Rhema II: The Princes March

The Eighteenth Day of the Third Moon, 873 AD.

Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

His brother's nineteenth name-day had come and gone last year, and he hadn't been there to celebrate it with him. Now his brother was set to march back to war again with his twentieth name-day coming up, marking another year without celebrations and merriment, not that anyone else seemed to realise that. If they did they hadn't mentioned it; even Lykourgos himself had been rather subdued about the prospect of the whole thing. It was odd, but not unexpected; his brother had yet another war to win, after all. It made Rhema feel a little self-conscious, to be honest. He was willing to bet that before the year ended his brother would have won his third war, whilst he had only ever lost one. Not that such selfish reasonings were truly why he felt this way; his brother, despite still recovering and, though no-one was willing to admit it, still rather frail, was taking on the monumental task of planning and organising what was needed to defend his kingdom and strike back against the invaders when they were put on the backfoot, and what was Rhema doing?

He was losing himself in memories and wine, just as he had always done.

No. No more. He wouldn't let his brother try and take this task on alone as he always had. Rhema would break himself out of this funk and return to that diligent servant of the realm he had been whilst his brother was comatose. Just because Lyk was back that didn't just give him a blanket excuse to abandon his duties, and it was time to act like it. He was going to help his brother win this war with everything he had, not because he was hungry for glory or for battle, but because he couldn't afford to leave his brother alone anymore, because his brother couldn't afford to be alone any longer. Sure, he had his advisors, but Rhema found it hard to trust any of them anymore, any other than those on the council that is. The others all smacked of treason to Rhema, real or imagined, and he needed to become a commander, a leader, that his brother could rely on to do whatever was asked of him.

It was decided. He would speak to his brother today, and prove to him that he was worthy of being one of his commanders. He hadn't the natural aptitude of Lyk, that was true, but he was far from an incompetent commander, especially since his studies after... after that day. He would ask his brother to trust him to act at his right hand, and to help him with whatever he could moving forwards.

He knew exactly where he'd find his brother at the moment; if he wasn't in a council meeting, hearing petitioners, or sparring with Rhema himself, then he would almost certainly be in a private chamber next to his own, empty save for a table and a couple of chairs, with a map on the table that seemed to change every time Rhema walked in and stacks of papers around him. He'd be in there, as he seemed to be rather a lot these days, brooding more than a little and glaring at some of the papers with such an intensity he seemed to be daring them not to burst into flames. The hour was late, very late, but Rhema knew that's where he would be.

There were more people in these halls than there were a month ago; the prince admitted to himself that he may have, just a little bit, been overreacting when he ordered the section of the palace around his brother's chambers cleared of almost all servants whilst Lyk lay comatose and sleeping. Regardless, things seemed to be going back to normal now, what with his brother waking up and the endless paperwork he needed to wade through, and so life in the palace had slowly begun to return to the standard dull buzz of activity that seemed to characterise the hustle and bustle within its walls.

He entered the small chamber with not a word, merely a curt nod to the Squire Eros, who seemed to be guarding the door. His brother was within as he'd predicted, staring at maps and sheets of numbers and reports of troop movements and logistics and road repairs and complaints from merchants stuck billeting the sellswords of the Starlings and-

And his brother was a very busy man indeed.

"I thought I might find you in here."

"Rhema. I was going to come and see you soon enough. Did I ever tell you how sad I was to learn of the death of Lord Tyros, the commander of the Blackoak armies?"

He shook his head.

"No, you haven't. I don't think so, anyway."

Lord Tyros... that sounded familiar. Wasn't there a Lord Tyros that- wait, he meant that Lord Tyros? Rhema processed the words and was taken aback a little. He'd not heard of this!

"Wait, he's dead? How in all the hells did that happen?"

"No, he isn't dead, not yet anyway," his brother replied, a dangerous smile on his face, "but he will be soon. Very soon. I can trust you to look suitably surprised when the news reaches us?"

He grinned back at his brother. Oh, now this he liked to hear. Death for death's sake was never something he enjoyed, despite what people may have thought of him, but the death of an enemy was different. Besides, his brother had ordered it, and if his brother had ordered it then it had to be the right move.

His brother didn't make mistakes.

"You've got bigger claws than I thought, Lyk. Of course I can. I suppose you'll be surprised as well?"

His older brother raised an eyebrow at him and smirked, his voice deadpan.

"Oh, positively shocked. What a stroke of good luck that will be."

Rhema laughed again, the morbidity of the moment not lost on him.

"Well, at least this gives us a little bit of leeway with our own plans. You know, since Lord Aertax Blackoak will need to sort through all of his squabbling subordinates and cadet family members to figure out who should lead in Lord Tyros' place."

"Aye, that it will. Still, I'm not foolish enough to think it'll buy us any more than a few days, a sennight at the most. Lord Aertax is many things, but inefficient is not one of them. He's ruthless, decisive, and above all competent. With any luck the commander who gets appointed will be less so."

"Well, the death of his cousin is certain to be a blow to him nonetheless. I still remember meeting Lord Tyros when he led a contingent of men to assist us on the twenty-mile wall at Castelos. Intimidating doesn't cut it; in that regard he was second only to Lord Aertax Blackoak himself."

"That checks out," his brother replied, "after all, Lord Tyros has always been the go-to right hand man for Lord Aertax. Of all the heads of Blackoak's cadet branches, he was the one that kept them in line and stopped them getting any ideas of taking the mantle 'Head of House Blackoak' for themselves. Knocked their heads together more than once."

Rhema nodded, going silent for a moment. What was it he had come here for to begin with?

He brushed his own frustration away when he realised he couldn't remember. It would come to him soon enough.

"Complicated, isn't it?" He settled on saying. "You know, the fact that we'd normally just say 'Lord Blackoak' to mean Lord Aertax himself, but there are like... a dozen Lord Blackoaks in Owkrestos."

Lykourgos nodded and smiled at him.

"I know what you mean. Still, it'll be rather simple when we're done with all of this. Remarkably simple, in fact."

"Let me guess," he began, a feral smile beginning to tug at the corners of his face once more, "there's to be a repeat of your little display at the gallows? Save me a place in the front row; I wouldn't want to miss your brand of justice in action for all the world."

His brother smiled at him and nodded once.

"Elikoidi and Romanos will take some convincing on this matter. They were less than enthused with it the first time I ordered such an action undertaken."

Rhema scoffed loudly.

"Piss on them, you're our king. Yes, I know you haven't been coronated and are still technically the crown prince, but right now there isn't a difference. You're the king in fact if not yet in law. They serve at your command, not the other way around."

His brother smiled at him.

"You should probably be more concerned at the difference between 'Crown Prince' and 'King'. After all, as soon as I'm coronated I'm naming you my heir."

He stared at his brother, words faltering and dying on his tongue. What? He was... why?

"I... I don't understand."

"What don't you understand? Until I have an heir of my own get you're to be my named successor."

Rhema continued to stare at his brother, blinking in confusion. He raised a hand to point at himself.

"You mean... me?"

Lykourgos looked at him with a mildly amused expression.

"Mayhaps I've not made myself clear... how can I clear this up for you... ah, yes! Prince Rhema, you're my heir!"

Rhema sank back into his chair a little. Fuck, he hadn't expected this. Yes, he knew that in terms of the succession he was next in line to the throne, but to actually be named the heir by the sitting monarch? That would certainly set him up to act as a counter to those who wished his brother ill.

"Well... thank you, I guess. Thanks, Lyk. It means a lot."

"Don't get too ahead of yourself," his brother added with a well-meaning smile, "if I were to have a child you'd fall behind them in the succession."

Rhema nodded.

"Fine by me. It's enough to know that you'd be happy with me as your heir for the time being."

His brother gave him a warm and kind look.

"Rhema, I'd be more than happy if you were to be king again should something happen to me. The chance that you'll succeed me is rather great anyway; you know I'm not exactly... fond of that sort of thing. No matter how you look at it though, I need an heir right now. The attempt on my life has shown me that, if push comes to shove and I'm killed, there might well end up being chaos thanks to those who would profit from the attention of our realm being stuck firmly on the matter of succession whilst they invade. But there are... complications when it comes to me having a child. I don't have that sort of desire."

He nodded again, and tentatively ventured forth his response. It wasn't meant as a tease, but more of a genuine question.

"Unless it were to be with one particular person, I take it?"

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Lykourgos nodded, looking away a little with reddening cheeks.

"Indeed. And... well, there can never be an heir born of that partnership."

His brother sounded wistful, almost sad, at that particular fact. Rather than continue this particular thread of conversation along Rhema instead opted to shift the topic ever-so-slightly off as he continued to speak.

"You know he came through here not long ago. A little before you woke, in fact."

Lykourgos sat up a little straighter in his chair, immediately refocusing on him.

"What?"

Rhema just nodded.

"Yeah, he seemed pretty cut up when he came by. He asked to speak with you, to see if the rumours were true. They were, of course, but he spoke to you anyway. You couldn't speak back, obviously, but he did speak with you."

His brother looked at him with a melancholic smile. It tasted of overripe plums and he hated it. He didn't want Lykourgos being all sad, or even worse, being sad and hiding it. He kicked himself for even bringing Alekos up in the first place. His brother seemed to be staring right through him, which wasn't good since that usually meant he went into deep thought soon after, not to mention that the gaze made him feel uncomfortable and caused him to squirm in his seat.

"So," he ventured when the silence had gone on a tad longer than he was willing to bear, "does this mean people will have to call me 'your Grace' as well then? Since I'm now your heir until you have a get of your own, I mean."

His brother smiled at him, both the words and the fact that he now had something else to think about distracting him from their previous exchange.

"That depends; how pedantic do you want me to be?"

Rhema looked back at him, confused. He either was or he wasn't, surely? What technicalities hadn't he thought of?

"What do you mean?"

"Well," his brother explained, "you are technically still 'your Highness' at the moment, because 'your Grace' is only used for the king and the crown prince. Seeing as, technically, I'm still the crown prince and not yet the king, you're still a 'Highness' and not a 'Grace'. As soon as this war is over and I'm coronated however, then you'll be 'your Grace'. If and when I have a son or daughter-"

"Or something else besides."

"Or something else besides," his brother nodded in acknowledgement, "then you'd go back to being 'your Highness' again. I don't say that as an insult or something stupid like that, just clearing up the facts so there isn't any confusion further down the line."

Rhema snorted.

"Confusion about the line of succession is what started this whole fucking mess. If it stops this shitshow from happening again then that's fine by me."

Lykourgos laughed heartily at that, genuine mirth appearing on his brother's face for the first time this conversation. It was a nice change of pace.

"It's been tough," his brother started after a little pause in conversation, smile slipping a little, "I had hoped for a few years of peace before we were back at war, but maybe this will turn out for the best. I don't know how, and I don't know what I can do to make such an outcome certain, but I do know that so long as I have my family with me I'll be alright. I need you, brother. You're to be my heir and right hand in this war and all the wars to come. Will you stand with me?"

He practically launched himself at his older brother, wrapping him in a hug that might have been a little too tight to be comfortable, not that either of them cared.

"Of course I will, you daft fool! You tell me what to do, you tell me who we're fighting, and I'll kill them for you. Whoever it is, I'll kill them for you. That's a promise."

Lykourgos beamed at him, eyes crinkling and blinked-away tears in their corners, and hugged him back.

"Then I'm glad to have people like you at my side, Rhema. I'm very glad of that indeed. The Angels only know where I'd be without the lot of you."

Seeing that smile on his brother's face, feeling the warmth of a familial embrace for the first time in months... he smiled back warmly. He... he wasn't healthy, he knew that. He'd spent too long as a damaged, half-mad thing to think otherwise, but in that moment he knew that things were getting better. All those who had wronged him, who had belittled him, who had threated and beaten and broken him, they were gone. All of them, gone. All that remained was his brother and his friends. He might not have been 'normal' like mother would have liked him to be, but he was healing, and that was all that mattered to him. Maybe one day he'd be able to embrace his brother not as the half-mad princeling, but as a sane and sanguine leader instead.

That was a nice thought.

----------------------------------------

The column of marching men had set out that morning as planned, and with a surprising amount of fanfare considering how little time the public had known about the march. Even with so little time to prepare any fanfare, the men had found flowers thrown at their feet as they marched through the city and out the gates with grim intent. His brother had even been given another crown of violets, something he seemed to collect every time he visited this city. Not that they lasted long, of course; flowers wilted fast once plucked.

"Like the Aenir carves the Northlands,

and the oak tree dulls the axe,

as sure as moss tears down Her palace,

whilst Her fallen turn to grass.

Erevan is fallen, is fallen, is fallen,

Erevan is fallen to rise no more.

Erevan is fallen, is fallen, is fallen,

Erevan is fallen to rise no more."

Rhema rode on along the column in silence, his mind mercifully silent. They were being driven at a hard pace by his brother, but he'd yet to know the men grumble or gripe. Well, any more than usual anyway. Haestinghen was just ahead of them, and given that they'd only been on the march for ten days that was a hell of a surprise. To move fourteen-thousand men this far in so short a period of time was bound to give their enemies a nasty surprise. Teleytaios had mostly kept out of the wars of her neighbours these last few centuries, minor border conflicts notwithstanding, but now the Owkrestans had provoked the sleeping Queen of the Heptarchy into action. Teleytaios was to march abroad once more.

First, however, there were the invaders to deal with. And they would be dealt with, of that he had no doubt. Their own forces were outnumbered, yes, but of a far greater quality. Besides, his brother had been outnumbered a great deal in the succession war, and he'd still soundly trounced the opposition.

"How are you enjoying their singing?"

Rhema curled his lip a little.

"Not much. They've completely missed several lines."

"Only the ones that would stop them from keeping time on march. That's half the reason they sing, and also why there are only about four bloody songs they know."

"Let me guess; 'Erevan Has Fallen', 'Harald's Dirge', 'As Whitefield Drove the Deer', and..."

He trailed off a little, Seventh filling the lull in conversation.

"You really shouldn't be struggling with this last one."

"Oh, it isn't remembering it that's the problem. I just can't stand love songs."

His friend sighed and nodded in agreement.

"Still, there's not a person alive in all the kingdoms of Klironomea that doesn't know-"

"'Derry's Ten'. Angels, I grew tired of listening to that song three days ago."

He sighed a little, then turned in the saddle to face his mystical friend.

"Come on, out with it then. What's the reason you've come to find me?"

Seventh bowed a little in their saddle as Rhema spoke.

"You mean apart from the fact that I enjoy your company and you're the closest friend I have?"

"Yeah, apart from that."

The seer huffed a little, and though they would never admit it Rhema knew at once that they were sulking.

"My kinsman has frustrated me far too much as of late. I'd rather not see him anytime soon."

Rhema looked at his friend a little confused.

"But he's still in the palace, and we're half the kingdom away. You can't have seen him at all of late."

Seventh raised an eyebrow at him, the action barely visible as they gestured towards their blindfolded eyes, and Rhema at once got their point.

"Right, yep, I understand. Magic. Of course it would be magic. Any chance of some magic we could use on campaign?"

Seventh gave him a little smile.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. It'll be a few years yet before I've learned to do anything other than invade people's dreams and drive them to madness, but I'm learning. It's a slow process, but still far quicker than it was now that I have a teacher. Anyway, there's not a lot of meaning behind his teachings for people who aren't like me."

"Like you?"

His friend pointed a thumb towards their own back, and Rhema nodded.

"Right, I understand. I've been meaning to ask you, but... well, I didn't want to sound stupid or rude at the time. Still, are you... you're not quite human, are you?"

Their friend looked at them, their smile turning false and face turning away slightly.

"Not quite. Close enough though, that I promise."

Rhema nodded again, not really caring to unpack what exactly that meant. They were still Seventh, his friend, and that was good enough for him.

"Well, whatever you may be, I still think you're fucking awesome."

"Rhema, I nearly drove you mad when we first met."

He waved away his friends worries.

"Psh, nah! I startled you from your sleep, so that one was on me. Besides, I was well on the way to travelling down that road anyway."

Seventh looked at them with a look that combined amusement with bemusement, and thankfully almost no remaining sadness.

"I don't understand how you were able to immediately forgive me for that. If you were anyone else I'd probably have been dead on the spot for 'witchcraft' or somesuch nonsense thing."

Rhema shrugged, a grin on his face.

"Hey, what can I say, glowing blue eyes look good on you."

His friend rolled their eyes and lightly punched his shoulder.

"You are impossible sometimes, you know that right?"

He gave them a mock bow from his saddle.

"Why I'm practically constantly impossible, my dear friend. Angels above only know what's going to happen now my brother has seen fit to trust me with more important duties. I think at one point he might have been considering making me a diplomat-come-envoy for foreign matters."

Seventh gave him a quizzical look.

"Not to doubt you, but in the years I've known you diplomacy hasn't exactly been the first skill of yours that has ever come to mind."

Rhema barked out a laugh.

"No, but if Lyk wanted a war all he'd need to do would be to send me abroad. Can you imagine how much trouble I'd get in if I were in the Licoteman court?"

Seventh gave him a fond smile.

"You'd somehow manage to spark a civil war in three moons, never mind setting the Licotemans at odds with your brother."

"Heh, that sounds about right. I'd probably have no idea how I managed it either. Still, that's all besides the point. We're going to war and my brother wants me to act as his right hand. If he were to split his forces and appoint me as commander... where would you go?"

Seventh rolled their eyes, as if the question was too obvious to consider at length.

"With you, obviously."

"My brother would likely be able to make far better use of your powers, emergent or entrenched. He's long wished to see the occult first-hand, and now that he has he might be annoyed if the occult spurns him."

Seventh shrugged.

"He'll live, and he'll wait. Besides, my mentor seems to have taken a liking to your brother. He'll have plenty of contact with the occult these next few years, don't you worry about that."

Rhema raised an eyebrow.

"All my brother told me of your mentor was that he forcefully woke him from his sleep, he isn't what he seems to be, and... and he's very old. Ancient, in fact. His voice went sort of faraway when he said that, his eyes glazed over a little as well. He seemed... scared by whatever your mentor said or showed to him."

Seventh rolled their eyes, this time not at Rhema but seemingly at their mentor's actions.

"As strange and frightening as he might be, I can assure you that he wouldn't have said what he said or shown what he shown unless he saw something in your brother. My mentor... I believe he revealed his name to your brother, one of his names at least, and though the revelation of who he is may have shocked his Grace a great deal he seems to be coping remarkably well. Extraordinarily well, to be honest. I wouldn't be surprised if my kinsman had something to do with that."

Rhema nodded, not really understanding.

"So who exactly is he?"

"I can't tell you that, but only because it would be rather rude of me to do so without his permission. Next time I commune with him I'll ask him if I can tell you, in confidence of course. Apart from that I'm afraid that I won't be telling you much."

Rhema raised an eyebrow.

"Why, is it dangerous?"

"Lets put it this way," his friend began with a shudder, "the Choir are not the only ones with an interest in people like us, like me and him. He's known a great many groups like that, and really does not want to go through something like that again. I'm not sure why, since if he were in my position he could have... well, there's a great many things he could have done. The capture of a young member of our kind such as myself is one thing, but to capture and hold not only an adult but one as ancient and powerful as him? That would be nigh impossible."

Rhema smiled at his friend a little, as warm and soft as he could manage.

"You really do think a lot of him, don't you?"

Seventh nodded purposefully back at him, their tone filled with reverence and what seemed to be nervous anticipation as they spoke.

"He's something special, Re. He's not mortal like you are, and he's not young like I am. He's something else entirely. Only a fragment, only a shade, but even so..."

Rhema nodded, and made a mental note to pass on what Seventh had nonchalantly just told him to his brother. Lyk would certainly want to know that this strange person he was fascinated by was a 'fragment' rather than a whole.

"Come on, Re." Seventh said. "I think Haestinghen is just over that hill and a few miles east. Then its just a quick dash south and we'll be amongst the Owkrestans."

Rhema nodded at them and nudged his destrier into moving, Seventh following close behind. His friend was right, Haestinghen was near. After that?

The war would begin anew.