Homeworld/TheVerdantWaste
In The Court Of The Little King
Author: Orb Weaver
- “The Cyrenaics were hedonists and held that pleasure was the supreme good in life, especially physical pleasure, which they thought more intense and more desirable than mental pleasures.” ~ Venus of Cyrene
- Court; a place that games are played
The boot came down with a dull squish. A sound notable only for its underwhelming contrast to the crunching sound of previous steps. Its owner broke her stride, peering down at the squirming lizard-esque creature pinned beneath her sole.
“I swear, Philistia, there is something wrong with the southlands. Everything here is just twisted. Where in the back of beyond are we anyway? And where the hell are the damn Degenerates. We haven’t had so much as a hint of contact for almost a week. ”
Thus spoke Knight Victor Columbia, Dancing Blade of the Sun, Commander of the Sunpoint Spear Crusade. Also Columbia the Uncomfortably Sweaty, the Too Damn Hot in this Light-Forsaken jungle, the Irritated to all Three Thousand Hells that the damn scouts can't do their damn jobs and find the damn army that was a few hours march away a few days ago.
The adjunct she addressed considered for a few seconds then cocked her head sidewise at the avenue ahead, the rows of pennants declaring loyalty to the Grand High Imperatrix fluttering gently in the warm breeze. “The waystone was pretty clear. This valley is Cyrene, and the stronghold up ahead is called Adammatu.”
The response, perfectly factual, did not appear to satisfy the Knight Victor in her current mood. frame of mind. “What sort of name is that? Are we dealing with a lost Monarch, or some kind of Black Knight holding court out here in the savage lands?”
The last questions were directed at the young woman known as Autonoe, marked out by pale skin, hooded scarlet robe, and satchels of books and scrolls as a journeyman of the Sanguine Scribes. “Well, it’s hardly the banner of some monstrous overfiend is it?” The thin girl sniffed, pushing spectacles up her nose. “Gold trimmed helm, on a field of crimson dexter facing with sunburst. But it's not in the records, loyal or not, which means a minor fiefdom at best”.
With a slight cough and a look of nervousness the scribe continued. “But another thing... the Oracle spoke of Cyrene. Cyrene, and Dumah of the Stone, and to beware for it is a place of apotheosis and ascension”. The scribe’s pale finger traces lines on a scroll, speaking the Oracle’s words: “Travel not to the valley of Cyrene, for there dwells an Animal, that will not suffer itself to be touch'd by a Man”.
The three knights stood for a few seconds, quietly regarding the second coat arms lining the route onwards.
Sunlight reflected off gleaming metal as the assembled knights moved on through the valley.
Some time before
Breath fumbles with the stiff catch, prying at the dark metal though it bites into her flesh.
“I wouldn't open that yet. You may be family, but you might still, ah, set her off. “
The Weaver’s voice breaks the silence. A crack as the catch snaps back. Three drops of blood fall to the sand, discolouring it only slightly.
He continues, justification sounding unnatural coming from his throat. “She was broken, and she came to me...”
“But she could be healed. I could have…” Breath’s cheeks are flushed with emotional exertion, the edges of her voice raw and cracked.
“That…’, Weaver gestures at the remnants of flesh bound in steel. ‘That's her choice, her path, her walk. Would you deny her that?”
It's obvious to both that the conversation is meaningless, a game, a play, necessary theatre.
“She must hate it, being sealed away in there.” Breath’s fingers twitch instinctively towards the armour.
“I hope so. “
The man shifts uncomfortably, tries to meet the woman's gaze, drops his head a fraction, face twisting into a look of pain or a least an affectation of such.
“Well, if she didn't, if it didn't hurt, physically, mentally, the emo-tech would run at maybe a tenth of capacity.”
The Weaver straightens his form, shoulders back, diaphragm expanded. Time then for the speech, somewhat excruciating in its pre-preparedness.
“I’ve heard Valtarians claim that history will be written by their ‘Victors’. But I'm going to pre-empt them. I'm going to write my own prophecy, bait them with a hook of inevitability, then drown them in the blood tears of a dying angel…”
A slight faltering of words, voice cracking subtlety, evidently not prepared. “Your sister… if there was an angel among us….”
Our vision dims, the camera pulls back to outside the jungle cave. Light pours out of the entrance into the dark night. Light, and the sound of sobbing.
The court and the throne
Ranks arrayed: Knights, the sun insignia of the Shining Spear crusade emblazoned on their chests stand in a courtyard. Adobe walls, the sun high in the sky. Without the shade of the jungle, the heat is truly oppressive.
The white walls reflect the sun while ranks arrayed shuffle their feet on the flagstones, where dust and sand partially obscure the bright geometric lines in deep orange and turquoise. A squire shields his eyes from the sun, tries to make sense of the lines dividing the yard into opposing territories; areas of attack and defence; lines of force and influence; places where warriors may have once sweat and bled for some lord’s favour.
The triumvirate stand: Columbia, Philistia, Autonoe, at the foot of steps leading to a dais. A throne, overlooking the courtyard. A figure sitting, armour dark and heavy, unmoving, unchanged and unbowed in the heat.
Or not.
“Damnit, I can hear her breathing. The ignorant, arrogant bitch just likes watching us sweat.” Columbia, agitated, in hushed discussion.
“In the name of the Grand High Imperatrix, the Sunpoint Spear Crusade bring greetings and seek hospitality.” Columbia, through gritted teeth.
Silence for a few moments, then snickering wet breathing.
Columbia strides up the steps, hot anger clear on her face. She raises her hand, yanks the visor upwards with a sharp exhalation of breath. The metal is stiff, but under the Knight Victor’s powerful grip it snaps open, and beneath… beneath is a visage of pain and hatred, burning, searing light. The face is barely human anymore, a death moment held for Imperatrix knows how long until now, a life deployed as a weapon. And Columbia realises: this is the way a Shaper dies.
Columbia takes a step back, then another, holding her hand to shield her eyes. She clears her thoughts, focuses on a course of action. This can be overcome, if she channels the force of devotion of her knights.
“Knights of Valtaria, Stand Firm! Together we take down this monster. Draw and advance with me!”
Knight Victor Columbia, Dancing Blade of the Sun strides forward towards the throne, her sword aloft, adjunct by her side. And she rises, a glorious ascension, the light from the helm obscured by a beam of sunlight from the sky. And at the peak of her ascension, her light goes out.
And the clamour of noise, of armour against armour, of voices raised in battle cries seems to recede into the distance. Autonoe stands alone, book clasped in one hand, amongst a field of statues, eyes dark and full of stars. And atop a pedestal, ascended above the rest stands the once Knight Victor, leading her troops of unmoving rock towards glorious battle, maybe forever.
As Autonoe stands, the sun goes out, and twilight streams through her body, obliterating the hatred, the pain, the blinding light, and eventually the dais, throne, and figure. Twilight twirls and swarms like fireflies, and she turns on her heel and strides from the courtyard.
Thus leaves Autonoe, Knight Errant. Autonoe, Conduit of Stars. And she leaves to trace the path back to Valentia, to the court of the Imperatrix, where the prophecies that ring in her mind already tell her the words she will say.
For the Sunpoint Spear Crusade is over, but one day the Twilight Crusade will walk these lands, and they will change forever.
And the plaque at the foot of the statue reads Columbia, the Idolised and Exalted. May she stand forever in her victory.
For see, my friend goes shaking and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk
- - A light woman ~ Robert Browning
