The Thunder, Perfect, Mind
For it is I who am acquaintance: and lack of acquaintance.
It is I who am reticence: and frankness.
I am shameless: I am ashamed.
I am strong: and I am afraid.
It is I who am war: and peace.
The Thunder – Perfect Intellect
Act I: The Law Which Compels
Mazbeth I
The name Sparra was a name that he cherished above all others.
It's ancestry, spanning hundreds of years of antiquity, had survived countless wars and clashes throughout the history of the Northern Kingdoms, back when there were many, and remained until there was only one, strong united realm. Sparra was the strongest of the Seven Great Flocks, the original Griffon clans of the North, and when the unified Kingdom of Allerseen was formed, it was a Sparra who led them.
In his armored hand, he turned the hilt of his long sword, admiring the Sparra engraving upon the cross guard. He felt pride upon seeing that name, his father's name, etched with great care upon his sword. Its luscious glow caught the light of the afternoon sun, igniting the Sparra inscription, almost as if it had caught aflame.
In that moment, he didn't smell the blood, and death, and shit all around him. He didn't hear the cries and screams and yells of death, or mercy. He didn't see that blade of his sword caught in the throat of the Griffon hawk in front of him, it's talons grabbing at collar of his gorget as it gurgled it's death cries to unfeeling ears.
It was when the Sparra engraving filled with blood, removing the luminous glow of the sun’s light, did all the sights and sounds and smells of battle fill his senses again. They crashed in a crescendo of horror, as all the screams and clangs of blades converged all around him.
Grimacing, he flicked his forearm, yanking the blade from the griffon’s throat, lashing out with his gauntlet and smashing it across its beak, sending it careening to the ground. It’s eye bulged from its head as blood gushed from the gaping wound at its neck, gurgling whatever plea of mercy it could. Bringing his blade downward, he brought the tip over it’s exposed face, running the blade through it’s eye and piercing the ground bellow.
“They’re retreating hawks! Push forward! Show no mercy! Kill them all!”
He heard the voice of his father shout behind him, almost louder then the sounds of battle. King Breag’s cry was answered by thunderous shrieks and shouts as his hawks rallied behind their king and charged forward unto their fleeing enemy.
“Mazbeth, come on. We have to push up.”
He knew the voice calling him, he knew he should respond, he knew he should listen and charge forward with the rest of his father’s warriors, but he kept his gaze on the dead griffon at his feet. His sword still planted it firmly to the ground locking it in it’s death grip, as the blood and fluid leaked from it’s body into the snow below. The pale, lifeless eyes bore into his own, locked in a gaze of horror.
Feeling a firm pressure on his shoulder, he ripped the sword from the griffon's head, tearing his gape from it's dead face and locking his gaze into dark brown, familiar eyes, that swam with concern at him.
Craissus, his friend and fellow soldier of the Landed Auxiliary held his shoulder in a firm, yet surprisingly gentle grip. The battle waged all around them, with enough carnage and blood to riddle even the strongest warrior with war anxiety, and yet his demeanor, though tense, still held an air of calm around him. His armor and cloak were bloodied and torn, covered in the gore, while in his left paw he gripped in a massive battle axe, a tool that he carried and treasured.
“Maz, we have to move," he said, in his deep baritone voice, "Now's not the time to lose your head. Your father needs you. We need you.”
The burly Minotaur nodded to the various other members of the Auxiliary behind him, the only infantry group yet to charge after King Breag, as they awaited the orders of their Lord Commander. The lot were a hard bunch, that were beaten and bloodied and weary from the hard fight, but stood in tense silence as they readied for the word from their leader.
“It’s almost over, Maz.”
It’s almost over....
He always questioned himself why he was appointed the Lord Commander of the Landed Auxiliary. Why, out of all the brilliant griffons or other creatures of his father’s kingdom, had he been given this task.
So many had been led to their deaths on his orders in the past, and many others have been overcome with guilt or despair over the countless battles they fought throughout years. Being comprised of nongriffon citizens and the general outcasts of the realm, the Landed Auxiliary wasn't considered as honorable an undertaking as fighting within the ranks of the Royals or even the Red Sparrows.
And yet here he was, the king of outcasts, leading his soldiers to yet another slaughter, another stain on his upon his own honor.
And yet he had no choice. Deep down, engraved into is very being, Mazbeth loved his father, he loved his family, and he loved his kingdom, and though he wasn't a griffon, he had the pride of one. He felt a deep patriotism to the defending of the this country that he had called home four and twenty years now,, and would continue to kill countless times over to defend it and those he loved.
Even when every passing battle he fought in would dig deeper into his dreams at night.
Raising his gauntlet, he patted the paw of his friend, as he brandished his sword into the air again, his Auxiliary perking and tensing as they saw the bloodied blade of the leader pointing towards their fleeing foes. Craissus was right, he thought, his face grimacing underneath his helm, my soldiers needed a leader right now, not a green boy afraid of battle.
“To me Auxiliary! We have those fucks on the run! Rally to your King, and cut down all in your path ! Kill them all!”
All traces of fatigue melted from the faces of his soldiers, as they joined in Mazbeth's cry with bellow for their own, surging past their leader with renewed blood lust. Mazbeth watched them, all eager to serve their King and meet his foes with their swords.
“Stay with me?”
He knew it made him sound vulnerable when those words left his lips, and for a moment, he couldn’t look his friend in the eye as they ran towards the fleeing enemy.
“Always, little brother,” was the huffed reply, spoken with Crassius's typical gruff delivery, yet tinged with an underlying warmness and understanding. Though his friend couldn't see it, Mazbeth offered him a small smile, before replacing it a sharp snarl of fury.
"Let's end these cunts, so we can finally get some decent rest."
"Aye, you owe me and the boys a round of good mead after this shite, mi' Lord."
"Then," Mazbeth huffed in reply to his friend, clutching his sword tightly in his armored gauntlet, "By all means, show me the meaning of war, my brother."
With shouts of their own, Mazbeth and his second in command charged after their soldiers.
Ahead of him, he could see the Dominion Remnants grow ever closer, halting their retreat as they were set upon by the Royals, King Breag at their head. Pushing themselves as hard as their tired and sore muscles could, the two passed by many of their fellow Landed, rushing towards the nearest enemy that unfortunately stood in their way, and with strong blows and slashes, dug their blades into unwilling flesh.
The smell of decay permeated the air, a festering miasma of stench, mixed with the ever prevalent scents of smoke and wood fire from the surrounding campsites. The snow, even in the dark, glowed red with the blood of the scores of dead soldiers littering the banks of the Lakeside.
As far as battles went, it wasn’t a contender for the most loss of life, at least to the side of the warriors of Allerseen. But since the Great Civil War had ended, it was one of the larger skirmishes against ex-Dominion forces that had taken place in the recent months.
It was only fitting, though, that this recent skirmish was fought on the banks of the Dominion’s greatest defeat.
The Black Lake Nidstang, one of the two Great Lakes of the North, was a region shrouded in mystery and fear, especially when one grew closer to the dark forest on its southern banks. The lake’s black waters were a haunted place, home to many bodies of the victims of past conflicts, and the wars to come, while around it, the primordial pine forests oozed a mist that shrouded the area every sun up and sun down.
During the end of the war, the Dominion of the Free Republic of Allerseen staged its last ditch attempt to win against the Monarchy and the forces of King Breag through force of arms. And it was on that cursed lake, in the skies above it and the shores around it, that their dream for a republic was destroyed. The last, meager army the Dominion could muster was broken on the banks of the Lake Nidstang,
And yet here we are, a year later, still fighting what’s left of these fools...
Mazbeth grumbled from the inside of tent as he shuffled off more pieces of his battered maille and armor. Being the son of the King, Mazbeth would have usually been more inclined to have a squire assist him in removing his plate, as was common for most highborn, but at the present, most of the squires and pages, as well as general helpers around camp were busy removing bodies. A grim task, that would keep the majority of them busy for the evening.
As after most battles, the bodies would usually be picked up by royal order, to stop the spread of disease and prevent looting of the dead from the ever prevalent battle field scavengers that followed every skirmish.
The Royals of noble blood were cleaned and dressed, to be shipped back to their families with honor, though in truth, very few Lords or sons of Lords had died in the days battle, to his recollection. The majority of the dead were the infantry or Landed Knights, who were burned, and their bones collected to return to the capital of Monolith for distribution or burial.
The bones of the Dominion, though, were dumped into the center of the lake. Yet more bodies to add to the host of ghosts that haunted this cursed place.
Removing his last greave, stripping down down to his travel leathers and tabbard, Mazbeth shuffled his heavy cloak back on to his shoulders, covering him from the biting cold of the North.
Walking to the entrance of his tent, he could see the various soldiers relaxing around their fires, talking, laughing, eating and drinking. Some were boisterous and loud, expelling their great chirps of merriment over the battle and their kills they gained during it's most heated moments. Others smiled at their comrades’ mirth, agreeing with or laughing alongside.
Others were dead quiet, peering into the fire or the goblets of whatever alcoholic drink was served that night, lost or vacant looks upon their gaunt faces.
Mazbeth grimaced tightly, lightly shaking his head, as the sound of crunching snow grew nearer to him, stopping at the entrance of his tent.
“They seem to be enjoying themselves this night,” the familiar voice of Crassius piped up, shaking him from his grim thoughts.
Breaking his gaze from the other soldiers, he peered at his Minotaur friend and Lieutenant, two bronze goblets of dark liquid swirling in them, as the steam lifted into the crisp night air.
“Sadly, the cunts seemed to have gotten into the honeyed mead before I could snag a jug, but fear not my young prince, your humble servant has procured some hot, mulled wine! A most perfect drink for a dark winters night.”
Mazbeth gave a slight smirk, reaching out and taking a warm goblet in hand. He felt the warmth seep through his leather glove, while he turned the goblet in his enclosed grasp. The aroma of spices and sugar clouded his nostrils, blinding him to the death stench outside, and instead, filling him with memories of the food markets back home.
“Very well done, my faithful servant,” he murmured in jest, raising the goblet in a mock toast.
“I live to serve, my lord,” Crassius responded with a smirk and a mock bow of his own.
“Well, come on in then Crass, let's get your hulking frame out of this cold,” Mazbeth tittered, bellowing his cloak as he strode back into the warmth of his tent, taking in another deep smell of the richly brewed wine.
“Ya don’t ‘ave to tell me twice, lad.”
Mazbeth relaxed into a smaller chair in the corner by his desk, while Crassius sank into the large officers chair. Taking deep drinks from their warm, spiced wine, the two sat in a small companionable silence, neither truly wanting to broker the subject that would inevitably have to be brought up.
Mazbeth looked into the depths of his drink at the dark reflection that looked back at him. A flat face with sharp angles about his chin and nose; dark, choppy locks cut short to his head, melding with the dark brown facial hair he had neglected to trim for many months now. He looked more like a travel-worn bandit then a Royal prince in such a state.
Mother or Ellie wouldn’t approve...
In the dark, warm wine, he not only saw himself, but he saw the gore of battle flash amongst the chunks of crushed spices in the goblet , as he heard the cries of fear and dread slowly consume his thoughts. For a moment, lost in his drink like the sullen soldiers he had seen outside by the fires, he thought on the ghosts of the countless dead, slain by his hand.
“If you don’t want to speak of it now, it’s alright Maz,” his friend rumbled across from him, “the numbers can wait til the morn-“
“How many, Crass?” He tore his face from the wine and into the eyes of his friend, “how many have we lost this day?”
The burly Minotaur sighed, taking another drink from his goblet.
“Not counting the Royals, for us, five score and ten. Maybe another pawfull when the mortally injured pass on later tonight.”
Mazbeth’s tight grimace returned as a he took another drink from his goblet, his left hand tightening ever so slightly into a fist on the armrest of the chair.
“I’ll have to visit the sick tent soon, to see them off with honor.”
“And they’d appreciate that, Lord Commander.”
Once again, he had lost, and would lose, even more of his soldiers.
People who trusted him to lead them through nonstop battles, who placed their lives before his own.
“Maz, you can’t blame yourself, they knew what-“
“I KNOW THAT!” he bellowed, a sudden urge of agitation rusting forth, while Crassius chose to remain silent, letting his friend vent, “I KNOW THAT THEY SIGNED UP FOR THIS, THAT THEY KNEW THE RISKS, BUT ITS NOT EASY! IT’S NEVER FUCKING EASY!”
Mazbeth could feel the tinge of tears pool around the corner of his eyes. The white knuckle fist he held slackened slightly, releasing the death grip he had upon his wine goblet.
“I-I’m sorry Crass, I didn’t mean to yell,” he sighed, his friendly merely waving off his outburst, waiting for him to continue.
He felt so frustrated, so angry, and yet so sad at the same time.
“These deaths, every death that the Landed suffer, they haunt me Crass. I-I can’t get them out of my mind....”
Mazbeth slumped back into his chair, leaning his forehead into the open palm of his hands. He suddenly felt exhausted, as if a large weight he had been carrying had been lifted from his shoulders, yet instead of relief , he felt only an overwhelming tiredness.
“Five years of war, five fuckin’ years, and only a year of ‘peace’, and the bastards are still fighting. Why can’t they just...give up already? Aren’t they sick of dying? Of losing?Of killing?”
“......would you give up, Mazbeth?”
The silence from before enveloped the room, broached only by Mazbeth’s rough breathing, and faint laughs and jeers from outside.
Mazbeth thoughts were swimming once more, as he brooded in his seat. The losses of the day that had been dealt to the Landed were not the highest of the war, but had been quite steep since the war ended. Since he had been given command of the Landed Auxiliary when the conflict had started, their numbers had only dwindled lower and lower.
And yet, the Landed had seen combat at every major battle of the war, fighting just as hard, if not harder, then the other factions of the military. Always fighting, always losing more after every skirmish, and the ranks never filling. The Battle of Nidstang, to Mazbeth at least, should have been their greatest achievement, the battle that would’ve cemented the Landed as true heroes and legends of Allerseen. But Nidstang was over shadowed by their biggest shame .
Venom Falls.
The source of their dishonor, an event forbidden amongst their ranks to talk about.
Since Venom Falls had happened, enlistment to the Landed was few, stifling the reinforcements to his already understaffed battalion. Every lost was felt, every desertion or resignation dampened moral, and yet, they fought on, at their Lord Commander’s order.
Orders he felt harder to give every passing day.
“You know, it’s an admirable thing, Maz,” Craissus cut in gently, trying his best to soothe the dark thoughts of his Lord Commander, “it’s admirable to care so much about your bulls, er, troops I mean. Before Allerseen, I’ve fought in other kingdoms, in other wars, and the commanders were always cunts to us lads in the infantry, so color me surprised when I joined here with a commander that gave a shit.”
He downed the contents of goblet, a small sliver of red dripping down the side of his muzzle, before continuing.
“It’s hard to care, Maz, especially in this line of work. It’s dangerous, too. It’s always well and good to respect your soldiers, to trust in them, hell, to even love them, but, at the end of the day, they’re soldiers, lad. And soldiers die. I can very well die at anytime we go out there and fight for your father, but I'm a soldier, and I've accepted that fact. At the very least, those that we lost, they're dying for a good cause in this case, not war mongering against other kingdoms like my kin in the Empire.”
The burly Minotaur wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, pulling a small flask from one of his inner pockets and filling his goblet again.
“I know what you must feel, how we all feel....Venom Falls wasn’t easy, and the lot of us are hurtin’, but we haven’t lost hope, yet. Not in the Landed, and not in you, Lord Commander.”
“Lord Commander....only a score and two, and I have old curmudgeons like you under my command” Mazbeth mumbled in reply, downing his goblet as well, ushering the empty cup towards his friend.
“If anyone is an old fart, it’s you Maz, that brooding grimace you have makes you look like a grumpy, hairless old Diamond Dog,” Crassius quipped, filling the empty goblet, "You're too young to be looking like such an old fuckin' sourpuss."
“You know, I can have you flogged for that remark, lieutenant.”
“Ah, but you won’t. You're a big softy under all that armor, Lord Commander."
“Hmmmm, but maybe extra paperwork would be a sufficient reprimand,” Mazbeth pondered, the dark clouds surround his mind lessening over their light banter. His friend always seemed to find away to help find his light in these dark moments. But it still didn't mean he couldn't punish him, though.
Crassius, on the other hand, recoiled in shock.
“B-but my lord, I’m already behind on the last two infantry reports as it is!”
“Well, I’m tacking on the supply charts, as well as the barracks maintenance sheet. I’d get to it lieutenant.”
A groan of discontent ushered from the Minotaur’s maw, followed by Mazbeth’s soft laughter, before armored footsteps were heard at the tent’s opening flat, capturing their attention.
At the entrance stood an armored griffon knight, flying the typical black and purple colors of House Corvo on her tabbard. Her feathers, the ones visible at least, were a pale white, with the top plumage upon her head having light tips of purple. A true Corvo, through and through.
“Forgive the disturbance, my prince, but his grace wishes to see you.”
Surprised etched across his face. The war council had already met for the evening, and his father very rarely wished to be disturbed after battle, spending his time in solace and rest.
“Did my father specify why, by chance?” Mazbeth’s asked, a look of hesitation upon his face.
The griffon knight’s feathers ruffled under her gorget, as another crisp breeze rattled the Lakeside camp.
“No, my prince, nor did it seem urgent. At least when he gave the order, it didn’t, but it’d be best to not refuse his command. Shall I escort you there?”
Now his interest, or worry in this case, was very much piqued.
“I don't see why not, sir knight, please take me to him.”
Mazbeth turned to Crassius, the Minotaur moving to sit at his cluttered desk, skimming through the stacks of scrolls on side as he lit another candle.
“Will you stay here lieutenant?”
Reaching for the quill and ink by the stacks, the Minotaur snorted at his Lord Commander, no doubt grumpy at the added work to his load.
“Nah, since I suddenly have extra work, I’ll take a few blank scrolls back with me to my tent and get to work there,” he grunted out, fixing the prince with a rumbling glower.
Mazbeth, giving an amused shake of his head, patted the shoulder of his friend, before turning back to the griffon knight.
“Very well, lead the way, sir knight.”
“At once, my prince,” she replied with a curt, militaristic reply, turning on heel her heels and walked out into the camp.
Before following, Mazbeth gazed back to his friend once more.
“Crass.....thank you for talking with me. Sometimes.....I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The glare upon the Minotaur’s brow lessened, his hard glint replaced with the warmth they usually have for his friend.
“Anytime, little brother,” he rumbled gently, “Just remember, don’t lose yourself. We still need you.”
I’m trying.....
Mazbeth nodded his head, and followed after the griffon knight.
The two walked in companionable silence, the snow crunching under their feet, as they traversed the maze like row of tents scattered throughout the lake shore. As the shabby infantry tents began to morph into ones with much more spacious flair and pomp, did they draw closer to the Royal Army and Noble Lord section of the camp.
“I don’t see why you placed your tent in with the infantry, my prince,” the griffon knight chirped from his side, as she gave him a sideway glance, “when I was tasked to find you, it was the last place I thought to look for you.”
“I like to be close to my hawks,” Mazbeth replied sharply, taking the jab as an unintended insult, the two trailing back intro an awkward silence again.
“I apologize, my prince, I did not mean to offend with my remark, I have great admiration for the Landed Auxiliary,” the knight piped again from his side, her stern gaze slowly replacing with an apologetic smile, capturing Mazbeth's attention,”a few of my kin served in the Landed, before the war, I mean. Did you know them, by any chance?”
Mazbeth perked an eyebrow at the knight’s inquiry. As far to his knowledge, the last nobles that did fight in the Landed had either died in the war, or resigned after the events Venom Falls and the fall of the Dominion.
“To be honest, before the war had truly started, I had no affiliation with Landed before the first major battles happened, so I most likely missed your kin. Who were they?”
“My two sisters,” the knight replied, her tone and demeanor growing slightly more somber, “one was Flightless, you know, since the Magic’s been weak in the world, because of the damned Disconjunction. She wanted to fight when the war broke out, always wanted to, in fact. But she’d never earn her knighthood being one of the Flightless. The Royals require flight as well, another branch of the military that was out of the question, so it was the Landed Auxiliary for her. She was the youngest of the three of us, so my older sister followed her into the Landed once she got that idea into her head, to watch out for her. They died at the Great Schism, when those bastards sacked Rainwing, their honor in tact.”
“What were their names?” He asked gently, captivated by this personal tale, one that no doubt took no small amount of courage to say to a prince of the realm.
The Great Schism, the day when the southern part of the kingdom rebelled against the north and the capital, was before he had joined the war, before he even returned home to Allerseen from his.....adventures outside of the realm. He knew that many Flocks and families lost loved ones on that most dark of days, and many of his own Landed fought at the sack.
“Glywyn and Gresha Corvo,” she replied, with a slight puff of her chest, though through the show of bravado, he noticed the shuddering breath she exhaled when she spoke their names, “they....they were true heroes to the North.”
“I’m sorry to say that I didn’t know them personally, Sir Knight, they were before my time as the Lord Commander,” he replied, committing the two names to memory. He noticed the crestfallen look upon her face, feeling the ever prevalent feeling of shame rise in his chest, “but, I have plans to build a mural of sorts back at the barracks in Monolith, to all the Landed who fought and died during the war, and I’d be honored to add their names to it. As you said, they were true heroes of the North.”
The knight stopped in her tracks and bowed her head low to Mazbeth, her look forming once again to a small smile of gratitude at the suggestion.
“You’d honor my family and their names greatly. Thank you, my prince.”
“No need for the formality when my father isn’t around,” he replied with a smile of his own, “Mazbeth will do for now, sir....?”
“Gilda of Flock Corvo, my prince, knight in service to his Majesty King Breag Sparra of Flock Sparra, and servant to the Kingdom of Allerseen,” was her proud answer, bowing her head in respect to the Lord Commander.
Mazbeth gave an amused look in reply, flattered by the young knight’s manners.
“Please rise, Sir Gilda, no need to bow to me.”
Giving a slight blush, Gilda quickly stood up once more, adjusting her own cloak in a
sheepish fumble.
“R-right, sorry my prince, er, I mean Mazbeth, it’s just very exciting to be talking with the Lord Commander of the Landed, as well as the Sword of the North! All the knights say you’re the finest swordshawk in Allerseen! Is it true?”
Continuing on their way, Mazbeth’s strode next to the excited Gilda, who had a slight hop in her step, as she led the way to his father’s pavilion. It was his turn to become embarrassed by the praise.
“I’ve been called the Sword of the North by a few, but I don’t actually have the title,” he replied, his hand laying at rest at the hilt of his sword, ”but I admit, I find my skills more the adequate.”
“More then adequate? From what I heard, you were down right amazing at the Battle of the Barrens! And the Sack of Marshwings? Even we Royals were awed by that duel you had with Keshel of Froth! A good deal of the younger squires and pages look up to you, you know?”
“That, I did not,” Mazbeth uttered blankly, thinking back on those past battles, and the many dead felled by his sword.
He indeed was a great swordshawk, of that he could not den. But most of the true romanticism was lost on him when he gutted his first enemy, back before the war and when he was much younger. When he looked into the bloodshot eyes as his sword pierced his chest, smelling the release of the Minotaur’s bowels as it soiled it’s armor and leathers in terror and pain, did he realize the warrior’s path was not romantic. It was not like the stories his mother and father would tell him when he was smaller and filed with tales of heroic knights saving princess's from evil dragons.
The warrior’s path was a hard life, a grim life, and the sword, a tool for taking.
But also, for protecting. For saving.
And so, to uphold his vow to serve his family and his kingdom, he honed and trained his skill with a blade, growing faster and stronger after each enemy he cleaved before him. He was soon able to go tit for tat with the Poet Martial, his first instructor, and member of the Benign Council, before making a name for himself in the war.
“Even Hell has it’s heroes,” he murmured, more to himself then a reply to the knight’s comment. Gilda fixed him a questioning quirk, with a slight tilt of head, while offered a slight shrug in reply. If the pages and squires looked up to him, he would do his duty them. To all of them.
“Did you fight in the war?” He asked suddenly, causing the knight to squawk slightly in shock. After composing herself, he noticed a sullen sag of her shoulders, piquing his curiosity again.
He could see the shame creep into her eyes, a shame that answered his question before her reply did, falling into step with Mazbeth.
“I, um, spent a majority of the war in pony land down south, squiring for Lord Brand of Flock Wren. I guess after losing my sisters, my mum and dad wanted me out of Allerseen for awhile, though I hated it at the time. I still kind of do, though Lord Brand was a great and kind teacher. He knighted me personally at their capital in Canterlot. By the time we returned from Equestria, the Dominion had already surrendered. Lord Brand escaped the culling of his Flock, and has been a friend ever since, but by the time I was knighted, I missed all the battles of renown. Today was my first large skirmish.”
She drifted off into a slight silence, the familiar far away look of horrors seen and lived creeping into her features as they stood before King Breag’s tent. The two guards at the entrance bowed low to the Allerseen prince at his arrival.
“You may enter, my prince, his grace awaits you,” the guard to the left said, reaching out a talon and moving the tent flap aside.
Turning to his traveling companion, who still bore a pensive look, he placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder.
“Thank you for escorting me, Sir Gilda,” he murmured softly, her eyes peering up to meet his, a small, tired smile upon her beak, “get some rest, if you have no further duties. That's an order.”
“Of course, your grace,” she replied, giving a small bow, before turning away from the prince.
“My prince,” he heard her call to him, as he was about to enter into the pavilion. He turned back to look at the young knight, her uncertainty clear, “ do they.....do they always haunt your dreams? The ones we kill?”
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say every gods dammed day. He wanted to tell her that the nightmares remain, and rarely abate. But deep down, he knew she didn’t need to hear that. She did not need to know the truth, because she, like every hawk or hen who wielded a sword, already knew. She didn’t need to be so cynical, so young, like himself. She needed to be stronger.
“Only if you let them, Gilda.”
Nodding his towards her one more time, he entered into the warmth of the large tent, leaving the young griffon knight to ponder his words under the dark Allerseen sky, while the cold winter breeze of the Black Lake Nidstang fluttered about her.
====================================
Princess Celestia I
“This is preposterous, Lord Chamberlain, they can’t do this!”
“I’m sorry my princess, but it’s the will of the council, and they’ve had the upper hoof in these deliberations lately.”
Celestia, once one of the most powerful beings in all of Equis, stomped her hoof in agitation. What the Faust cursed council members had done in her and dear sister’s....absence...was understandably a necessity, but this, this was a step too far.
The Disconjunction, and the loss of her and her sister’s control over the sun and moon, were tragedies as it were already, tragedies that the two monarchs were still coming to terms with. But when two year sleep she and Luna had been in had finally ended, the Equestria she knew was almost unrecognizable.
“My niece is not some...some brood mare that the council can sell off to the highest bidder, Lord Chamberlain!” She exclaimed in fury, a sharp snarl worming on to her usually warm, well composed face. Celestia had always thought her ability to keep calml in stressful situations quite masterful, but there was something about this stallion, this “Lord”, that truly irked her to no end.
The Lord Chamberlain in question perked neither eye or ear at her indignation, merely keeping a blank, passive mask upon his face. The charcoal grey stallion merely adjusted the collar of his pressed coat with a lazy hoof, as if the Princess’s fury was that of the slight buzz of a fly, further worsening Celestia’s horrid mood.
“And pray tell, my lady, would you have me do?” The Lord Chamberlain asked, refocusing his attention to his former absolute monarch, “In fact, why do you fight this so? Obviously the betrothal suggestion has merit to it, does it not?”
“I fight it because you and the council overstep your bounds, Star Stream-“
“It’s ‘Lord Chamberlain’, my princess,” the stallion stated, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare, “I earned that title, and deserve to be addressed as such. But as I said, the betrothal idea is just that, an idea. One that has not yet been put into a motion, but a wise idea nonetheless.”
The Lord Chamberlain faced away from the Princess, trotting towards the closest window and gazing out at the serene landscape of the early dawn, the city’s lights surrounding the castle like fireflies.
“My lady, you must understand, times have changed greatly since the Disconjunction. For the first time in millennia, wars, actual wars, with body counts and untold sufferings, have erupted around us. We’re not blind to how sheltered our race is, princess, and we know that we are not nor have ever been prepared for true conflict. Well, at least conflict that we couldn’t hide behind you or the Elements of Harmony.”
The stallion exhaled a sigh, his previously composed face taking upon a weary look, as he shifted his attention back to Celestia.
“While I’m quite sure that, Disconjunction or not, you and her grace Princess Luna are still quite powerful, we can’t rely strictly on you and the Elements anymore. Not against the force of arms, that is. That’s why this alliance with Allerseen is beneficial to
You, we on the council, and the very kingdom itself. Can’t you see that the idea at least has some merit?”
“I’m not daft, Lord Chamberlain,” Celestia hissed, meeting the stallion’s gaze with her pointed glare, “and I need no reminders of our current situation, but you and the council wish to sell my niece to the adopted son of King Breag, and ship her off to that frozen Tartarus?! They’ve just come out of a civil war! Technically, they’re still fighting one! You would be sending Cadance to the Northern Cold to die either by the weather or a brigand’s blade!”
Exhaling a sigh of her own, the former princess of the sun moved to stand closer to the Lord Chamberlain, tired of the days arguments and court. She really did know that world was changing, and that threats were rising all around their now vulnerable kingdom.
When the Disconjunction happened, the magic of the world was torn asunder. It truly was an event like no other. A great sound, like the loudest thunder imaginable, tore threw the land, followed by a flash so bright, she thought the sun had imploded.
Then, the first of it began. Unicorns around the city cried of their magic weakening, struggling to hold spells once considered quite easy.
The earth ponies claimed that their strengths were waning, that once objects they could’ve moved with ease became struggles to push or pull.
The weather of the world was now outside the control of her little Pegasi, as well as the other magical creatures of the air, leaving her subjects at the mercy of whatever the elements had in store for them. Her little ponies had even lost the ability to stand upon clouds, leaving cloud cities across the realm useless wisps of white upon the wind, and throwing a third of the Pegasi population out of work or homeless.
It was an economic disaster, one completely unforeseen and underprepared for.
But, when her and sister had lost control of their heavenly bodies, the things that made them who they were, was when the true horror had been felt. The sun and the moon began moving by themselves, and the connection they felt towards their parents’ creations since foalhood was gone. They had then fallen into a deep, nightmarish sleep, a coma from the trauma, while their kingdom was left to cope with this disaster leaderless and alone.
That was, until the High Nobility of Canterlot stepped in, to rule in their stead.
By all accounts, with Luna and herself unconscious, the leadership should have fallen to her nephew Blueblood, and her niece Cadance, yet the Nobility of Canterlot, always greedy for wealth and power, saw their chance. With the aid of the Royal Guard Captain, Shield Bringer, twelve of the most powerful Barons and Baronesses of Equestria took control of the Capital, forcing her niece and nephew to sign a new charter,
reducing the status quo to that of a constitutional monarchy.
While greedy, her little ponies were not cruel, nor were they tyrannical in nature. As leaders they tried their best to maintain order and solve the economic crash to the realm, but when one comes into power, they are usually quite reluctant to let it go. Now, since their awakening a long and anxiety filled year ago, her and her sister were forced to share power with this newly created Noble Council.
“My princess, I understand your fear, and I know that the hesitation you feel is justified, but we need an this alliance,” the Lord Chamberlain said, the first hint of emotion broaching from his cold eyes, his tone shifting from cold and sharp, to soothing and smooth, “The King Ector and his Diamond Dog’s of the Gem Vale will not aid us, nor will the Changeling Queendom, as they despise us. We won’t deal with the Great Southern Empire nor shall we deal with Roam, for slavery is a great devil we shall have no part of. And now the Minotaurs are making their move across the continent, fighting just about everypony that borders them! They no longer fear your wrath, and have an army in the tens of thousands taking over every kingdom within their grasp. We need allies, my princess. Allies that are close to us, that have the means to help protect the realm.”
“I don’t wish to fight on this any longer, Chamberlain,” she muttered, the anger within her slowly fading to a dull sullenness, “I have no love for this idea, nor do I believe Cadance to be ready for such a thing to transpire, but for the good of Equestria I’ll at the very least think on it with my sister.”
“That’s good, your grace, I’ll-“
“But let it be known, Lord Chamberlain, that if any plans are set into motion without her or my consent, you and this council will rue the day, my little ponies or not.”
The Lord Chamberlain did not reply, his passive glower returning upon his muzzle, offering Celestia a stiff bow of acknowledgment before leaving the council chamber.
Celestia sighed again, shaking her head, as if all the stressful thoughts would tumble out of her ears.
It was her turn to gaze out the window, as the sun began its rise over the horizon. She wondered if that sun was still the one she knew, that she was tasked to look after by her mother and father all those years ago. She wondered if they were disappointed, or angry, or distraught from their place in the heavens.
Leaning her forehead to rest against the glass of the window, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of that foreign sun spread across her white coat, lamenting the loss of it’s magical touch.
Author's Note
Greetings. Like the description states, this story is very AU, so some places maybe tweaked from canon, as well as new names for certain places, but I promise, a lot will be explained as the story progresses (don’t wanna give everything up at once).
Also, this story will be very lore heavy, so, as a way to add on to the world’s backstory without ruining the flow with extra exposition, I may end up doing Lore Dumps on my blog to fill in some empty blanks and questions you guys may have if you lot are interested.
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."
