THE BLADE AND THE BOND

[Lenny 1615]

 

.

 

The Blade and the BOND

To be brought into the world with the privileges as a royal is a destiny few can match, and for Argelion, it was no different. Pride, revelries, access and people to call by his hand, it all stoked a flame within him from birth. And in little time, his silver gaze turned to face the golden scales of a Wyvern.

 

However, his folly would direct this path elsewhere...

The Day of Reckoning

His foolishness had brought upon him a grim penance, certainly deserving, but still it was rough. His head had been shaven, his clothes replaced with the tattered remains of what once was, and his crown stripped. He was left as nothing but a Scion, one of Harren’s ambitious lineage. His father, Anorhil, levied this onto him without mistake.

To sit before all in the square and have your head shaved is a humiliating process. To have all the eyes of your citizens, friends, and family laugh and point. It is a wound which one’s pride does not easily forget. Yet, it was part of the penance - the recognition of mistakes that had fractured his standing, his name, and family’s honor. 

 

His sister, Ardirnien, was one of the main teases of him there. To him, it was sisterly love, his younger self would laugh at him too, and he understood this but still it was difficult to process.

 

“You did this for good intentions, seeking to see them rebuked and redeemed to serve God as they intended, but it was scandalous and you were quick to bring them in because your silver eye caught the glimmer of silver!”

“Greed and pride of the ambitious Dragon Prince; No more! Shame and dishonor, and you shall take this shame unto your person!”

His father, The High King of Idunia, Anorhil, lowered his hand to the grip of that turquoise blade. With a sing of metal, it was raised out of its scabbard and felt the breeze of the wind upon its surface, too, did Malchediael’s blessing take form and the blade was wrapped in divine flames of their family patron.

 

Then, the slash came. In a quick swing of that sharpened edge, Argelion’s hair fell to his feet, a crude cut levied by the finest of blades.

 

“Go forth my son, and redeem yourself and all the world; for love of GOD and forever be an enemy of his enemies. So too shall you start by aiding in the slaying of that wyvern, and the rebuke of the kobolds.”

 

Argelion rose from that chair, surrounded by what he once was, and turned on his heel. With final words exchanged, he sought Minas Aranath for a final night of proper rest and to reflect upon his grave mistake and its rough reckoning.

The New Beginning

His travels were long and arduous, but when the walls come tumbling down and when you lose everything you have, you still have family.

 

Argelion had the opportunity to meet one of his cousins for the first time, one from his beloved aunt Eriantiel, Elros Estelethion Arthalion, just a few days prior when his flame still burned bright with pride. He seemed different, but the silver gaze of the Arthalion line was unmistakable. Unceremonious in many ways, yet something clicked in place in their initial meet. 

With the shadow disguised as a humble merchant wandered the streets, the duality of blood vanquished the being in swift succession and through a manifestation of comradery, the two sought to release the creation from the world by hurling it into the blanched flames of Malchediael, together.

 

It was a lasting memory, burned into his mind. Argelion reflected greatly upon it, as his youth lacked a brotherly figure, he was the eldest and surrounded by sisters in the entire family. It was a grim memory, a Belzagar, in some ways but appreciated-- perhaps more than he knew.

 

A new beginning, and on the horizon, greatness was forming.

The Tempering

The penance tested in many venues, to learn forging- which he was terrible at, the luck Elros’ had with fishing during the Norlandic travels, and the kindness which the people shared throughout the land.
 

Argelion felt a change within him, his Harrenite pride was tempered. He was a man tested by fire, blood and loyalty. But, the journey was not over, far from it.

But, he had begun to walk with his head unbowed.

 

The pieces were falling in line, disputes were settled, monsters of the Deceiver were vanquished. It was only one final piece remaining, the most important one, to slay the Gilded Queen.

Argelion set out to commission one of the blacksmiths of the Radiant Guard, Roran Athaebor, for the creation of the ballistas and bolts. Him, and one by the name of Iorlas- his apprentice, accepted hastily and they got to work when the platform was made, a testament to their capability, most certainly.

A professor from the Aevosian Aviation Association had approached, guiding in the direction of the wyvern. The path was laid, the creature had been sighted, and the time to act was quickly approaching.

 

 

Argelion had spent some time in his youth sharing conversations with those who had engaged with the Gilded Queen when he was not able, those who had seen her first hand and actively engaged her. It was an anticipated day, years of truths from veterans, every mistake committed before, every lapse in patience or misjudged pride was catalogued in his mind. He absorbed it all, not only to avoid death, but to best her.

 

He would not fail. The thought never crossed his mind. His sight was set, his goal was made clear, and there was only the execution of the plan which he had formed now. It took place over many nights, sketched in sand, pen, through battle and laughter, the draft was born.

 

Six ballistas were prepared, covered and shrouded beneath the cloaks of Adunian make and nature’s natural. The bolts were treated with frost oil, intended to sink into its heated flesh and bring it down with haste.

 

Daisy moved among the crew, his gaze trailed after for a moment, before returning to the sketch of his plan.

 

The dawn crested over the ridges, and without pause, the colossal wings of gold made themselves known. She came not in a rush, but as a Queen. Her maw opened upon the sight of the bait, brimming with the embers and the fire unleashed upon them, strapped with mists of frost, it exploded into a cascade of fire and ice, beautiful, to some degree.

The Vourkehardt crew and Euler crew had been instructed upon when to fire, and they had no better shot. Too, did the chain bolts fire, launched by Auris, Azruphel and Eruedraith with his own crew consisting of Daisy and Elros.

 

Bolts made purchase, tangled around its wing, tearing membrane and splintering bone, and another wrapped around its leg, locking it into place whilst the Euler’s shot graced its chest, sending a spray of frosted splinters scattering over the field.

 

The Gilded Queen fell.

 

It was not a graceful fall, she collapsed with the fury of a drakeling, cratering the vale in her crash.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world froze, a brief stolen victory. However, the Queen was no mere beast, and with time, she rose.

 

Her wings crashed down against the first of two ballistas, splintering it with ease; sending its parts scattering to the wind. His hand quickly found his beloved, Daisy, and pulled Elros with him, seeking to draw them behind his shield with steps backward.

 

Divine brilliance began to manifest upon his shield front as his silver gaze locked upon the Queen, it felt like a trade, a conversation of war and the world stilled.

 

Her eyes found Argelion, her maw opened, rows of gleaming teeth framed by the flames from within, and she lunged.

 

Her jaws came down with the force of a falling tower, intent to swallow him whole- or his beloved family and love alike, but the shield held.

 

Her teeth met the divine resistance of Malchediael, a hum that cracked the sky and bent the light. A roar of divine brilliance cascaded from the shield, a wave of light expelling outward from the impact as the two crashed against each other, forming a wall that halted the attack; the symbol of a Templar, Malchediael’s Radiant Star, flared to life upon the shield.

Without pause, not even to consider, Argelion instantly sought to draw away the two, guiding them away and into the shadows with the cloaks to blend. The maw of the dragon soon spurred to life once more, setting upon his cousin’s station. . .

 

The Gilded Queen reared and let loose a torrent of flame, the remaining chain-bolt ballista caught in the rushing flame as the queen sought to free herself from its chains, a shot was attempted before, though unfortunately failed to impart any fulfilling damage. It lay destroyed, and soon after, the Queen sought to push herself up to air once more, intending to rise to the spire peaks again.

 

The final two bolts screamed through the sky, one from the Vourkehardt crew and the other from the Euler’s. They struck near simultaneously, burying into its flesh and causing it to descend into the sand once more. A shriek of pain echoed, and the storm of sand bellowed out from the mere impact of its enormous form’s impact; landing perilously close to the instruments that brought her down.

 

She surged forward, despite being wounded. 

 

Llewyn had made his presence known, atop his steed, Argelion quickly sought to draw himself up on that steed as Daisy and Elros followed on foot. Llewyn rode forward, reins loose in hand and the other holding his gleaming chilled blade.

 

Ahead, the Vourkes formed their line; the hopes of firing a remaining shot into it before it made its attack was clear. Hardt Vourker, the Automaton, had his protocols kicked in, gears grinding and shield raised; he was prepared to take the brunt of any attack.

 

The claw of the Gilded Queen raised and she sought to send it crashing down towards the crew, 

 

The Gilded Queen thundered, its massive jaw parted as it sent the Vourke ballista asunder, with fire brimming from its throat.

 

Euler’s last bolt pierced through the chaos, punching into its skin, causing it to briefly falter.

 

Argelion rose in the saddle as Llewyn guided the horse in low, going beneath the shadow of the Queen. In his hands, the Carbarum blade Caledfwlch, the King’s sword- once wielded by his great-grandfather, Excalibur gleamed with its ancient make and its edge burned with the blanched flame of Malchediael. It did not harm the creature through fire, but its light was judgment incarnate.

 

They passed under her,

 

In one fluid motion, Argelion drove Caledfwlch into the soft underbelly, its mythically sharpened edge slipping through flesh that no ordinary steel could pierce, and at his side did Llewyn’s blade arc with him, widening the wound even further with the chilling edge.

 

A geyser of scalding and boiling golden blood erupted from the opened wound. Steaming, it drenched over them and the pain of it caused them to tumble, knocking them off the horse and flinging them across the field. 

 

The wyvern let out a final roar, and collapsed, her breath shuddering as her fire faded.

The Queen’s reign had ended.
 

A moment granted by the distraction of the Vourkehardts and Garenbrig crew, allowed by Llewyn’s presence upon steed, and the Euler’s distracting shot, all parts fell into place; and the final blow was levied.

 

Argelion sat in the sand, his chest lifted and heaved, his breath was stolen and his pale skin was riddled with red from the heat of blood. His eyes lingered upon the beast, he had succeeded, his penance had been served, and he had earned his right once more.

 

Elros and Argelion sought to decapitate its head, intending to grab its head to place in the throne room upon a mantle, a memory to not be forgotten, and Llewyn took to oathing his soldiers.

 

Argelion shared some final words with those who had joined him in the effort, the reflection through time, the many years he had yearned for this moment; a heavy toll lifted off his shoulders. The blade was raised out of the sand, and its edge ran alongside the scales of the beast, claiming a piece to forge his most cherished relic.

 

The retinue returned home. Wounded was to be tended to and the glory was to be enjoyed in some final- deserving- rest.

 

Argelion found himself standing at the edge of Numenost, his silver gaze trailing along the battlefield, where the beast’s body seemed smaller now. Still immense, but mortal. In its ruin, not only did victory linger, but a memory.

 

He recalled every promise he had made, each vow spoken throughout his years, from tents to long stone halls. In the privacy of clasped hands, to the open square of his home. To protect, to lead, and to endure.

 

The Crown of Numendil did not rest on his brow yet, but the people already had begun to look at him as if it did. The farmers, the healers, the soldiers, and the scribes. The Vourkes, the Eulers, The O’Rourkes, The Glennmaers, The Marsyrs and many more. Even those without titles, who still stood tall beside him.

 

He would be a King for them. Not above, not apart, but with. His gaze shifted southward, trailing along the white mountain, Alkayaban. For the love of all his people, he would rule. Not as a man clinging to power, but to be the one lifting a torch against the darkness in guidance and defiance. 

 

For Elros, brother not by birth, but by fate, who fought as any knight and never asked to be seen. For Llewyn, blood-streaked but smiling. For his sisters, Iúliwen, Ardirnien, and Nóruiel and their unending efforts and support- even when he had difficulty returning it. For the Arthalionath line, and the old blood that stirred in his veins. For the friends who followed him through the fire, and stood with him in the toughest of times, and the families who kept Numendil alive through the years and long nights.

 

Amidst the difficulty of duty, there was one flame which burned gently and truly.

 

Daisy.

 

She had stood by him when glory was nowhere in sight. When all he had were plans, doubts, and the weight of expectations not yet realized. She had bound wounds, fired bolts, bested him in combat, and been the pillar to lean upon, even against the breath of dragons and in the face of war. Not as a Prince nor King, but as the man she had always known; the once prideful Arthalion.

 

His hand fell down to his satchel, where the locket with her portrait lingered. Opening it, his gaze landed upon her blue hues, a reminder, the promise to never leave, the woman he was to marry.

 

He turned from the edge at last, shutting the locket with his thumb, one hand resting upon Caledflwch’s hilt. He returned to the streets of his city, where his people wandered and waited. 

 

Joining his cousin, Elros, he returned to join his people and to walk toward the future,

 

Redeemed.

thx to @Aeusfor the art : )

[Werew0lf 24180]

Prince Hadrian recalls having once been gifted a bald-hat by the noble Prince Argelion, and although done in mocking spirit, he made sure to adorn it whenever entering the lands of Numenost -- fearful of the epidemic he was unaware of being penance. "I wonder how Argelion is doing," spoke the imperial prince, who had just met Argelion a few days prior. 

 

 

[Gaja 1311]

Frederick oft wondered to himself if he truly belonged among the Numenedain, for he was Adrian--he could not bring himself to let go of the distance between him and the people of the city. Perhaps it was some misguided pride or patriotism, or simply unerring duty to the Duchy which his family had served for centuries, but Fred only found himself second-guessing this when in the presence of Prince Argelion.

For Argelion inspired much faith in the Captain, so much that even that gnawing doubt subsided, and Fred felt at home.