal motifs the smith had ingrained in its steel.
Alcarant. Courage in the face of certain death, courage to make others brave the onslaught. Courage to believe and protect, and courage to know when to think and prepare. Courage to recognize one's failings and be better. Courage to walk again the currents of fear.
Rormeder. Justice, by protecting the innocent, and showing no mercy to the tainted. Annihilate the foe, but do everything to protect those under your care, for two edges has a blade, the blood-soaked one, and the gleaming, clean one. Never forget which is which. To each, the fate reserved by their actions.
Nivelar. Mercy to the injured, to the helpless, to the innocent, to children and women in distress, to those of lesser power. Protect those that cannot protect themselves. Show mercy to the defeated foe if it has fought with honor and chivalry, and show mercy to your own brethren, injured and hurt. Allow those in search of repentance and redemption, to find such gifts.
Divitas. Give to those that do not have, but more importantly, show them generosity, not by merely giving them, but by teaching them the ways to a better future. Do this with all those under your charge. And do not be afraid to ask for assistance to those under whose care you are, for it's their duty, and yours to act the best they can.
Ilvatar. Faith, in the vows you have sworn, in the ideas you represent. Faith in you brothers and sisters in battle, in those that lead you, and those you lead. Faith rightly earned, and freely given. Faith in yourself, and your skills. Believing is half the battle. For, if there is a will, a way will be found.
Ghalach. Nobility in all you do, may it be walking or leading a kingdom. You must become a living beacon for your follower to see you as an example. How a battle is won, matters as much as winning it.
Tenuore. In the darkest of times, where light fades, and darkness hunger, light the flames of hope in your heart, and those of others. Lead the shining way, blade held high, will burning bright. For, as long as hope shines, there is a battle to be had.
Together, these virtues not only formed the core of what a knight should be, but also the values the Father of Dragons sought in mortals. For any to garner the notice of dragons, they would require to match these ideals, as well as the joined chorus of all of these values put together.
The resulting ideal was a complex word in draconic. To mankind, it roughly translated as "He who protects and yet he who destroys". The words joined into a single one the knight beckoned. A-RO-N-DI-I-GH-T
"ARONDIGHT!" He roared.
This word was the heart of the young Duke´s ideals. A man, hiding inside of him all the fury of a dragon, a brutal, war-forged side he would unleash upon those that sook to harm that which he held dear. He was the shield and the sword, he would destroy that which threatens, and protect that entrusted to him.
By fire and steel, if need be, for, since time immemorial, those had been the weapons of choice for knights.
The Maelstrom broke. The blade struck the tree. And the gods in them felt the energy render their meager defenses asunder. They had never had to defend themselves. They were the greatest predator in the world.
In their world.
The Dragonhearted was not of their world.
They burned under the unleashed celestial fire. And thus, Sirius Amaranth, born Baratheon Dayne, made whatever the Old Gods were, bleed. The gods receded and retreated, their energy spent, their hate not enough to keep them connected to the soul and mind of the knight. Like the tide, they pulled back, the only reminder of the exchange, the embedded sword on the weriwood tree, right where the heart would have been if the face of the tree had been that of a man.
Sirius fell face fit into the grass and dirt, his breathing even more ragged and exhausted.
"I am not even awake." He grumbled, managing to turn to rest on his back, eyes scanning the clean sky, for gone the yellow light that had stained it. "And I already feel like I am going to pass out again."
"I think I may have established a new record." He sighed. There was some mirth in his voice, but it was hard to see under the exhaustion.
"Always the melodramatic one, I see." The woman´s words made him arch an eyebrow.
"With all due love and respect, my Lady, I just, quite literally, banished an assembly of elder gods of my mind after barely putting my mind together, after, mind you, having another ancient creature carve out my heart almost in two." There was mock outrage in his voice, and he was so tired that it was a wonder how he could even speak at all. But she smiled nonetheless.
"Worst fights you have endured, I believe." She walked towards him and sat beside his head, hands glowing with golden power as she tried to heal the wounds he had just received. There weren't many, but his weakened body was having problems healing them. And there was no sense in even more scars, even if these would be inside of his mind, and plenty of those he already had. Sirius growled.
"Praag doesn't count." He huffed. The goddess smiled, before finishing with her healing. She had a stern smile and eyes shining with light, a regal determination and calmness enveloped her in an almost halo of divine presence. But her champion saw through it.
"What ails you, my lady?" He asked, barely managing to rise until he was kneeling in front of the goddess. Concern flashed in the amber eyes of the knight, as he gently grabbed her hand.
"My strength fades in this realm, champion. I fear I will be returning shortly to the Old World. For a few days, I will not be able to offer you any assistance. The distance and the action of the gods of these lands make my assistance difficult… and costly." Sirius nodded.
"Do not fret, my lady. I will be careful." That got a laugh from her, even as her eyes shone with something else, something anathema to calm.
"Remember what happened last time you promised that?" Sirius smiled a half-smile, the memory still fresh in his mind. One sweet, and painful at the same time.
"I do. I think Malekith remembers it well, too" He winced at the memories that dark and bloody place brought him, of the long hours under Malekith´s interrogators. Of Rakarth´s ministrations still etched on his back, Hellebron´s pit fights…. And Morathi´s visit. He had to make an effort to not vomit the inexistent contents of his stomach. There were realities far worse than any nightmare.
"That was one hell of a rescue." He whispered. Luck has played a massive part in it. Hadn't Morathi gotten overconfident and brought him in his attack to Ulthuan, he would have never escaped.
"That it was." She mused. Sirius laughed. She nodded along, eyes lost in the blue heavens almost like it was the first time she saw the sky.
'This one, at the very least.' Sirius thought, looking at the skies of his mind, a memory of his childhood before… before he became he. Stuck in the back of his throat, was a question he wished to ask, a terrifying prospect he didn't know if he could endure facing.
"Why?" He barely managed to breathe. To question his Lady was an insult he was not prepared to commit, going against the very nature of his being as one of her knights. But the husband, the lord, the friend in him, the many facets of the man he had become, pushed over all of it. He needed to know the reason, the justification. He couldn't abandon them, not again, not at such a moment.
"I cannot answer that question yet, my little knight." She spoke, smiling sadly down at him. But for Sirius, it was far from enough. He needed to know. He needed to understand.
"No, please. Not this time. Why? I beg of you, my lady! Why?!" He asked, falling to both knees, while tears threatened to spill. He had been torn from anything and everything he had fought for. His land, his king, his people, his family. Her eyes hardened a bit, enduring her knight´s pain as well as a stone a storm. Yet, they were not devoid of mercy.
"No answer I give will quell the pain in your heart." She breathed to him, shaking her head, the golden hairs dancing like waterfalls of molten gold.
"I can deal with pain, my lady. I cannot deal with ignorance. I will fight regardless, but I beg you, let me know." He was begging. He hadn't begged for almost anything in his life, for it was not only anathema to who he was, but to the being of a knight of Bretonnia. He could count those times with one hand. Now was one such moment. Her eyes shone with inner power as if she was moments away from annihilating him in a flash. Something other deities would have done. Not her style in the slightest.
"A war will be fought here." She finally relented, eying the horizon with a worried look, her white dress dancing ever so slightly to unseen and nonexistent winds. "The Dark Brothers have extended the board, upped the game to a new level. This land, as powerless as it seems to the naked eye, will be prey to their minions. A victory we cannot allow to happen. A world we cannot allow to fall."
Sirius nodded slowly. He understood the theory, the importance, and the reason. Millions of souls, fuel for the machination and abominations that would fuel the dark gods. Strategy, warfare, combat, those were his arts of preference, and he would gladly partake in them. That was what he had become, a warrior, a knight, a soldier, and a protector. It made every sense, and it should have felt as if it was the right thing. But, the soldier lived beside the husband, the sire, the father, and the brother. And their voices roared inside of him, his own voice, wanting to know.
"Why me? Because you needed someone with ties to this place? Because I am the king´s nephew?" He was somewhat angry, he would not deny it. Under common circumstances, the knight would have not hesitated to accept and fulfill his duty to the fullest. Duty, above else. Had this been asked of him many years ago, he could have accepted without hesitation.
But there were more duties. More to the soldier, the sword, and the champion. There were the duties of husband, the duties of Duke, of father, and honor-bound companion. Those duties, he couldn´t simply abandon. He had abandoned much, to be where he was, willingly or unwillingly. He had vowed to not abandon anything more.
He would fight any fight, anywhere, for Bretonnia and the Old World. Without doubt or hesitation. He had done so for countless decades… But every time he had gone to war, he had fought for things he cared for. Things that mattered to him much more than his own life, well-being, honor, or sanity. His people, the innocent and weak, those that could not protect themselves. There was plenty of it here, in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.
But they weren't here.
It was easy for a young idealistic man, a brave fellow, willing to do anything and everything to make the world a litter brighter, to abandon all he had for the glory of King, Lady, and country, and himself as well. Very easy, as he knew well.
It was harder for who he was now.
Here, there was nothing he personally cared to fight for. A family he didn't know, people he did not care about, lives that would be lived and would be snuff for petty games and ploys of men and women too enamored with their names and those of their families to care about the blood spilled. It hurt that after so many years, he had been taken from a family and a home that needed him dearly, that he had built and loved for so long, to be thrown into the clutches of one that had given up on him a long while ago. A family that wouldn´t even know him. Frozen Wastes, he wasn't sure if they were all alive. He had lived for almost 3 centuries. Had time passed the same here? Has it been slower? Or even quicker?
That, when paired with all other aspects of his being, was a speck against a mountain, sand against stone. We would serve, always. As much as it hurt, as much as it pained him. He just wanted to live and die beside them, serve beside them. No glory, no peaceful life for the rest of his years, no painless existence. He would serve, suffer, cry, enjoy, despair, rage, hope, believe, fear, live and die with them by his side. That was the only thing he had wished for.
And it hurt to have it denied.
With tears in his eyes, and pain akin to having his soul torn asunder, he sighed his acquiescence. Duty first, always.
"I understand the tactical relevance, my lady…" Her eyes glowed and Sirius felt the air leave his lungs, his skin tingle with inner fire, feeling the anger in her Lady´s heart. He had overreached. He was a knight of Bretonnia, by the Lake! Duty was his blood, courage his song. He would fulfill his duties he liked it or not. And he would do it with all the might in his heart. He would rage and suffer it all, but he would not question her commands.
"You think me to be frivolous enough to send you, to rip you from your family´s arms, to take you from such a crucial moment in Bretonnia´s history, for such an insignificant reason?" Her voice was wrathful, with the crackle of lighting in it, her light intensifying exponentially, so bright it almost burnt him.
"Then. Why?" He barely managed to speak under the eyes of a wrathful goddess. And like that, the anger was gone, and he could breathe easily. She kneeled in front of him, gently taking his head in her hands, smiling mercifully at him, feeling like fresh water to a thirsting man. And it felt like light to his darkened heart.
"Because for this, I need my very best, my little dragon-knight. I need my fury. I need the Dragon´s Wrath, the Lion´s Choler." Sirius's eyes gleamed in understanding. He hadn´t been chosen. There had simply been no other choice. "I need you to win this war."
"I… understand my lady…. I… apologize. I spoke out of place and fueled grief. It wasn't my intention to insult you, goddess." He whispered, feeling guilt ravaging his innards. He should trust her unquestionably, her wisdom was beyond his compression, but there were things a man couldn't help to ask, to discuss. Essential parts of life that couldn´t be simply taken from him without an explanation. Her hand lifted his chin gently, golden eyes smiling; radiating power like a sun emanating light.
"You have learned a thousand lessons in your lifetime." She said, rising with majestic grace. "From how to use a blade to the brewing poisons and curatives. From the most common lessons a common man can learn, to the arts of mages and wizards, passing through intricate strategy and sneaking politics. You learned how to read people, how to hide your own actions and how to move unseen. Always a dutiful student, an eager learner. Yet, there was one thing no one had to teach you." Her eyes were now on the blue heavens, as Sirius blinked surprised at the sudden words.
"You always had a way to make people believe in what you fight, to take up the same cause you have bannered, to stand beside you against the unthinkable. I wanted to say it was charisma, or maybe persuasion that did it, but I learned a long time ago the truth." Her eyes, blue and golden, locked with his amber eyes, shone in the morning light.
"You keep going forward, unending in your strength. It matters little the foe, their might, or their numbers, you just keep advancing. I can name someone better and more skilled than you at almost everything but in one thing. Will to fight. Will to stand. You are unyielding, no matter the odds." She smiled at him, a true smile, one full of love and respect. "I have found myself basking in your strength and determination in these last years, as others have as well. Because, no matter what challenge you face, I know, I have the certainty, that you will beat it. It may take time, blood, sweat, and pain, but you just won't give up, and you just won't lose."
Sirius kept silent, eyes falling to the ground in shame.
"I lost my fair share of times, my lady. More than I can count. More than I have any right to." The faces came back, the names and places, the failures in his lifetime. How many had he failed to save and protect? How many had he left to die, knowing full well the horrors that awaited them, because it was what needed to be done? How many rules, laws, and vows had he discarded in order to do his duty? He had always been proud of being a knight, even if most of the time he felt like a hypocrite.
Those green shining eyes filled with wonder and admiration. Laughter fills the courtyard, clear as the morning sky. She hugs him close. He is the only one she lets touch her. He is the only one that soothes her nightmares. He promises to protect her, to love her. She cries of joy. She believes him.
That makes one of them
She grabbed his chin gently and lifted his face, to look at him in the eyes once more.
"As you yourself once told me, 'Losing isn't failing to succeed. It's failing to keep trying'". He smiled a little, crystal tears forming in his eyes.
The sky darkened even more and rain began to pour, water roaring around him, punishing the ground with such ferocity chunks of the burnt land were torn apart, his mind reflecting the state of his soul.
"I still remember them all." He answered in a hushed tone. "Their faces, their smiles, their words, their teachings. For three centuries I have stood in defense of everything good and pure in this world. For three hundred years I have tried to live my life in the best possible way, to be the best man I could be…" His voice broke, as he trembled, the unspoken reasons going in between them.
Tears streaming down those green eyes, his hands petting the golden hair. Anger, hate, pain, love, fear, relief. Eyes filled with those emotions reflected in each tear, like a dagger to the heart. She was afraid of him leaving forever, as she did. He makes the promise again, but both know that he cannot keep it.
That is the only time he doubts. The only time he is hesitant to leave. He leaves nonetheless. Duty calls. And children are dying. He has to do something.
Ironically enough, children still die. And this time dies the only one he cared about.
She grabbed him gently by the shoulder. "I have been failing for almost 300 years." He whispered.
"You are afraid." She whispered back. "You are afraid, of losing them once more, of failing to be there when the time is right, when you are needed. Afraid of repeating the same mistakes that you once made." Sirius nodded with eyes on the floor, as tears streamed freely.
Thunder cracked the sky, lightning lighting trees on fire, to then be quenched by the downpour.
'More than once.' Sirius thought bitterly. 'More times than any man should.'
"You are afraid of having to choose." She finished. He did not move. He didn't even breathe for an instant. "Of having to choose between this world you barely remember and a duty entrusted by me, and everything you hold dear, everything you are. You are afraid of what they will think, what they will see in you if you choose to leave. Duty against love." Sirius nodded along.
His anger, his rage, the voices whispering in the back of his mind, untold, and unending. They want vengeance. They want justice. He can give it to them, just a swing from his blade. She cannot move, cannot react, cannot confront him. He lifts his blade. Those shining eyes roar in the back of his throat. She did this. She committed the ultimate crime. Her laughter echoes in his ears. So does the laughter of thirsting gods.
The blade descends.
"You hold many you love, many you would die to defend. And you do not wish to lose more, to be unworthy of them." And she laughed, gently, like the sound of water flowing into a pond. "And yet again, you fear to have to leave behind something you hold most dear, something you have sworn to protect, because duty calls because I call."
His blade is silent. That stops him. It has never remained silent. Arondight does not sing. It does not drink. That makes him doubt. Then hands grab him from all sides, keeping him back, holding him, both in his anger and his pain. Brotherhood keeps him from adding another sin, as deserved as it is. It does not lessen the pain. But she wouldn't have wanted him to do it.
They have to hold him, still.
"You silly mortal." She told him gently. "There was never a choice to make." Sirius raised his head in shock, eyes wide.
"What do…?" She interrupted him with an arched eyebrow.
He fights against the grip of the man that has acted as a father and much more. He fights against both their pain and their anger. He fights to try to reach the teacher, hanging from the bridge, his eyes calm, yet filled with urgency. Arrows fall around them, but he does not care. He won't reach him in time, but he cannot bear to not try. He speaks.
And then he falls into the darkness.
The man drags him out. Or so he thinks. He cannot remember. All he knows is pain, anger, shame, and the comforting arms of a man that deserves to be king. That respite lasts far less than it has any right to. But they have to move. So he gets up and walks.
Sadly, the pain follows suit.
"You are Sirius Dragonheart, the Amar-Aranth, you are Sirius Baratheon Dayne. Grail Knight, father, son, husband, brother. You don´t have to choose between these things. Because, at the end of the day, you will still be my champion, you will still be the man who fought Archaon to a standstill, the first bretonnian knight to earn the respect of dragonkind, the knight who fought alongside the Dragon Princes of Caledor and fought back to back with the Heir of Anerion, the adventurer that dueled a Wanderer and befriended another, the Defender of Praag, friend to the Lord of Shang-Yang. You will always be the man who entered a war for a land not his own, but for loyalty to a grim prince from another kingdom, the man who helped destroy one of the most dangerous artifacts in existence. You are the same wandering stranger that decided to take a stand against tyranny when everyone counseled patience and a blind eye. The same man who choose to shelter what many called an abomination because it was the right thing to do. You are the same knight that took the offer of an old goddess and wielded a blade and a mission bigger than himself. The hero that decided to let light reign over the bloody darkness All of this, you are, and much more. Whatever you do next, you will forever be that same man. Nothing will change that, for your past is your legacy, now and always. And what a legacy that you carry, my champion. Do you think me cruel enough to make you choose in between serving my will, and your family?"
Hesitation
That was the only word that described Sirius´s attitude. He was afraid of having to abandon them again. As he always was. For almost 300 years he had lived, and for three hundred years, the Grail Knight had been thrown from one war to the next, fighting countless foes and enemies, fate and chance placing him in the eye of the growing storm, and leaving him to reign in the tempest. And for 300 years he had been leaving behind family, loved ones, dutiful friends, loyal companions, and obligations. Afraid of losing even more. Afraid of failing them.
He sees the lance move a second before he registers the action and the Armor of Brilliance shatters under the power of a weapon imbued with death and decay. He sees the pain in those shining brown eyes he has known for more than a century, even as the sword falls again and again. Strength leaves him, and yet he keeps fighting. He rushes towards him. He carves a path of annihilation to him, and when he reaches him, the other man looks at him, and falls with a smile in his arms. He is dying.
And he can't do a thing.
And they weren't with him. Because he wasn't strong enough to protect them. He carried power that few mortals could understand, and yet, he failed to save what mattered. Three centuries of seeing cherished ones died, of washing friend´s blood from his hands.
He holds her charred little body in his arms. The sound that escapes his throat is everything but human. He does not care. His heart aches as no weapon has ever managed to wound him. Tears blind him. Pain tinges all in red. And rage takes its place. Gently, he lets the small black figure down and picking up the stuffed lion he had made years ago, he leaves.
He vents his anger, his hate, and loathing on them. He slaughters them, one by one. He makes them pay. He rips them apart, Wrath and Ruin, till the day is done and he rests in a field soaked with blood. And yet, nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change what has happened.
No man left behind, he had said. How many times had he broken that promise? How many friends, soldiers, and warriors had he abandoned for the sake of duty, for sacrifice and victory against evil?
Their eyes gaze into each other. He cannot reach her. And she cannot reach him. But she smiles. It's a bitter smile, proper of her kin, cruel and almost sarcastic. But it also holds sadness. Her hope is gone, her chance is spent. And yet she is not angry at him. For she can see his pain and anger at not being able to help her. It takes his two oldest friends to pull him from the broken bridge. It takes will, logic and reason to make him move. Nothing can prevent the pain and tears. She laughs, makes a mocking bow and crosses the gates towards hell on earth, towards pain and suffering eternal, towards the darkness she wanted to leave behind.
She fights it.
She fights like a legion of one against the darkness in her kinsmen.
He doesn´t see her die. He knows she isn't dead. And he also knows both of them would prefer it if she was.
How many had he left behind? To the predations of beings that deserved nothing more than death and oblivion? How many tortured souls he hadn't been able to save? Or condemned in his foolishness?
They salute him; they salute him filled with pride, with fear, with anger, and with hopelessness. But they don't waver, they don´t hesitate. They salute, turn around, and form up. He has to cross the portal, but they have to drag him through it. He should cross and leave them to die alone. He cannot do that. He feels his knights grab him and pull him. He fights, but he is wounded, tired, and drained of energy. He sees them die, buying the time they need. Many look away from their gruesome deaths, from their pain and suffering. He doesn't.
He owns them that much.
"The insult, my little knight, isn't in thinking I brought you here for minuscule reasons such as that, that I have sacrificed my gifts to you for such insignificant things." She smiled, wiping his tears away, the mere touch feeling like liquid lightning.
"It is in believing I will allow you to do this alone." She said. Sirius's amber eyes opened like dawning suns, and a smile on the brink of shattering appeared. The tears flowed freely, but these were different. He hadn't lost them yet. He still had something to protect. The Lady giggled at his reaction, hugging him tightly, as her little knight breathed in the peace and relief of the moment.
"Never again, my faithful Lord of Dragons, will I let you stand alone. Remember when I told you that? I do not break my word. I will not let you fight all that you will have to endure by yourself, nor will I deprive you of the fruits of all your sacrifice." She told him gently. Sirius nodded, failing to utter words. There were depths of gratitude a man didn't know he could reach.
"So, before I leave, there is something else I need you to understand. The board has deepened and the foes multiplied. I do not know their strength, numbers, or influence, but I assure you, it grows steadily. While I don't command my subject in how to wage their wars, I would suggest that the first thing you should do, would be to give coherence to your forces." Sirius brushed the last embers of shame and other swirling emotions his half-fixed psyche was still rumbling with and asked.
"Forces?" She smiled a cryptic smile that made Sirius´s back shiver.
"You might be my best, but you are not my only piece. And I am not the only player. I can divine a few things already. Asuryan and Loec play their games eagerly, and you will find no lack of interest in Grungni´s mind. But Ursun and Sigmar, and to my surprise, Ulfric as well, are moving their own ploys forth, and they move quicker by the day."
"I never thought I would see the Wolf God play schemes." Sirius said in disbelief. The followers of Ulfric, and the Wolf God himself had always been… way too direct in everything they did. The Lady nodded, frowning a little.
"Strange times create new perspectives and priorities. Ulfric plays a different vector than usual, but while he lacks the delicate tact of Loec, a wolf hunts with as much guile as ferocity." She mused as Sirius nodded to the word uttered. He would know, he had been bitten by wolves more times than he cared to recount "While I do not support bloodshed among potential allies, especially others of your kind, I understand the necessity, even if I would ask you to limit it as much as possible. Unity will be our greatest asset."
"I don't think that is going to be feasible, My Lady." Sirius shook his head sadly. "If there is something Westeros excels at, is inner strife. If the gods tear the houses apart, war will follow suit. Deserts, they might tear themselves apart without their intervention." He growled out.
"You have always had the gift of finding the oddest of alliances in the strangest of places, my dear knight." She said smiling at him, taking his arm as they walked down the barren wasteland of his mind, the sky coming to life with cleaner colors. "I don't think that gift will abandon you now."
"Back in the Old World, I had my father´s standing, common sense, and nightmarish monsters to make my point come across." Sirius mussed with a sad tinge in his voice. "With all due respect. My Lady, I will have more luck convincing the Ogre Kingdom that meat is bad for their diet." The Lady stopped, eying the inexistent horizon.
"This will not be an easy war, I'm afraid." She said with a sigh that felt like a collapsing mountain.
"The only easy wars I ever fought were on my father´s shoulder, wooden sword in hand, fighting against Beaquis." A sudden ripple of sadness and nostalgia almost tore his heart apart, an old memory coming to mind.
His father laughing, holding him on his shoulders as he brandished his wooden sword against a playful Beaquis, as the Hippogryph mocked attack and injury, crumbling beside them as Sirius jumped on the chest of the massive creature, who gently caught him on his paws. Beaquis had always been a vengeful creature, furious and terrible, acting more like a bodyguard to his father than the Knights of Corounne. None could touch the King in its presence without the King´s acquiescence.
None but Sirius.
While nobles had turned their nose at him, peasants regarded him with envy and unworthiness, the massive creature had never hurt him, never stopped him from climbing on his back or snuggling against his warm feathers, almost as if he was as much a chick of Beaquis as he was a son of the Lionhearted. In his earliest memories, there had not been a kinder being, safe his father, with him. The creature had played with him, watched over him, protected him, and berated him. The first time he touched the sky, it had been on Beaquis´s back. Even in his advanced age and experience, his father´s mount had been a protector and friend.
He missed the cranky old bird, he really did.
"This one will test you." She said, placing a hand on his cheek. "To the extreme." The touch was tinged with a strange fear that Sirius knew to be not his own.
"I am a Knight of Bretonnia, of your Chosen Ones." He said snuggling against the war touch, flashing her a smile. "If a war does not test me, then it's not trying hard enough."
"Not any longer, I'm afraid." She said, averting her eyes. Sirius felt cold water run down his back, a sensation of dread he had not expected in the presence of his Goddess.
"Goddess?" He asked slowly.
"As I say earlier, sacrifices needed to be made." She breathed, tracing a finger down his cheek. "To keep you alive, I had to expend my gift to you, my dear dragon."
"I…I am no longer a Knight of the Grail?" Sirius asked between what was beginning to feel dangerously close to panicking breaths. He took a step back and almost fell until she grabbed his hands, pulling him into a hug he had not expected to need so desperately.
"Once a Grail Knight, always a Grail Knight. Nothing will change that. But you will have to rely on your skill, not my gifts." She told him, steadying his footing. Sirius nodded slowly, dazed at the incompressible reality he suddenly found himself in.
He wasn't a Grail knight anymore. No matter what comforting words she uttered, he wasn't one of her Lady´s chosen ones. The blow to his confidence and pride was like a strike from the Blood God himself. He had worked relentlessly to prove himself worthy to her and to himself. He has faced The Lord of Shadows in combat to protect his wife, and he had almost died. And then he had ascended to the Ranks. It had almost cost Ulthuan in its entirety and the woman he loved more than anything else.
The mere idea of having to achieve such a level once more terrified him.
"Was…?" She cut him before he even finished the word as if knowing the question before he did. She probably did.
"No." She stated, with all the immobility of a mountain range. "Your worthiness has never been in question, your courage is undaunted, your faith, a flame that never falters. I simply lacked any other way to keep you alive."
"Will I… Will…..Will I be able to regain it?" He asked with a half voice on the verge of breaking. Was there anything else to take from him? His land, his home, his family, even his blessings. The fact that she paused only made it worse.
"I don't know. I have never needed to do it." She confesses slowly. "If there had been any other way, any, I would have used it." Now she seemed to be pleading, at it snapped Sirius out of his stupor. He looked at her golden eyes, which shone with a light of uncertainty he could not abide.
"I am a knight." He reassured her with a fake smile. "I have served, I will serve. I serve now. I managed to break the Father of all Centigor´s maw with my bare fists when I was a mortal, whatever this world throws my way, I will remain." She smiled.
"You are still my dragon-knight. Even without my Gift, I look upon you with all my blessings." She reassured him with a gentle hand. It did little, but Sirius was thankful nonetheless.
"It was your Gift and Blessing that made all I did possible, my Lady. Without all that, without your guidance and strength, I fear I am nothing against a tempest capable of swallowing worlds." He confessed, feeling his hands trembling. He clenched his fist tight. "And I fear I will not measure up. I feel as if I'm going to fail again no matter how hard I try." She traced another finger down his brow, along one of the scars. Her face seemed veiled, a hidden expression that he could not puzzle out.
"Never forget the words you yourself have roared into the winds of oblivion in defiance, so many times. And remember that even after all those lives you think you lost, you spent and wasted…" Her body began to dissipate, her energy expended to reach this land. But she would speak something more. "Think of all those you saved."
And with those parting words and a smile, the goddess of light disappeared, returning to her land, to return when her strength was recovered.
"Thank you, my Lady." Sirius looked at the dissipating trail of golden light. "Thank you, Mother."
His eyes landed on the now-dead weirwood, the red sap drops, like very thick blood, flowing from the eyes, the mouth, and the steel of his blade, the white bark turning black, the creation receding, coming back under the ground, rolling like liquid tar, until only a small growth remained, like a dead stone in the middle, of the field, his blade standing like a solemn guardian to the sky.
He took a step forth, eyeing his weapon. His choice. A part of him whispered he could let that weapon there, he could walk away, ignore all of this, begin again. He had a choice, now. One last chance to spur his duties and be free.
He ripped Arondight from the tree before the voice in his head had even begun speaking, eyes on the gleaming edge, a fleeting memory caressing the steel and his mind. A memory of defiance, a memory of determined will. He smiled.
Yet again, he has a job to do.
And yet again, he would not run. He lifted Arondight until it rested in front of his face, the shining, yet dark steel, looking back at him. This blade had been his earliest companion, his longest one as well. In almost every battle he had fought, he had wielded it, in every confrontation, duel, and training session. This was his sword.
On a nearby hill, where green, shining grass bloomed, spreading like spilled emerald water, his mindscape re-growing once more, the sun shone, as the sky cleared and the river cleaned. Towers rose again and fields of wheat shone in the middle of gardens of vegetables and fruits.
And all paled when placed again the solitary figure that stood over the hill, dressed in gold and blue, her hair shining with the reflection of the sunlight, shimmering eyes shining even over that distance. She was an angel brought from the heavens of his subconscious to wake him up. Or so would a half-skilled writer have written in his cheap tales to the young and the naïve. Sirius smiled at the figure, feeling warmth spread from his heart forward, the beating of his heart sounding like a gentle drum on his very being. Then, a second, rhythmic sound, almost identical, joined it, a sonata of two instruments that gave a symphony he had dearly missed, a song of something deeper than life and conqueror of death. The figure smiled back and her lips moved as if to say something. He could not hear her whisper, but he knew what she had said even better than he knew his name.
'I will find you.'
Sirius smiled a great grin as the figure turned around. So did he, walking towards the horizon, hefting his blade to his lips.
"Where now, Ron?" he whispered. Lines in the blade light up in blue and silver, and he felt the way. Back from when he had come. To those of his blood, and to his next battle. Taking a deep breath, he awakened to the inevitable. He smiled.
She would find him. She always did. And if she could not, then he would find her.
Always, forever and ever.
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
"In all my centuries of service, there have been two who have never lost their faith in me."
King Louen Leoncoeur, referring to his steed and his son.
"The King fights with the heart of a lion. Our Prince fights with the wrath of a dragon. I believe him to be the third most skilled rider of the sky in our ranks to this day. Of course, his majesty is first. I go second, for now at least."
Duke Cassyon of Parravon, one of the seldom few times where the Duke attended an official event.
"There a few warriors among us I can count among my Dauntless Few, brethren I could conquer any foe side by side. Lord Dragonheart is one of them, and those are enough words said. His wife is another matter entirely."
Duke Chilfroy of Artois when asked about the Duke of Avalon after the battle of the Cursed Crown.
"He is more a beast than man. He has killed scores of the Empire´s finest as if they were mere animals, he and that beast of his. He is no man, corrupted by that false goddess of theirs. And now, I will make him pay for it all, in steel, faith and gunpowder. Sons of Sigmar! ADVANCE!"
Baron Veirn Tor Fitchel to his army before it landed on Avalon. No imperial forces returned.
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
And that is a wrap gents! Hope you like it, and I will star to work on the next Chapter ASAP. But finals are drawing up, so I don't think I'm going to be able to get anything up till July. But I will give it my best shot. Take care, and may the Lady watch over you all.