The Warrior's Queen
She found him on a battlefield, and he looked exactly how remains of a battlefield were to look like: torn apart and tattered in pieces, broken and drained.
Seeing him standing alone among bloody corpses, she ordered her guards to stand by as she got off her steed and approached the warrior. And although he could clearly see that she was unarmed, he immediately raised the sword he was holding on to. She held back for an instant during which their eyes crossed. Her graceful eyes framed with fair skin and brushing eyelashes met with the pair of eyes harbouring murderous intentions, on a face covered in dirt and blood.
Although his knees were shaking from the weakness and the blood loss, his hand holding up the daunted sword did not waver, and although she could smell the stench of death on him, her feet did not hesitate as she now made small determined steps towards him. He wasted no time pointing his sword at her, warning her off. She stopped her advances at a safe distance. He was wearing no crests and his armour was more like scrambled pieces of junk found on dead soldiers from all fronts, so she had no means of finding out where his allegiance lay.
Two of the guards jumped down their horses and wanted to rush to their queen's protection but were held back by her hand gesture. “Raise it for me,” she demanded without hesitation. He did not move the least at her words. “Raise your sword when and however you please, but raise it in my name.” And with no need for more words, he stepped into her court; literally, since he insisted on taking the way on foot rather than riding with the queen and her guards, so he arrived more ragged, exhausted, and hungrier than when he had ventured away from the battlefield.
Yet he held on even tighter to the sword in his hands, since he could feel the strength to hold it firmly leaving his arms. And for the years to come he took on the habit and the crest, as well as a place in her court, but never picked up another sword. Her generals mistrusted him, her soldiers secluded him, and the nobles turned gaze whenever he showed up. He knew well they had every reason to, for he was a warrior but never an army-man. He raised his sword in her name and took lives for her sake, not one passing day though was he a part of the nation he was officially fighting for. Never did he defend their borders nor did he conquer for their glory.
He was not a soldier of her army, he was her warrior. He kept an eye on the queen from a distance, surrounded by nobles, courts-men and women, advisers and opportunists, and she watched him up close, surrounded by her army, squires, pages, and warlords. She was well aware that she would never have his loyalty, and yet he was her warrior. He knew he should not have her mercy, and yet she was his queen; for they knew for certain one thing they would always find in one another, and that was honesty.
His expression grew sour whenever someone was buttering her up and indifferent when she was being well advised. The look in her eyes grew firm when he was expected to follow the ranks and graceful when he was granted freedom in his actions. There was one single expression though, which would never show in their faces: jealousy.
For jealousy came from yearning and a queen and a rogue mercenary she had picked up from a lost battle had no claim in yearning for each other. She had admirers and suitors worthy of her reign and birthright, and he had mistresses and lovers who could afford to care very little for gossip. So he kept an eye on his queen from a distance and she kept watching her warrior up close; something no war, conflict, famine, pest, conquest, or prosperity changed over the course of the years.
Not until the day the enemy was literally at their doorstep, about to storm the fort.
It was a few hours after sundown when his squire came for him, nervously explaining about some old ally suddenly turning colours and attacking under the cloak of the night, their army about an hour walk away from the gates, and no estimation in regards to their numbers. With a placid expression he sent the squire off to fetch him warm water to wash up. Ignoring the puzzled lad trying to make sense of the instruction at such dire hour of need, he then poured himself wine and went to the window, wondering if he could get a peek of the enemy forces, but to no avail.
Having confirmed that there was enough warm water for a thorough wash he sent his squire away, emphasizing that this was one battle he needed to prepare for alone, and sealed the door right away behind him. Knowing the chaos would provide him with enough time, with no rush he elaborated the procedure of washing up, getting dressed, and putting on his armour, while sipping a wine so sweet it burned down his raw throat. Meticulously he then checked out his sword several times to make sure the sheath was well polished and the blade at its sharpest.
He filled his cup one last time, placed it carefully by the window and left for the council hall instead of the post he was stationed to. As anticipated there he found the queen among advisers and two of her generals. Conducting herself rationally and with utmost confidence despite being enraged to her bitter core, she asked him about his station and what urgent news had made him leave his post. Without a word he kept walking across the hall and towards her throne. One of the advisers protested about the intended secrecy, stating how they all had a right to know however the tides might have turned.
She was about to also urge him to speak out when she realized it was not about the fight outside her walls he had come to talk. “Hold your tongue and turn around!”, she commanded as soon as she recognized his expression. The warrior's eyes flared up with blatant jealousy, a long smothering fire finally exposed to burn everything down to ashes, to burn everything and everyone who had ever gotten closer to her than what he was granted.
The indecisive looks of her council wandered from the warrior to the queen and back, resulting in them being held long enough for him to take the remaining three steps separating him from her. “Utter no word!”, she cried out in terror and in a futile attempt to stop what was due, but not without certain authority in her voice.
He drew his sword, pointing it down and before her feet, but neither did he kneel nor bowed. “For years you claimed my sword for yourself,” he said, his voice gentle and eyes burning with hungry desire. He let go of his blade and took her in his arms instead. Everyone else watched the sudden burst of passion and possession with incredulous expressions, awaiting their queen's command as to how they were to respond.
Before she could deny him more words his hand reached for the hilt of his sword which had been caught in their embrace, and before the council knew its blade was buried deep inside their queen. “And now I claim your life,” he whispered while piercing through her flesh. Blood gushed down on the marble beneath their feet, her fair features seared with pain, her fingers clawed the royal crest on the cloak he was wearing over his armour, and she sunk deeper in his embrace.
Seeing him standing alone among bloody corpses, she ordered her guards to stand by as she got off her steed and approached the warrior. And although he could clearly see that she was unarmed, he immediately raised the sword he was holding on to. She held back for an instant during which their eyes crossed. Her graceful eyes framed with fair skin and brushing eyelashes met with the pair of eyes harbouring murderous intentions, on a face covered in dirt and blood.
Although his knees were shaking from the weakness and the blood loss, his hand holding up the daunted sword did not waver, and although she could smell the stench of death on him, her feet did not hesitate as she now made small determined steps towards him. He wasted no time pointing his sword at her, warning her off. She stopped her advances at a safe distance. He was wearing no crests and his armour was more like scrambled pieces of junk found on dead soldiers from all fronts, so she had no means of finding out where his allegiance lay.
Two of the guards jumped down their horses and wanted to rush to their queen's protection but were held back by her hand gesture. “Raise it for me,” she demanded without hesitation. He did not move the least at her words. “Raise your sword when and however you please, but raise it in my name.” And with no need for more words, he stepped into her court; literally, since he insisted on taking the way on foot rather than riding with the queen and her guards, so he arrived more ragged, exhausted, and hungrier than when he had ventured away from the battlefield.
Yet he held on even tighter to the sword in his hands, since he could feel the strength to hold it firmly leaving his arms. And for the years to come he took on the habit and the crest, as well as a place in her court, but never picked up another sword. Her generals mistrusted him, her soldiers secluded him, and the nobles turned gaze whenever he showed up. He knew well they had every reason to, for he was a warrior but never an army-man. He raised his sword in her name and took lives for her sake, not one passing day though was he a part of the nation he was officially fighting for. Never did he defend their borders nor did he conquer for their glory.
He was not a soldier of her army, he was her warrior. He kept an eye on the queen from a distance, surrounded by nobles, courts-men and women, advisers and opportunists, and she watched him up close, surrounded by her army, squires, pages, and warlords. She was well aware that she would never have his loyalty, and yet he was her warrior. He knew he should not have her mercy, and yet she was his queen; for they knew for certain one thing they would always find in one another, and that was honesty.
His expression grew sour whenever someone was buttering her up and indifferent when she was being well advised. The look in her eyes grew firm when he was expected to follow the ranks and graceful when he was granted freedom in his actions. There was one single expression though, which would never show in their faces: jealousy.
For jealousy came from yearning and a queen and a rogue mercenary she had picked up from a lost battle had no claim in yearning for each other. She had admirers and suitors worthy of her reign and birthright, and he had mistresses and lovers who could afford to care very little for gossip. So he kept an eye on his queen from a distance and she kept watching her warrior up close; something no war, conflict, famine, pest, conquest, or prosperity changed over the course of the years.
Not until the day the enemy was literally at their doorstep, about to storm the fort.
It was a few hours after sundown when his squire came for him, nervously explaining about some old ally suddenly turning colours and attacking under the cloak of the night, their army about an hour walk away from the gates, and no estimation in regards to their numbers. With a placid expression he sent the squire off to fetch him warm water to wash up. Ignoring the puzzled lad trying to make sense of the instruction at such dire hour of need, he then poured himself wine and went to the window, wondering if he could get a peek of the enemy forces, but to no avail.
Having confirmed that there was enough warm water for a thorough wash he sent his squire away, emphasizing that this was one battle he needed to prepare for alone, and sealed the door right away behind him. Knowing the chaos would provide him with enough time, with no rush he elaborated the procedure of washing up, getting dressed, and putting on his armour, while sipping a wine so sweet it burned down his raw throat. Meticulously he then checked out his sword several times to make sure the sheath was well polished and the blade at its sharpest.
He filled his cup one last time, placed it carefully by the window and left for the council hall instead of the post he was stationed to. As anticipated there he found the queen among advisers and two of her generals. Conducting herself rationally and with utmost confidence despite being enraged to her bitter core, she asked him about his station and what urgent news had made him leave his post. Without a word he kept walking across the hall and towards her throne. One of the advisers protested about the intended secrecy, stating how they all had a right to know however the tides might have turned.
She was about to also urge him to speak out when she realized it was not about the fight outside her walls he had come to talk. “Hold your tongue and turn around!”, she commanded as soon as she recognized his expression. The warrior's eyes flared up with blatant jealousy, a long smothering fire finally exposed to burn everything down to ashes, to burn everything and everyone who had ever gotten closer to her than what he was granted.
The indecisive looks of her council wandered from the warrior to the queen and back, resulting in them being held long enough for him to take the remaining three steps separating him from her. “Utter no word!”, she cried out in terror and in a futile attempt to stop what was due, but not without certain authority in her voice.
He drew his sword, pointing it down and before her feet, but neither did he kneel nor bowed. “For years you claimed my sword for yourself,” he said, his voice gentle and eyes burning with hungry desire. He let go of his blade and took her in his arms instead. Everyone else watched the sudden burst of passion and possession with incredulous expressions, awaiting their queen's command as to how they were to respond.
Before she could deny him more words his hand reached for the hilt of his sword which had been caught in their embrace, and before the council knew its blade was buried deep inside their queen. “And now I claim your life,” he whispered while piercing through her flesh. Blood gushed down on the marble beneath their feet, her fair features seared with pain, her fingers clawed the royal crest on the cloak he was wearing over his armour, and she sunk deeper in his embrace.
posted by Einhornin @ 12:52 PM
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