Shards of the One Pt. 02

*****

And it was morning. Sunlight tore mercilessly into the room, a blade of fire laid diagonally across the bed. Varamir awoke as if he were surfacing in a pond, the world slowly fading in, falling into place. He felt exceptionally well-rested, faintly sore, but full of energy. Beside him, Gionna, sat upright, naked, tying her hair into a long plait. She turned to him as he stirred.

"Good morning, my lord. Oh!"

Before she could apologize for her formality, he laughed, settling back against the headboard.

"Good morning, Lady Gionna De Vantis." Gionna blushed and and returned his grin, hearing her new surname for the first time. She leant to kiss him, tentatively. They hesitated, uncertain, before meeting at the lips. She tasted of berries, a bowl of which sat on the night table, next to a folded slip of parchment. She noticed his gaze travel to it.

"From your father's House."

"Mmm." He gestured for it. The words were meticulously inscribed in long, sloping font, the work of his father's scribe, Andyr. The missive read:

Prince Varamir De Vantis of Alderon,

Your father requests your attendance at council, to be convened at midday, regarding urgent news from the north. Be prompt and make ready your belongings or immediate departure. Arrangements will be made for the remainder.

Regards,

His Eminence, King Dorwynd II of Alderon.

Varamir groaned. The saying was true; there was no such thing as good news. The letter mentioned nothing of the wedding, but that was unsurprising, and indeed, probably a good sign. He hauled himself upright, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"All well, my lord?" Gionna asked, kneeling at his back, her chin against his collarbone.

"My home has need of me, it seems." he replied, distracted. "I'll leave at once."

"Oh." returned Gionna, sympathetically. "Well, perhaps you should... rest for the morning. You'll have a long ride ahead of you, my lord." He caught the slyness in her tone, took her meaning.

"Myrion and I are training this morning," he said flatly, "But I'm sure it can wait a little longer." He smiled, and she realized he had been teasing.

"You're cruel, my lord," Gionna grinned, clambering lightly over him, her head in his lap. Instantly, to his great surprise, Varamir became hard. Gionna wasted no time, taking him in her mouth, soft, warm and deliciously wet. He threw his head back in pleasure, his mind reaching out for hers, as her head began, ever so gently, to bob between his legs.

*****

Whatever it was, this new talent of his was fascinating. As he stood across the sandy ring from Myrion, the dull practice sword swaying before him, he anticipated each of his cousin's moves as if he were swinging at him through treacle. Every tiny shift, every expression, every gesture screamed in his mind, his blade leaping up, parrying perfectly before Myrion's swing even came close. It has to be said that Myrion, for all his flaws, was an excellent swordsman, making up for with cunning and dexterity what he lacked in strength or agility. Normally, he would pose a considerable challenge to Varamir's furious, impulsive fighting style.

Varamir's rage, on the other hand, was both a strength and a weakness. His tenacity in battle was unmatched, his brutality in combat infamous amongst the Alderonian army. Sometimes, however, he fought thoughtlessly, driven only by his rage. There had been several occasions where, but for good luck - a stray arrow, a fellow soldier arriving at the last second- he had exposed himself in combat and very nearly paid for it. Myrion knew this weakness better than anyone, as well as how best to exploit it. Their sparring sessions typically consisted of Myrion landing a stinging blow here and there, attempting to whip Varamir into a fury that he, the quicker, smaller man, could turn to his advantage.

Today, however, the tempo was entirely different. Both men paced the sparring pen, shirtless, gripping an edgeless longsword with both hands. Holmburg castle, festooned with the many flags and pennants of the six peacemaking nations, shadowed the flat fields in which they stood. The land in all directions was level, dull green grass stretching to the foothills of Mt Tyallhamr in the north. Varamir's mind felt like a honed blade, deadly, focused. Myrion might as well have announced each stab, each darting thrust, before he performed it, so easily did he predict and outmaneuver it. Despite the previous night's - and the morning's - exertions with Gionna, he felt light, energetic, dancing rings around his cousin, to his increasing frustration. Myrion was wreathed in sweat, mopping distractedly at his brow, as blow after blow failed to connect. The swords rang. Myrion, physical assaults proving fruitless, tried a new tack.

"You're awfully quick this morning, cousin!" he jibed, "Must have had a good night's sleep!" Typically unsubtle. Varamir, pressing the advantage, shot back:

"Are you still drunk, Myrion? I hope you offered Lady Hjelke a better performance than-" - he ducked- "this!"

Normally, Myrion had him squarely beat as far as verbal jests, but today, Varamir's mind was as sharp as the blades were not. Myrion had yet to land a strike, and Varamir was, in rather unsportsmanlike fashion, tanning his cousin's hide. Every gap, every exposure in Myrion's defense was obvious to him now, and as the bouts wore on, the rhymth of their dance became even more lopsided. Out of the corner of his eye, Varamir caught sight of the master-at-arms, Garrett, leant against the railing, his face twisted in a disbelieving chuckle.

Varamir twisted under yet another swing, his own blade finding Myrion's left calf. He felt every one of his cousin's thoughts, foresaw each movement just in time. His mind clear, each strike precise, calm, he spun neatly to land a second tap on his cousin's exposed chest.

"... Dancing lessons paying off, then..." Myrion gasped. Varamir grinned, knowing better than to push his luck with a retort. He was outmatched there. Myrion lunged, panting;

"Still too slow for one of these-" but Varamir was gone, the blade sliced empty air.

Just then, hoofbeats descended upon them. Each lowered their swords, turning to gaze at the approaching riders. There were three, bearing the livery of House De Vantis. As they loomed into view, Varamir recognized his father at the head, atop Anguish, his loyal warhorse. The black beast's head leapt as it cantered, easily outpacing its fellows, the green and black caparison twirling and snapping behind him.

The riders came to a halt at the edge of the pen, Varamir and Myrion already kneeling in deference. Dorwynd barked, impatiently;

"Rise! Time is not our ally."

"Sire."

"The matter will be discussed at greater length shortly, but we must make for home at once. There's been word of Sandwalkers mustering near the border. There's an almighty storm brewing, and who knows what will come out of it."

"What would you have me do, sire?" Varamir asked.

"I intend to dispatch you and a small force to gather intelligence and report back. We are already considerably weakened. We cannot afford to be caught off-guard."

"Yes, sire. I will make ready at once."

"You will leave immediately, and I shall return as soon as is practical, given the circumstances. But first, we must hold council. I fear I have given you only a summary of the situation. "

His father's face gave little hint, but Varamir sensed worry, creeping like acid into the corners of his father's mind.

"We will convene in the South Tower. Autarch Kvotir has graciously permitted its use. I shall expect you within the hour." His father's tone was formal, even more so than propriety and etiquette demanded, but that was always his way. Dorwynd was not a cold man, but in the years since his mother's death, Varamir had watched the king grow more stern and sombre. Each of them had struck out on new paths, it seemed.

"Sire, is Myrion to accompany me?"

"If that is your wish."

"That would be my honour, sire." Myrion spoke up, gravely. King Dorwynd only nodded, turned his horse and set into a gallop back toward the castle.

As he threw on a loose shirt and jerkin, Varamir pondered what could possibly lie ahead of him. If his father had known much more, he could not read it in his mind. Myrion gathered the swords, his own thoughts turning. He looked to Varamir.

"It will be a shame to leave our new brides so soon. Lady Gionna will miss me sorely."

Varamir flashed a half-hearted grin. The joke was bittersweet.

Garrett reappeared, leading two mares.

"My lords, for the ride back."

They had made a leisurely walk of the distance from the castle earlier, but being both fatigued and hurried, they were thankful for the mounts.

*****

As they flew along the stony path, Holmburg looming nearer and nearer, Varamir's thoughts turned to the incredible new sense he seemed to have developed, the strange events he felt were taking place all around him, and the mounting, mysterious threat in the north. Of the future, only one thing could be certain.

A time of change was coming.