The Thunder, Perfect, Mind

Act I: The Law Which Compels

Mazbeth II

Out of all the tents at their temporary camp, his father’s was truly fit for a king. A-washed in the colors of their House, with tones of a rich pine green and a deep, earthen brown, the grand pavilion, though spartan in furnishings, still oozed a level of comfort and guild; from the bed saturated with heavy and warm furs, to the table filled with decanters of expensive and exotic wines.

A large armor rack stood by the bed, encrusted with the heavy plate maille his father wore. The armor was black, covered with engravings of the thorns of the Holy Hawthorn Tree that grew in the castle courtyard in Agarwood. His sword, a long, two taloned blade, with the a large pale moonstone, a jewel called the Eye of Astraeus, encrusted in it’s pommel, lay strapped to it’s scabbard, dangling from the sword belt on the rack. It was the Sparra family sword, passed down from the first king Astraeus Sparra down the line of succession until now, where it hung before him in all it's splendor.

He remembered when he was a child, watching his father clean the ancient blade under the shade of the Holy Hawthorn back at Castle Agarwood. He would always ask, beg and plead with his father to let him hold the hallowed sword, and yet Breag would deny him each time. He told him that only when he was ready, that he could hold their family's sword.

Towards the middle of the pavilion stood a large table with several chairs strewn around it, and upon the table, a large map of the kingdom rolled upon it. The map nearly took up a quarter of the entire table, as it showed the entirety of Allerseen, and the borders of their closest neighbors.

And leaning against the large, oak table were two familiar griffons.

The first, in his royal finery of heavy, dyed wool and furs, with a pine green tabbard over his broad chest stood his father, King Breag, the Lord of Hosts and Lord Protector of Allerseen. His white feathers, peppered with splotches of grey and brown, ruffled slightly upon his entry, and a warm smile crossed his previously stern gaze.

Next to his father stood Alphaeus Sparra, his only uncle, and the Lord Martial of the Benign Council. He was much larger then his father, standing a whole head taller then his younger brother. Even standing upon all fours, he nearly met Mazbeth in the eye, while his father met up to chest height. And, by all accounts, he was considered a griffon of much stronger mind and body, as well. His plumage, a much a much darker grey, reminding Mazbeth of the portraits of the ancient Sparra kings of old that lined the castle walls. He too wore their flock's colors, yet remained in a ringed chainmail shirt and gambeson, while his tabbard and traveling cloak engulfed his bulking frame. If Mazbeth had not known better, he would assumed his uncle was king out of the two of them.

Alphaeus also perked his beak in a warm smile at Mazbeth’s appearance, releasing a bellowing laugh from his large chest.

“Mazbeth! Come in, lad, and come warm yourself by the fire!”

“Father, Lord Martial,” Mazbeth replied, nodding his head in a slight bow to his superiors. The bow caused another bout of uproarious laughter from his uncle Al, and a tittering scoff from his father.

“None of that, son,” Breag replied, walking towards one of the decanters upon his lavish desk, pouring a dark red wine into three goblets, “You are as royal as we are, so get back up and come in and have some wine. We have much to discuss.”

Breag set two goblets upon the table, handing the third to Alphaeus, who took it eagerly. Figuring another goblet or two of wine wouldn’t hurt, Mazbeth moved from the entrance flap and cantered towards the table.

Alphaeus stood upon his hind legs, towering over the young man, and embraced his nephew with a strong hug, slapping the young prince heartily upon his back. Quite use to his uncle’s mannerisms, Mazbeth eagerly returned the embrace, chuckling along with his uncle.

“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle Al,” he smiled, reaching for the goblet on the table set aside for him, “when did you arrive? I thought you’d still be back at Castle Agarwood back in Monolith.”

“Ah, I flew in about an hour or so ago,” he replied, releasing his nephew and moving to lean back onto the table once again, ”Would've been here bloody well faster if it weren't for the fuckin' escort that was slowing me down! Hah! Brought with me some urgent news for your father, but I’m sure he’d like to fill you in on what’s happening personally.”

Breag, rather then embracing his son, offered Mazbeth a gruff, yet affectionate, nuzzle, offering him one of the goblets of dark wine. Unlike the spiced and warm mulled wine he shared with Craissus earlier, this one was cool, with a bitter tinge to it's scent. A drink he'd normally pass over, he knew he'd have to indulge it for his father's sake.

“Before we talk of news, a quick toast,” Breag said, lifting his goblet into the air, an action reciprocated by Alphaeus and Mazbeth, ”To the victorious dead, on this day and all the wars in the past, may they rest in the God of Sleep’s embrace. Hail!”

“Hail!” Mazbeth and Alphaeus replied, the three taking deep drinks from their respected goblets. Tasting the wine upon his tongue, he captured notes of coastal grapes, mixed with hints of berries and spices that left a bitter taste upon palate, and yet, not so unpleasing to the taste.

“This a Sanfaran Red, Breag?” Alphaeus asked, clicking his tongue against the top of his beak, ”It’s surly not the cheap swill they were serving in the camp early this evening. You can just taste the marine layer on the after taste. It's like we're out there by the sea.”

“Aged 20 years, in fact,” Breag tittered, taking another drink from his goblet, “One of the spoils of the Sack of Marshwing. Who'd thought that feather head Lord Thrush would've had a decent variety like this? We could use some fine drink this night, after the day we had today. Gods, what a fight! Haven’t had a good scrap like that since the war, eh son?”

Memories of the battle appeared in Mazbeth’s mind again, as the creeping scent of blood filled his nose. He took another drink from his goblet, in an effort to dull the thoughts.

“It was a hard fight, father, but we trusted in your leadership,” the image of the dead griffon pinned to ground by his sword flashed before him, “It was truly a memorable fight.”

“Yes, but we couldn’t have done it without you and the Landed, son,” Breag said warmly, pride glinting in his brow irises, “you put them to rout with those lads of yours with something fierce. You did the realm proud today.”

Mazbeth offered his father a trained smile, while Alphaeus tipped his goblet to his nephew with another toast.

“My hawks and I did our duty, father, nothing more,” he murmured humbly, head bowed low, “but we suffered some grievous losses all the same. Some very good soldiers laid down their lives today.”

“And they’ll be remembered for it, lad,” Alphaeus offered sympathetically. Being the Lord Martial and commander of the Royal Army, Alphaeus was no stranger to losing hawks under his command, especially during the war, when casualties mounted everyday.

“We’ll see about bolstering the ranks, soon,” Breag offered, looking towards his son, “I know that the Landed have been in high demand lately, and I believe that you and your troops deserve some time off.”

Breag sighed as he downed the contents of his goblet, a sigh that Mazbeth picked up on immediately. Placing his goblet back down on the table, Breag walked back to his armor stand, standing before the ancestral sword of the Sparra line, keeping his back to his brother and son. His gaze bore intently on the moonstone in the pommel, reflecting his dark eyes on it's smooth surface.

“Which is why it pains me to ask more of you, son,” he murmured softly, reaching out and cradling the long sword in his talons.

Mazbeth stiffened at the comment. His father had another assignment for him and the Landed? Already? Alphaeus looked puzzled by the statement as well, as he moved to interject his brother.

“Wait a minute, Breag, I thought we agreed that-“

“I know what we spoke of Al," Breag stated, cutting him off before he could finish, "But this is something I want done by someone I trust.”

“But brother, surely the Red Sparrows can-“

“I said enough, Alphaeus!” His father roared, causing a silence to fall upon the tent. Alphaeus looked red in the face, whether from the wine or in anger Mazbeth could not tell, but bit back any retort that he wished to say. Snorting loudly, he offered Mazbeth a sympathetic look before walking back to the decanter to replenish his wine glass, refusing to respond to his brother.

“Son,” Breag uttered, now taking the sword completely off the armor rack and holding it in his talons, “I have another task for you and the Landed.”

Mazbeth’s mood fell at this, a crestfallen look covering his face. He and the Landed have been scouring the country side for months now, rooting out pockets of Dominion resistance, as well as the countless bandit factions that became of their remains, since before winter had set in. He had hoped that with this crushing blow today, that he and his hawks would be allowed to return to the capital and rest. Most of the soldiers were tired, and had wished to spend the winter months taking care of their families or themselves. He new that Crassius missed his own wife and children terribly, and needed to return to tend to the last harvest before the real snow storms came in. But fate, as it seemed, had other plans in store for him and his soldiers.

“Now, I know what’re thinking, my son, and I know it doesn’t seem fair. In fact, it seems quite the opposite from your perspective. But know that I would not ask this of you if I had no other choice in the matter. There are things in motion right now. Things that need to be seen through, and that require the attention of myself and the Royal army back in Monolith, but the task I have for you is just as important. Maybe even more so.”

Mazbeth wanted to protest at first. If he wanted to be honest with himself, he missed home, and his mother and siblings. He missed his dragoness bondmate, Ellie, and his friends back at Castle Agarwood. Mazbeth was.....tired. Tired of fighting, tired of all the blood, and longed for rest.

But like the good son he was, he pushed his longings aside.

“What do you ask me, my king,” he replied to his father, his stern glaze returning to his face.

Breag smiled a knowing smile, proud of his son’s dedication. With sword in talon, he walked back to the table, ushering his son over with a tilt of his head.

Mazbeth and Alphaeus drew closer the table, observing the large map sprawled across the top. Scribbled around the map were various markings and notes, highlighting locations and forts across the realm, many of which he and the rest of the army had fought at or around of. Breag placed a claw upon one such fort, close to where they were presently, but one that lay a few leagues deeper into the Dark Forest.

“Tell me son, do you know where this is?” He asked, leaning the sword against the table and eyeing his son expectantly.

Mazbeth observed where his father's claw lay, resting upon a fort circled in red ink. Deeper into the dark forest, and leagues away from House Wren's governing city of Belai, was a fort that, though he knew not of personally, he had known about in his lessons with the Poet Martial.

“Aye,” Mazbeth replied after a moment of thought, “that’s Fort Snow, off the Lord’s Road. It’s one of ours, if I’m not mistaken?”

“It WAS one of ours,” Alphaeus cut in, producing a scroll from his tunic, “A garrison of about 25 Royal reserves should have been stationed there, but alas, we have stopped receiving word from the fort about two moons ago. No requests for new supplies, no maintenance reports or work charters. Not even letters to their families or flocks. quite strange, and very suspicious.”

“I’ve had the temporary commander of the Red Sparrows send a scout a fortnight ago,” Breag said, as he took the scroll from Alphaeus, and handed it to Mazbeth, “This is a copy of the report from Sargent Gryfus, the operative in charge of the investigation.”

Taking the scroll in hand, Mazbeth unfurled the crisp velvet, glancing through the several paragraphs of information. At first, the notes detailed of strange movements happening around the fort's surroundings, the distinct lack of banners and flags upon the posts and ramparts, before the flow of information had abruptly ended.

“ This report is incomplete,” Mazbeth stated, tucking the scroll into his cloak pocket.

“This one yes, but not originally. The original was several pages longer, but was too coated in blood to properly decipher. One of Lord's Wren's city guard found the body and the report while on a search for wild game, and reported the findings immediately to him. He filled us in a few days past. ”

“We believe that the fort is overcome by Dominion remnants,” Breag huffed, his dark eyes narrowing at the thought of their hated enemy, “and not just that, but we have come to believe that a new, formal leader of these remnants is using Fort Snow as a base of operations for continued raids against our lands. At the Lord Scribe's insistence, though he doubts that the remnants have the force of arms to challenge us in open field again, it is something that need's investigating and culling. I’ve ordered Lord Wren to assemble a host of his city guard to take the fort, but we need confirmation that this new leader is there. That’s why I need you, Mazbeth. You and the Landed.”

“You wish for me to investigate? With an entire company?” Mazbeth asked quizzically. Why would need that many troops for a reconnaissance run?

“This seems like something more catered to the Red Sparrows specialties, father. The Landed Auxiliary are an infantry fighting force, not anointed knights. Why us?”

“Because I don’t trust that craven Tytas Wren,” Breag hissed, though more to himself then his son, “He very nearly sided with the rebels during the war, and his House only escaped culling by their aid during the Battle of Nidstang, and their general neutrality. I don’t trust that hawk, son, nor his backstabbing troops, so I want you and the Landed there. You will take no more than a score of your best fighters to investigate the fort, while leaving the majority of of your force with Lord Wren’s hawks, to ‘encourage’ their cooperation.”

“And if they prove false?” Mazbeth was almost afraid to ask that question.

He remembered Lord Tytas Wren as a child, and had always thought him a loyal follower to his father. His daughter, Lady Hazel Wren, was, and still is, the Poet Martial, seated amongst the Benign Council and a loyal advisor to to his father. She taught him much about swordplay when he was younger, before his capture, and had resumed lessons with him when he returned to Allerseen. She was a close confidant, one who always leant an ear when he wished to talk, or offer words of encouragement in his moments of doubt.

She was his friend.

Would her father really betray them?

“You put them to the sword if they play you false, Mazbeth,” his father replied in a solemn tone, "You put them to the sword like any other traitor to the realm."

“But-but what about Lady Hazel?” Mazbeth stuttered, “She’s loyal to you! To us!”

“And if she remains loyal, nothing will happen to her. But if her family moves to betray us, then they shall be dealt with, and if she remains wise in her loyalty to the crown, then she would be instilled as the new head of House Wren. Do I make myself clear?”

Mazbeth said nothing at first, soaking all that he had learned and what would be required of him. He knew his forces were not at peak condition. They were tired from months of hard marches across the realm, and had hoped after this large skirmish that they would’ve earned some much needed recuperation. The task, in truth, did not seem to difficult to accomplish, and the fort was truly not that far away from where they were presently; maybe another day or so of hard marching would be required to get there timely. But he had a bad feeling about it, especially at the thought of entering the Dark Forest.

Fort Snow was not a post many would wish to be stationed too, and he could only imagine what befell the reserves that disappeared from there.

He sighed, pushing his personal feelings and the feelings of his soldiers aside. All for the good of the realm.

“It will be done, father.”

His father’s expression brightened considerably at that, a slight smile upon his beak.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Mazbeth. And for undertaking this mission, you shall be awarded rightly for it. I have a gift for you, my son. One that should’ve been given to you a long time ago, one that I had been saving for you when we returned back to Monolith, but I feel there's no harm in you receiving it a bit early.”

He pulled the ancient Sparra sword from it’s sheath, placing it tip down into the ground as he leaned upon it, before standing upright upon his rear haunches.

“Kneel, Mazbeth.”

The sudden realization of what was going to happen popped into his mind!

His eyes grew wide with recognition, as the color drained from his face in shock. He was about to be given something that he’d wanted for so long, ever since he was boy on his Father’s knee. Something he worked tirelessly for years, and sacrificing so much for. He dropped to knees immediately, planting them firmly onto the ground.

Resting his hands upon his thighs, he turned his gaze towards his father, meeting his eyes. In those dark, brown irises he saw a pride and love that he had not seen in many years, something which brought a deep emotion within himself as well. This was what he always fought for, what he always strived for! To make his father and mother proud. To earn the right to be called their son.

To belong...

Raising the sword aloft ,a sword older then anyone in the room, Breag placed the flat of the blade on his left shoulder.

“Repeat after me, son, and take these oaths to heart,” his father said, his tone commanding and warm, “I am the Hammer that strikes the Northern Cold.”

“I-I’m the Hammer that strikes the Northern Cold.”

“I am He who thrusts the Spear of Winter.”

“I am He who thrusts the Spear of Winter,” he cried, tears slowly pooling in the corner of his eyes.

“I am the Light that brings the Coming Spring.”

“I am the Light that brings the Coming Spring.”

Breag lifted the blade once more, placing it on his shoulder. Mazbeth followed the ancient blade with eyes, waiting to hear the last swords of his new sworn vow.

“And with this Sword, by Endurance I Conquer.”

His eyes grew fierce at those words, as if a new vigor had taken over him. These were words spoken by many warriors of the past. Great warriors, who still live in song and tales told in hearths of every home in Allerseen.

“And with this Sword, by Endurance I Conquer.”

“Then as my right as king, I, Breag, the Lord of Hosts and Lord Protector of Allerseen dub thee, my son, the Sword of the North. Rise and meet your station with honor.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes upon the sleeve of his tunic in a swift jerk, Mazbeth tore from his kneeling position, jumping forward and embracing his father in a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you father,” he murmured, burying his face into the feathery crook of Breag’s neck, “You-you honor me greatly! Thank you!”

He felt Breag’s strong, comforting arms encircle him, holding him tightly, and pulling him into his chest.

“You deserve it, Maz,” he said, softly nuzzling his son once more, before releasing him, moving his talons to grasp Mazbeth by the shoulders, “Honestly, I should’ve named you the Sword of the North sooner then I have now. You were just as brave as any true Sparra in the war and before, and you make me very proud of you. You’ve done much and...and suffered much, for our family, for me. You may not be my blood, Mazbeth, but you will always be my son.”

Sheathing the sword back into it’s scabbard, he wrapped up the loose belt that was latched around the leather and handed the weapon to his son.

“I need not tell you what this sword means, nor how many kings of old wielded it in our long history. Take it with you, and it will guide you back home to us.”

Mazbeth shakily grasped the long sword in hand, rubbing his thumb along the markings etched into the leather scabbard.

“B-but father, this is, I mean I can’t...why?”

“Because you’re a damn fine warrior, lad,” Alphaeus boomed, slapping his nephew on the back, “twenty-two and already a hardened veteran, twice over! Hah! You’ll make a fine Sword of the North, nephew!”

Mazbeth smiled at his uncle, embracing him as well, which Alphaeus gladly returned.

“We’ll throw a tourney in celebration when you return with the Landed, as well as formal ceremony back at Agarwood,” Breag said, his warm grin still plastered upon his beak, “We'll have flying jousts, javelin tossing, and a glorious melee! We'll feast to the heroes of the war, and we'll feast in your name, son. But first, this task must be accomplished. Find this new leader, capture or kill him, and retake our fort. End these remnant bastards, s we can finally return to peace and tranquility. Return to me the hero I know you are.”

Hastily strapping the ancient sword to his waste, Mazbeth bowed deeply to his father.

“It will be done, my king. The Landed and I will not let you down.”

“Very good,” Breag replied, moving to sit back at the large table, “Inform your troops and leave by dawn. If all goes well, you shall be back in Monolith within a fortnight. Then you and your hawks can finally rest.”

“Yes father,” Mazbeth replied with a bow of his head to his father.

“Then you are dismissed, son. Ready yourself and your hawks.”

In an excited rush, Mazbeth made to leave the tent and deliver his orders to Crassius and the Landed’s sergeants. The wariness he was feeling before at the thought of their new mission was pushed to the back of his mind. He, him, Mazbeth, was now the Sword of the North, the great knight of the realm!

The Sword of the North was an ancient title, belonging to the best swordhawks in Allerseen’s history. They were true knights, dedicated to the realm and it’s people, and most of all, to the Royal Family. With this title, with this chance, he could cast off the mantle of being the creature that Breag adopted and prove himself as a loyal soldier. As a loyal son.

“And Mazbeth, one more thing before you leave.”

Halting before he could exit the pavilion, he turned to face his father and uncle once more.

“Yes father?”

“The knight that escorted you, Sir Gilda, I’d like you to take her with you.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the statement, caught off guard by the request.

“Of course, father, but may I ask why? I have plenty of troops under my command already.”

Breag shrugged in response, rolling his shoulders, but keeping his gaze locked on his son. Gone was the visage of the proud father, but returned the mask of the King of Allerseen.

“You would be doing Lord Brand a service. He’s not like his backstabbing brother Tytas; probably one of the few decent Wrens out of their lot. He knighted the girl, vouches for her, so she will make a decent sworn sword for you.”

A sworn sword? Did his father not trust in his abilities?

“I know what you’re thinking son, but I mean it as no insult toy your skill. You'd be doing me a service by helping bring us into Lord Brand's good graces . And truly, would you turn away another sword?”

Once again, whatever rebuttal or argument Mazbeth had was shoved aside. His father always seems to know what’s best. If this will tie them a little closer to house Wren, then he would oblige his king.

“Of course father, I shall inform her immediately. Good night, my king, Lord Martial.”

And into the cold, winter’s night he strode, leaving the warmth of the pavilion behind. Clutching Astraeus’s sword tightly in his grip, he set out to find his officers and Gilda.

Much had to be prepared for this new task of theirs, and as the new Sword of the North, by the gods, would he see it through.

====================================

Alphaeus I

Alphaeus watched as his nephew left in an excited rush to see about his duties.

It felt good for the old hawk to see his nephew that cheerful; the boy was, as of late, never one to crack a grin without much prodding. Ever since his nephew returned home from his captivity in the Great Southern Empire, and immediately thrust back into war in a leadership role he knew the boy did not want, the young prince very rarely smiled. It was nice to see Mazbeth without that intense stare of his, or his dour, brooding demeanor. When he smiled like he did just now, it reminded him of the kind, innocent boy he had once been.

His warm smile slowly morphed into a strained frown when Mazbeth stepped out of view, as he turned to face his brother, the king. Breag still poured over the map; planning, calculating, plotting their next move.

"You shouldn't have sent him."

One of Breag's dark brown eyes turned to stare towards Alphaeus, cocking a feathered brow at him in annoyance. One which annoyed Alphaeus in turn, causing him to grind his beak in irritation.

"What was that, brother?"

"Mazbeth," Alphaeus growled lightly, grasping his goblet of wine once more, "You shouldn't have sent him to Fort Snow. The boy and his troops are exhausted, their losses are heavy, and you sent them back out to face a wildcard we know not much about? You saw the look upon his face! He misses home!"

"We all miss home," Breag retorted, tearing himself from the map on the table and moving to face his brother more clearly, "I miss my queen, and my throne, and my children, Alphaeus, not just him. But I know my duty, as does Mazbeth, and we know not shirk from what is expected of us."

Breag remained stubborn in his reasoning, a stubbornness that had been within him ever since the two were young fledglings themselves. Many times throughout their youth, the two brothers would bicker and squabble, like any siblings would. Breag, though, would very rarely admit his faults, choosing to fester arguments over days than to admit defeat.

"Hasn't the boy suffered enough, though? We could have easily have let the Royals handle this, or gods forbid the Red Sparrows and their pretentious cunt of a leader handle the mission, Breag! And yet you wish drag the Landed Auxiliary, and the prince, your son, back out there into the wild!"

There was a pause, as Alphaeus studied his brothers face. Several emotions seemed to span across the face of his king in a matter of moments; hurt, anger, sadness, and finally his stern, kingly graze.

"You know why the Red Sparrows couldn't be here, Lord Martial," Breag responded, his tone biting and distant, "And you also know that we are set to march back to Monolith to meet the Equestrian delegates for the signing of the betrothal. The army needs to be there as a show of strength and force."

"Ah yes, another thing you neglected to tell the boy," Alphaeus scoffed in reply, "When were you planning on bringing up the betrothal request from the Equestrians to the boy, eh brother? Spring it upon him suddenly like you sprung this? catch him off guard so he can't refuse? You'd think your son would like to know you're bartering his future-"

"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?," his brother, no, his King roared, throwing his goblet of wine across the pavilion floor, "I'M NOT JUST BARTERING HIS LIFE, BUT THE LIVES OF ALL OF MY DAMN CHILDREN, ALPHAEUS, AND I DON'T NEED THE SHITE YOU SPREW FROM YOU BICKERING BEAK TO REMIND ME OF THAT!"

Breag tore from his brother and moved to sit down in one of the large, throne like chairs placed by the table and firmly planted himself in the seat. He leaned forward, placing his head within talons, rubbing the bridge of his brow in agitation. One of his brother's guards poked his head into the tent to investigate the yelling, but was quickly shoed off by Alphaeus with an unspoken wave of his claw.

It was times like this that Alphaeus saw who his little brother really was behind the thick furs, and gleaming armor, and golden crown he wore so proudly upon his brow. In reality, Breag was just as tired and weary as the troops that fought in his army, though he always tried desperately to not show it. Unlike many Sparra kings in the past, who were very much content to dictate orders from the comfort of their thrones, Breag chose to lead his hawks from the front. Though well protected most times, he was a warrior, who lived and thrived on the battlefield, and was quicker to take up a sword then to take up the quill and ink. And it was that integrity, that willingness to fight in the mud and the blood with his hawks, that inspired the loyalty his subjects felt. Even though, by all accounts on an administrative and governing level, Breag was actually quite a poor king.

Many years ago, when their father passed the crown over Alphaeus, and instead chose the younger brother as his heir, Alphaeus swore that he would protect Breag and his family. He knew that Breag was not adapted to life in court, and amongst the political games that the Lords and Nobles played against each other. His brother was a warrior, who thrived in combat and wartime, not in peace and political intrigue. Alphaeus was the official heir at one point in time, and before things turned sour with his father, he had learned what needed to be done in court, and how to navigate the game of Northern politics. When Breag ascended the throne, with his stubborn and hot headed ways, he swore before all the goods that he would defend all of them as best as he could. Even Mazbeth, the strange, featherless, almost hairless creature that fell into their lives one long winters night; one he grew to love with all his heart.

He knew, deep down, that Breag loved his son, and would do almost anything for the boy. But at the same time, he also knew that Breag was not above using Mazbeth and his talents for swordplay for his own gains as well. It was the only lesson that his father taught him, before the wretch died of old age after far to much time on the earth.

Sighing, Alphaeus moved to sit in the seat next to his brother, taking a long, deep drink from his wine goblet, as the two sat in their own silence. Thoughts of everything that had happened so far, and everything that may come to pass flashed through his mind as he stared into the red drink.

"Shame that you spilled the wine, my king, that was a Sanfaran Red, some of the finest-"

"You should've took the crown."

Now it was Alphaeus's turn to cock an eyebrow in confusion and surprise, as he peered towards his brother. Breag had not released the hold he had on his head, continuing to massage his temples with the pointed talons on his claws, but he could see his brown eyes stare intently at the floor, glazed over in some emotion that Alphaeus could not quite grasp.

"I beg your pardon, brother?"

Breag released his head, snapping his head to his brother.

"You should've been given the crown, not I. Father did wrong by you, by the both of us. You were bred and groomed to rule, Alphaeus, not I. You should've taken the crown the day father died. I wouldn't have stopped you."

The glazed over look his brother had given one had now changed once again to the weary, sad look of a tired Griffon. It was a look he saw upon his brother, just like his nephew, much more frequently within the last few years. His own look of agitation switched to that of concern as he grasped his brothers thigh in a light squeeze.

"Where are these thoughts coming from, brother," He asked softly, "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because we both know it's true," Breag murmured, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, that even in his emotional state refused to fall, "I'm about to sell my son to the Equines, while I sell my true born children to Houses that betrayed us not to long ago, just to secure their loyalty. All for a crown that I never wanted, Al. I trained to be your Lord Martial, trained to swear to you, to fight for you...to die for you, and father couldn't even let me do that right. You were the crowned prince, I was just the spare, but now here I am, with this gold crown upon my head, and the weight of the world upon my shoulders."

"But you don't have to carry this weight alone, Breag," Alphaeus insisted, moving to grasped his brother by the shoulders, "The council his behind you, Ysolda, the love of your fuckin' life, is behind you, your children are behind you. I'm behind you, brother. I won't lie, the realm has gone to fucking shite, and the war and it's aftermath are your burdens to bare, but you gave all of it your damnedest! The gods won't judge you for that! Hell, I don't even think father would judge you for that! The realm may be broken, but it can mended, by you and I together, brother! We all...we all did things during the war we weren't proud of, but, I honestly believe we came out of it stronger hawks from it. So, you can't give in yet, Breag. The realm, your family, all of us still need you."

"I...I know, Al," Breag responded, still stubbornly refusing to meet his brother's concerned look.

"Then don't give me that shite that I should take your crown," He replied gruffly, releasing his hold upon his brother, "YOU are my king, and I've sworn to always follow you, even if it's to meet the gods. We're family, brother, and Sparras stick together."

At last, his brother perked up towards him, a strained smile on his beak, and grasped Alphaeus's claw in a strong grip.

"Together, Alphaeus."

Releasing each other, the brothers returned to the silence of the pavilion, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the makeshift hearth.

"I'll tell my son when he returns, immediately," Breag said, his claws resting in his lap, "You're right, Alphaeus. He does deserve to know that I'm bartering for his future, and he and his soldiers do deserve their rest. But I trust in the abilities of my son, and in his dedication to Allerseen. I'm not trying to be cruel or unkind, Al. I just wanna save our home."

Alphaeus new he was right, which was what bothered him even more. He was lucky enough to marry for love, a marriage that caused his father's ire and that cost him his throne. But it was a choice he never regretted. He wanted the same for his nephew, one he and his wife thought of as a son as well, and wished but nothing more but his happiness. He knew Mazbeth loved his dragoness friend, one he suffered through many hardships with to return home and through the war, and knew that his brother's decision was cruel and unfair to boy that had showed nothing but utmost loyalty. But Breag, deep down, was right. Marriages had been used for centuries to secure alliances, resources and lands, and the realm needed all of those things now more then ever.

Cruel or not, what needed to be done needed to be done. He could only hope that his nephew would forgive them.

"Let's just hope his dragoness friend doesn't burn our kingdom down when she hears of this."