"Come at me," Tristan instructs. It is good to have a sword in his hand once more. That it is his father's blade makes it all the more sweet. "I won't hurt you."
"It's not that that worries me. You're not wearing any armor," Anaton explains, unsheathing his sword.
"I've never worn armor. It's too uncomfortable. Too unnatural. Now, come on."
Anaton nods and holds his sword at the ready, his shield up to block, and he siddles in to attack. "Are you sure I'm not going to hurt you?"
"No," Tristan admits truthfully, swinging his sword in an arc in front of him. "However, I am sure of my abilities. If I get injured, it's because you're my better. Now, don't hold back!" Those words said, he begins a vicious assault upon the Godly Emperor, landing blow after blow on either shield or blade. He does not aim for his armor, for he remembers what had happened last time he aimed for a man's armor; his opponant's legs were severed half-way down the calf.
Soon enough, Anaton gains his stride, and he begins not only blocking, but retaliating. The two of them make an odd pair of combatants: Tristan is older, taller, longer, and leaner, while Anaton is younger, shorter, stockier, and slower. Both, however, possess the drive to win, and neither desires to be beaten easilly.
Tristan dances away from a jab and retalliates with a quick nip on Anaton's shield. He grins and blocks another blow with one hand on his sword as he pushes hair from his sweaty forehead with his other hand. "Come on!" he commands. "You can do better than this!"
Anaton nods and his strokes increase in intensity, power, and speed. He loses his shield to Tristan's wild retalliations, and so, he keeps both hands on his sword. They go at it, parrying and thrusting and dancing to the sound of their clashing swords, and soon enough, neither can hold his blade off the ground.
Laughing, Tristan backs off and sinks to his feet, his sword stabbed into the ground. "It appears, Anaton, that we are equals. Perhaps some other day, when both of us are rested, strong, healthy, and well, a victor will be chosen."
Anaton shakes his head as he doffs his helmet. His light blonde hair clings to his sweaty scalp, and he grins. "I certainly do hope not. It would probably do terrible things to your ego if I were to beat you."
Tristan barks a laugh, and he falls back onto his back, staring up at the clouds, laughing. Anaton discards his armor and lounges on the ground beside him. Both watch the clouds drift by in the sunlight.
"I never thought the sky could look the same anywhere else in the world," Tristan remarks.
"Nor did I, when I first moved here. I doubted the city could bring such clear, bright blue skies as we had back home."
"You don't come from this city?"
"By Glar'oth, no! I come from a province far to the west of here! Anyways, that's not important. We should get you new clothes. You should look presentable when I finally get to show you off to the rest of the court."
"Do I have to learn ... whatever it is your language is?"
"Nah. Most nobles around here hold Weldox and other merchant towns in such high regard that they took it upon themselves to learn your language. It is, after all, the language of merchants, thieves, and sailors."
"Oh, wonderful. I'm glad my people were thought of as thieves."
Anaton chuckles. "Nonetheless, you'll look fairly intellegent, if they want to speak with you."
"Oh, gee. You almost make me sound like some spectacle."
"Don't be sarcastic. I sort of want them to notice you."
"I feel the love."
"Come on," Anaton remarks after a moment's pause. "Let's go find the tailor. I want fresh clothes made for you as soon as possible, and you're not going to whine about it!" He pulls himself to his feet and gathers his armor from where he had deposited it on the ground.
"Happy day," Tristan sighs, rolling to his feet. He sheathes his father's sword in the sheath that hangs from his right hip. "I always did love clothing-fittings," he mutters, still being sarcastic.
The tailor is a short, trim man with a bizarre combination of facial hair. His moustache is curled into droopy corkscrews, his beard neatly trimmed, his hair sandy brown, and his eyes a twinkling blue. He seems a jovial enough fellow, especially to Tristan, who has known few enough of those in his life time.
Tristan tries to stay very still as the tailor takes his measurements. He never did like clothing fittings, mostly because of all the touching tailors do. However, if clothes are to fit nicely, it is a necessary enough evil. Thankfully, Anaton's tailor is a quick one. He takes his measurements, jots them down on a slate with chalk, and shoos Tristan away to speak with Anaton.
Sighing, Tristan retreats. Perhaps Anaton will show him the way to the baths soon enough. But... what if these people don't have baths? Tristan considers this and recalls something his uncle once said: "Smoke cleans just as well." However, he does not think taking a smoke-bath will be necessary.
"Shir! Shir!" the tailor calls, snapping Tristan from his reverie.
"His name is Tristan. It would do you well to call him that," Anaton remarks.
"Trishtan," the tailor says, a bit abashed. "Hish Godlinesh hash deshcribed the clothing. Would you like to take a look?" He gestures to another slate, this one with a male figure permanantly etched into it.
Tristan walks over to the slate and takes a look. The clothing is almost traditional Weldoxian. Almost. "C-could you, possibly, keep the shirt sleeves open and make it just a bit looser?" he asks, a bit uncertain.
The tailor glances to Anaton, who nods confidently, and then turns back to Tristan. "Of courshe, shir!" he exclaims, still slurring his 's' sounds. "And what colorsh would you like?"
"If you could, I'd appreciate it if you could match the colors I'm wearing, as closely as possible. White for the shirt, teal for the vest, black for the pants and boots, and a nice light teal for the belt."
"Ah, traditionalisht. Yesh. You will have your clothing in time for the dinner his Godlinesh is planning in your honor."
"Thank you, good tailor. I, erm, appreciate it."
"The pleashure ish all mine."
Tristan shakes his hand and is mildly surprised to see the tailor try to link their thumbs as he does so. Soon enough, both agree to retreat their hands. Tristan inclines his head to the little man in a different show of appreciation, this one a bit less contact-oriented, and thanks him again. Then, turning, he follows Anaton from the room.
"I can't go out there! There's too many people out there! I don't know any of them!" Tristan protests as Anaton pushes on him to go out through the doorway.
"Honestly! You're the most anti-social person I've ever met!" Anaton chides, shoving a bit harder. "Don't you want to do this, for me, brother?" he asks, fixing Tristan with his pale blue eyes, probably hoping to get some sort of heart-wrenched reaction from him.
He succeeds, and Tristan sighs. "Fine, fine. I'll go out there, but I will not go out there with you pushing!" Immediately, Anaton backs off a little. "Alright," he breathes, peeking his head out the doorway to see the huge mass of dignataries chatting peacefully enough, even in the din of noise they are creating. "Alright."
"I'll cue the announcer!" Anaton cries and scurries off happily to tell some announcer to declare the arrival of the Godly Emperor and his guest of honor.
Tristan blinks and props himself up on the wall, leaning against it with his shoulder. He watches the dignataries sample appatizers and fine wines as they await the arrival of their monarch. "This is not my place," Tristan sighs. He was not meant for high society. He is a simple man, not one to be paraded around like a favourite pet. "I have the social skills of a rock," he admits. When he has nothing to defend, he has nothing to say. He realizes that he can not stand idle chit-chat. "Why did I ever agree to doing this?" he mutters.
Suddenly, a badly off-tune pair of trumpets blares and a man struts to the center of the room. He prattles off, in the native language, a long string of words, and then clears his throat. In broken, heavilly accented Weldoxian, he begins a second speech. "Ladies and Gentlemen from far and near, may I have your attention?"
"NO!" one rather rowdy man exclaims from the table.
A woman beside him grips his arm and begins, in a scornful tone, to discipline him in the native tongue.
"Err... That aside, our host and his guest of honor have arrived. Everyone, please stand for the arrival of the Godly Emperor and his ... brother, Tristan Delacoré." The announcer withdraws, and the crowd at the table scuffles to its feet.
Tristan stands there until he feels Anaton's presence beside him. He turns, and the young ruler places a firm hand on his chest and pushes him out into the room. "Go on!" he says, encouraging him. "Your public awaits!"
Tristan exhales deeply and wanders slowly into the room. The crowd gasps collectively and begins muttering amongst themselves. Tristan rolls his eyes, wondering if he has some sort of death wish, and begins to approach the table.
Anaton follows closely behind him, tacitly steering him to his seat at the position of honor - the seat directly to the right of the chair at the head of the table. Tristan stands beside his chair until Anaton sits and nods to him. Then, he takes his seat, and Anaton nods to the rest of the table to sit. They do so, but not without some huffing and puffing by the rowdy man who had interrupted the announcer.
The food arrives soon enough, and Tristan finds himself unable to follow the example of everyone else at the table and eat with his fingers. Instead, he debates taking fine advantage of the silver ware beside his plate. He glances, a bit distraught, at the Godly Emperor, but Anaton is munching away on a wad of ham held in his fingers.
Sighing, and knowing his mother would have a coniption fit if she saw what is happening, he reached for his fork. The moment he touches it, the whole table goes silent and stares at him. He blinks, and one of the women faints.
The rowdy man starts slurring together a whole bunch of words together that Tristan does not at all understand, and he pounds his fist on the table. Tristan turns to Anaton, who is turning an unnatural shade of pink, and blinks at him, hoping for an answer to all the questions roaming around in his head. He decides it is best to take his hand off the incriminating fork in the mean time.
"He, umm, wants to know if, not only are you a bastard child, but also a commoner's son. I sort of forgot to coach you on ettiquette," Anaton explains quietly to Tristan. "Here, only the commoners eat with silverware, because they can't afford to dirty things, but we nobles can, and so we disregard it."
"Funny. It's the opposite way back home - err, was, rather. Silverware was a sign of great wealth and power, for the only silverware that came our way was just that - pure silver," Tristan hisses in reply.
"I'll get you out of this. Don't worry." Anaton tips him a wink and addresses the people at the table. He prattles off a long speech, raises his fork and knife, brandishes them a little, and then proceeds to cut his ham with them. Another one of the ladies faints, and Tristan sighs. Soon enough, though, the rest of the table follows his lead. Burning red with embarrassment, Tristan takes up his fork and knife and begins to cut his own food and eat, happy for something to fill the void in his stomach.
Three more courses passed without advent aside from the bizarre delicacies Anaton had had his cooks prepare. All meals were eaten with cuttlery for Tristan's benefit, and each one was stranger than the last. The third course was a strange, gritty substance not unlike very badly ground flour, shaped into the form of a small rowboat for each person. It had the taste of sand, to Tristan at least; everyone else seemed to have enjoyed it immensely.
Sighing, Tristan watches as the servants - Anaton didn't really keep slaves, despite his previous threats - prepare a fourth course to be brought out to the table. However, before they can reach it, a loud crash echoes from the hallway. Tristan leaps to his feet, absolutely certain that something bad, no, something terrible is going to happen, and blood will be spilt.
A calm hand rests on his elbow, and Anaton motions quietly for him to sit down. No one else seems to have heard the sound except for those two. The young monarch points to where two of his soldiers had stood, and they are now gone, possibly in search of the culprit.
Tristan sits, almost certain that he should be rushing out into the action with the guardsmen. He can not eat, however, for the noise has set him on edge. He is almost certain that any food that passes his lips will not travel far before returning to the outside world through the same orafice. Instead, he sits there and sips water, having never had a love for wine.
Another loud crash, this one more intense, more near, almost sets him out of his chair again. However, Anaton gives him a stern look and takes a deliberate sip of his wine, smiling. For a moment, the light hits the crystaline goblet at such an angle that Anaton's face is washed in the blood-red color of the liquor. Tristan feels his eyes grow wide.
A gentle hand on Tristan's other arm distracts his attention from the morbid vision, and he turns. A young woman sits beside him, beautiful beyond words. She plays with a ringlet of blonde hair as her blue-gray eyes dance and sparkle. "His Godliness has everything under control," she says, rolling all the 'r' sounds in her best attempt at Weldoxian. "You need not worry, Monsignor Delacoré." She offers him a seductive smile and a slight wink as she reaches at him with her other arm.
Tristan siddles off to the other side of his chair. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink," he offers her as kindly as possible.
"But I want more. I want to drink your heart's outpourings. I want to drink up your words, your soft, gentle voice. I want -"
Before she can say anything else, another loud crash occurs and Anaton leaps to his feet. "Will someone please stop whoever it is from breaking my fine china!" he exclaims, wiping his hands on a napkin - which he evidently also convinced his guests to use for Tristan's comfort - and begining to storm out into the hall.
Tristan, though, is quicker. He heads the young monarch off before he can reach the doorway. "Let me handle this, my liege."
"Nonsense! This is my castle, and they're going to answer to me!"
"You're going to die!" Tristan spreads his arms wide and tries to bar the young ruler from the hallway.
Suddenly, the other men who had been captured at Weldox pour into the room, each armed with weapons of stone or steel. They shove Tristan out of the way, and encircle the room. Carter is the last to enter, and he stands, tall and strong, in the doorway. He sucks in a deep breath of air, and he surveys the inhabitants of the room.
"You," he declares, "are all captives of the New Weldoxian Movement!" He struts into the room, and Tristan backs up, pressing Anaton closer to the table and his countrymen and whatever good he could possibly hope to achieve by doing that. "And to show that we have no problems asserting our powers, we shall start off by killing our traitor and captor! The rest of you will be ransomed or killed, depending on your desires. Others..." he trails off, approaching the woman who had previously been hitting on Tristan, "will be kept for other purposes."
The woman, drunk but by no means a moron, had the dignity to look thoroughly offended before hauling off and slapping Carter. She then rises from her seat, hikes up her skirts, and trots to the other side of the table. She tosses her head indignantly as she crouches behind the unruly gentleman from earlier.
"No matter. We will come to that later. First, though, we kill our sometimes comrade," Carter announces, turning back to Tristan and the Godly Emperor.
"You have a choice, Majesty. Die now as an animal, later as an outlaw, or when your time comes as a man. Which do you choose?" Tristan asks in a low whisper.
"I follow your lead. Tell me what to do," Anaton replies.
"Get with the other guests. I will try to reason with my countrymen. If I can get them all to back down and let me fight Carter alone, then I can honestly say that I tried to save you. If not, I am sorry, and I am honored to have met one so forward, if misguided and hapless, as you." Tristan exhales with relief as Anaton backs away from him. Now, if he is run through, he will at least not have to worry about saving the monarch.
"You hesitate to meet your end, Tristan?" Carter asks, his tone mocking.
"I have never hesitated to meet my ends nor my beginings. You, if anyone, should know this." He takes a step forwards, his head high and confident. His eyes track Carter as he pulls his sword from his sheath at his hip. "But you, on the other hand, have always waited until the most oppertune moment to strike."
"You speak of breezes. You have nothing to back up your falsehoods. I have always acted where my heart has shouted for movement."
"You lying, callow, boorish serpent!" Tristan accuses through gritted teeth. "Had you acted where your heart shouted, our fair Weldox could well have withstood the attack! You have no right to speaking of your boldness and bravery! It is you stupidity and drive for money that cost us our homeland!"
Carter looks hurt for just a moment before waving away the look with his open hand. He grins, and his face reminds Tristan of the serpants of legend on whose bones sweet Weldox's first foundation was lain. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. There is absolutely no way my drive for money could have helped along Weldox's end."
"You lie. The night of the Dark Festival, you searched my house, despite my father paying you seven years ago to declare the house safe. You had been in contact with one of the soldiers here, the one to whom I had fallen, a few days prior, and you would not have entered my house unless you could have achieved something from doing so. I understand, now, that the soldier, who may have been any other merchant had I not seen him so often in the past few weeks, sought the swords of my uncle and father. Now, unable to attain those funds which you were promised for retrieving the swords, you have come to seek sheer, raw power." Tristan takes a deep breath. "Well, no more! You will no longer intimidate my people into helping you in your nefarious schemes for wealth! We had a beautiful land, and greed and corruption destroyed it from both within and without. You will not do so again to this land!"
"Silence, boy!" Carter bellows. "You know not what you speak!"
"What? More treasonous utterings from my mouth? Anaton has been more than kind in setting up programs to acclimate our men into his people's society. He is trying to undo his evils, and cowards like you refuse to allow him to do so."
Carter raises his sword and holds it level between the two of them. "You be quiet now, or I'll -"
"You'll what? Run me through? Go ahead! It simply shows that my accusations of cowardice did not miss their marks! Kill me now and prove to our brothers your true, serpentine, cowardice!"
Carter lowers his sword. "We will, then, fight to the death. The winner will have his will fulfilled as per our sweet homeland's laws."
Tristan raises his eyebrows. "Of course," he replies quietly. "But not here. We will fight in the courtyard, and I will fight with my father's sword. Live or die, it will be in my hand when I kill you."
"So be it," Carter retorts, his voice seeping with menace. He turns to Anaton. "Lead the way, Majesty."
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