Seventh II: Blood and Mist
The Fourteenth Day of the Eleventh Moon, 872 AD.
Haestinghen, Eastern Teleytaios, Klironomea.
Something was happening here.
Granted, they were in the middle of a kingdom in the midst of a civil war, so something was always happening, but this was different. For quite some time now they'd been kept under house arrest in Haestinghen, for their own protection of course, unable to leave their chambers unless under armed guard and they were certainly not allowed beyond the walls of the small keep they were in.
There was a feeling of trepidation in the air. A sense that something, something, was going to happen soon, but no-one could quite tell what. The guards were getting more and more on edge as the days went by and rumours of the mystic powers Seventh possessed made their way to more and more people in the population of the town. It was only a matter of time before some pious fool or populist aristocrat tried to rile up a crowd and storm the keep.
After all, the pagan magics under their possession were an affront to the Angels and the Saints, surely?
They let out a deep sigh. Some of the guards were speaking of moving them further north, back towards Aenirhen. Ser Aethel had suggested an impoverished village called Suthenfordeinar near the site of Harran's Folly, seeing as the more rural population would be more accepting of mystic abilities and unexplainable phenomena.
Seventh didn't buy that one bit. Rural types were just as closed off as their urban counterparts when they found something that didn't fit their worldview. That was just a fact of life for someone like them.
There were twenty-one men set to guard them in Haestinghen, all working in shifts. Ser Aethel himself and nine other knights of his Order made up the original guards, and the ten Armsmen the blind bodyguard had picked out formed the rest of the group. There were always two knights and two armsmen standing guard at the door, they presumed to prevent any arguments between the rival military groups. Ser Aenethar was there as well, but it was rare for him to take guard duties as the others did. Sometimes Seventh would feel his presence lingering outside the doorway to their temporary chambers, but not often. Not that the others wanted to stand guard with him; his silence seemed to creep them out, as did the absence of that spark in his eyes that made him seem... different to most people. In any other circumstance Seventh may have attributed it to him being a soldier who had seen too much, and who lived life with a vacant expression and hollow mind, but they knew it was not that.
They'd seen too many people like that not to know what it looked like.
Aenethar was an enigma to them.
They shrugged to themselves, and sighed again. Their dreams had taken on shades of prophecy again recently, but they were unable to focus on the meanings behind the dreams from the inside of this grey room. They needed to hear wind blowing through the trees, to hear birdsong in the air, to hear all the sounds of nature at its most tranquil. It was hard enough to concentrate on such things in Anaria where they could freely roam the gardens of the palace or even go to the forests just outside the Anarian Marches, but stuck within the grey stone walls of the keep in Haestinghen?
They felt like they were going mad with the need for nature and all things wild.
They smirked. That was another reason the capital had not been as bad as expected on their more mystical senses; Rhema held more than a spark of the wild in his spirit. Much more than a spark. They shook their head again. It would do no good to think on Rhema now, not when the prince was in so precarious a situation. They would only drive themselves to worry more.
Their dreams had been... odd, recently. There was... there was a great serpent made of seawater and fog, rising from a sea of grey waves. Then... then...
They furrowed their brow in concentration. They'd never struggled with dreams this vague before, so why was it so difficult now?
They sighed again. Things were changing in the world, even if it didn't seem like it. The unearthing of their old kinsman was proof enough of that.
At that thought the dream seemed to snap back into their memory, like the drawstring on a crossbow as the trigger was pulled.
There was a great serpent made of seawater and fog, rising from a sea of grey waves. A lone figure stood on a rock before him as waves crashed and roiled around them, a crown of stone upon their brow and one of gold in their hands.
The serpent bowed its head in submission or respect, Seventh couldn't tell which, then descended back into the depths.
Six wings unfolded from the back of the lone figure, made of the nothingness that lay between the stars, and antlers of multi-hued starlight tore through the figure's head.
The figure turned to look at Seventh, and smiled despite the blood flowing down his face.
The scene changed, and suddenly there was... there was something. They didn't know exactly what it was. There must have been half a hundred figures shrouded in unnatural shadows staring at them. What was perhaps more confusing was the fact that each and every one of them had the same misshapen souls as Ser Aenethar.
Seventh turned, and a figure uncloaked smiled at them. The man was old, but did not look it. His robes were a fine scarlet, and must have once been resplendent, but now they were moth-eaten and tattered. His expression spoke of a genius unbound, but his eyes bore a disturbing look made from equal parts madness and true clarity.
The man raised a finger and pointed at Seventh, and somehow they felt the shrouded congregation behind them make the same motion.
For the first time in any of their scryings, something new happened.
The man spoke. Only three words, but that was enough to shake them to their core.
The man's voice should have been little more than a whisper, but it carried across the whole room as clearly as a shouted proclamation. He smiled a gleeful smile as the words tumbled from his lips.
"There you are."
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"Are you sure you're alright... sorry, it's occurred to me I'm uncertain as to the honorific I should use for you."
They smiled at the knight.
"My name is fine, Ser Aethel. I bear no titles in truth."
The knight smiled slightly.
"As you say, Seventh. I understand your frustration at being cooped up in this keep. Believe me, I feel the same way. My Grandmaster and my Prince are off fighting glorious battles and scaling the walls of enemy strongholds, and yet here I remain, a hundred miles from the army."
Seventh sighed.
"I suppose I am somewhat frustrated. I understand your orders and I know you mean well, but these abilities I possess... they're... I'm uncertain how best to explain it. They do not necessarily require a natural, peaceful presence, but because that is what I find comforting that is what I need to better make use of my abilities. Without the ready presence of such an environment, like here,"
they gestured at the room they were in,
"I find it far more difficult, and therefore taxing, to make use of these abilities. It does not help that they need to be used, exercised, to remain strong."
Ser Aethel rubbed his chin.
"Like a muscle? If used properly and regularly it grows stronger, more controlled, but if allowed to go without that regular exercise it weakens?"
The Seer smiled.
"Yeah, that's probably the closest analogy I could think of."
A thought came to them.
"A moment, please. You still refer to Lykourgos as 'your Prince'. Would he not be known as 'your King' now, given his bid for the throne?"
Aethel chuckled lightly.
"I assumed as much at first, as did most of us, I think. Grandmaster Romanos told us that the prince would not take the title of king until he was coronated however, so a prince he shall remain for now."
There was silence for a moment as Ser Aethel seemed to try and think of the right words to say.
"I think perhaps we can see to allowing you outside into nature for a bit in a day or so. It will likely not be as pleasant as you hope, if for no other reason than you will remain guarded by about half of the personnel assigned to your care whilst the other half remain with the formerly entombed man, but surely that will be better than nothing?"
Seventh smiled at the man again.
"Thank you. I understand your orders, and therefore your reluctance to allow me out of this room and keep, but even guarded I feel, as you said, that it will be better than nothing. It would be no more than a few hours unless you began to feel more comfortable letting me outside without risk."
Aethel smiled, and made to speak, but there was a hurried knock at the door.
"Enter!"
Grimwald, one of the Armsmen stationed at the door, hurried in.
"Ser Aethel, Ser, according to a messenger there's a riot brewing outside. The rest of the garrison are asking for your orders and the mob are asking to speak with you, seeing as you're the commander."
Aether's face set in a grim yet anxious expression.
"How many people? Who are they led by?"
"More than fifty but less than a hundred, Ser. Some lower noble-type leads them, a Gentleman we think."
Aethel's face twisted in distaste.
"That'll be Gentleman Manfred no doubt. He holds the mayoral keys to this town, but people haven't really been a fan of him since his defiance almost got them all killed in the Twilight Rebellion. There'll be another ceremony to pass over the keys this year or the next, but he'll be able to keep them if he gets enough people on his side."
He looked down at Seventh.
"And nothing gets a mob on your side like fearmongering against someone different."
He looked at Seventh a moment, then back at Grimwald.
"Are Wedekind and Ser Aenethar still standing guard with you?"
"Aye, Ser."
He nodded.
"Good. Stay at your posts. I'll go talk with the Gentleman of the town and see if we can't work something out. Be ready to move the Seer out of the town should the worst come to pass. I'll have a message sent to those guarding our other charge to do the same. Is that messenger still there?"
"Aye, I think so Ser."
"Tell them to wake those who are off-duty. If this does go south we'll need all the hands we can get."
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Grimwald nodded, and stepped back outside.
"I won't be long, I hope. Then we'll work out the details of letting you out once this storm has passed.
Seventh nodded, and smiled to show what they hoped was seen as confidence.
"Good luck, Ser."
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When Aethel left there was a feeling of dread in the air. They had been expecting something to happen, and now it was happening. Seventh chastised themselves for being so anxious over what could be nothing.
Aethel's been gone less than two minutes. He'll work out something with the mob and they'll disperse.
There was a commotion outside. A strangled cry, a clattering noise, a scream for help cut short. The door was kicked open, and Ser Aenethar looked around the room briefly before his eyes settled on them. The bodies of the two Armsmen that had been posted at the doors were in a sorry state; Wedekind had been run through, his guts splayed out across the hallway, face contorted in surprise and horror. Grimwald had been stood to his right, but the man was now strewn before the door having been cut into three neat pieces. He had been sliced across the torso, bisecting him, and it looked as though a follow-up swing had removed the top half of his head before he had hit the ground.
Neither had even had the chance to raise their weapons.
Seventh swallowed and backed up against the wall as Aenethar strode into the room. They felt for the dagger in their sleeve, waiting for the right moment to arrive. They didn't know why Aenethar was acting like this, but they weren't stupid enough to try and reason with a man who had just cut down two of his comrades. Bound leather straps slowly slipped into their hand, and they gripped the handle as hard as they could. The sensation of the cold steel on their arm sent a shiver through them, but that was nothing compared to the freezing cold emanating from the man in front of them.
Aenethar closed the remaining distance, armour bloodied and sword back in its scabbard. He raised his hand and stretched out his arm to reach for Seventh.
NOW.
With all the strength their small frame could muster they struck forwards with the dagger. The first blow found no purchase on the man, blade ricocheting harmlessly off his plate armour. Seventh knew that to wait even a moment was to invite defeat, and so immediately struck again. Before the larger man had even registered the failed first strike the dagger was plunged to the hilt in his gut, a join in two pieces of armour providing exactly the right kind of weak spot for the young Seer to use.
Aenethar stumbled back, his vacant eyes all that were visible of him thanks to the narrow slit in his visor, and even they were shrouded in darkness.
A crashing fist slammed into Seventh's stomach, and they dropped to the floor. Their abdomen felt as though it had been hit with a hammer rather than a fist. Adrenaline drove them back to their feet, and stumbled left and right a second before planting themselves firmly on the wooden floor. As Aenethar rose again they hastily made to undo their blindfold and clutched it in their right hand. There were so many questions in their mind. Why was Aenethar doing this? What was his aim? Was he going to kill them? No, he would have done so already. What was his goal? Did he have a goal? Was anyone else helping him? Why did he kill Grimwald and Wedekind? Would they have tried to stop him? Of course they would, it was their job.
One question stuck at the fore of their mind. They'd thought it when they'd first met Aenethar, but for some reason, as out of place as the question was, it came back to them now.
Why did I know your name?
The blindfold slid free, and Seventh allowed their eyesight to gradually supplant their non-physical sight. There was little difference between the two types of sight in terms of effectiveness, but the finer details of the physical world went unseen by their more mystical senses.
They didn't want to do this. It was dangerous, it shattered minds, it ruined the lives of whoever happened to be nearby or catch a glimpse of what they were about to do, but they didn't have much of a choice.
They stood their ground again, feet planted firmly on the apart, and they readied themselves in a fighting stance, preparing to exercise their abilities to their full extent.
It's self defence. I can deal with the fallout after. What matters now is that I survive.
With that thought a surge of power coursed through their body, making its way towards their eyes. Channelling the energy outwards and using their eyes as an outlet, they forced the dream-magic out into the room.
There was a brilliant flare of light, mildly blue in hue, similar to when they were used as a vessel for a prophetic message to make itself known, only this time it was far more powerful.
As the light receded they blinked a few times, their eyes trying to readjust to the comparative darkness in the room. It wasn't actually dark, but compared to the flare that had just filled their vision it may as well have been nighttime.
Aenethar stood still for a moment, dull eyes blinking slowly. With a terrifying moment of clarity, he slowly removed his helmet, letting it fall to the floor. His face was a mess of scars, messy brown hair looking as course as wire and ears... missing?
None of that caught the Seer's attention for more than a second.
His eyes. They were blank. Not blank like the pale white of blindness, nor the almost solid blackness of their own eyes. This was something else, something strange and unnatural.
The knight stepped forwards, and Seventh looked away, afraid.
Aenethar tilted the young Seer's chin upwards, forcing them to meet his gaze. Seventh watched, stomach sinking in horror as the man stared straight at them as the last dregs of the light subsided. The man stared into their eyes, abyssal eyes, eyes that sent men mad at a glance, let alone when they forced this much power into them. They felt ice creep up their spine as the man who bore the name of the Angel of Death tilted their chin upwards, the knife in his chest not seeming to faze him at all. The man stared into eyes that drove men mad.
And he smiled.
A crashing blow to the temple sent Seventh sprawling to the floor. The knight carefully picked them up and set them over his shoulder, knife still lodged in his gut, and strode out of the room. Seventh was barely conscious as Aenethar stepped past Wedekind's corpse and over the parts of what used to be Grimwald without so much as pausing to glance at what was left of the men.
He spoke no words, but even in their dazed, disoriented state, they knew that the man was trying to be quick.
Seventh found themself being jostled around for a minute or two as Aenethar quickly strode down hallways and made turns, making sure to avoid the quarters of the other guards or those standing vigil at the side of the unconscious form of the strange man found at the Horndaal. Aenethar's steps were even, measured, careful to be quick but not too loud.
He needn't have bothered.
Ser Aethel rounded the corner looking mildly frenzied, greatsword in hand. He was helmetless and shieldless but then, Seventh reasoned, so was Ser Aenethar. Aethel took one look at the two of them, and immediately readied himself into a fighting stance.
Good, thought Seventh, he isn't taking any chances.
"Unhand the Seer, Ser. You and I both know they are to remain with four guards within the keep."
Aenethar was silent, and for a moment he made no move to let go of them.
Another moment passed, and Aethel took a few steps forwards. There were still several metres between the two knights, but they knew there was to be a fight here.
A grunt came from Ser Aenethar, and Seventh felt themselves be lowered to the floor with surprising gentleness. They tried to force themselves to their feet, but their body would not obey their commands.
Their mind was wide awake, but their body felt just so tired.
It was as though their form was made of lead.
"Lower your sword and step away."
Aenethar made no move to comply. Instead, with what Seventh could only describe as an extremely deliberate slowness, the larger knight took his greatsword out of its scabbard.
Aethel blanched for a second, then steeled himself.
"Very well then, Ser. In the name of Prince Lykourgos Sperakos, I accuse you of treason, murder, and attempted murder. Seeing as you have nothing to say in your defence I levy the sentence of death upon you. May the Angels and the Saints judge you."
And with that the duel started.
Bloody fool, Seventh thought, you didn't even call for help.
There was the ringing sound of steel on steel, and the first blow was struck. Aethel shed the next blow then moved forwards to strike once, twice, thrice, but each time the blow was turned aside by the stronger knight. Aenethar retaliated with a diagonal swing, but Ser Aethel was able to deflect the attack before twisting himself around and moving out of striking distance.
The two knights moved into defensive stances, Aethel an ox guard and Aenethar a boar's tooth. They circled each other for a moment, neither wanting to make the first move.
It was Aenethar that broke first, bringing his sword up from its defensive position to sweep at the legs of his opponent. The younger knight was quick however, and was able to parry the blow expertly, leaving Ser Aenethar open and vulnerable to the riposte that followed.
The greatsword arced towards Ser Aenethar at terrible speed, and for a brief second Seventh felt hope that maybe Aethel could win this by himself.
A swift block and a backhanded blow from a mailed fist robbed them of that notion.
Aethel stumbled backwards from where he had been punched, but at no point did he let down his guard. A great overhead blow fell towards him, and though he could block well enough it was clear that the older man's strength would overcome his own soon enough.
"HELP! SOMEONE-"
His cries were cut short momentarily as he used both hands to brace his sword against a second monstrously powerful downswing. He gritted his teeth and pushed back against the attacker's blade.
"HELP! GET THE GUARDS! SOMEONE!"
Seventh sighed to themselves, still disoriented and dizzy. Too little, too late. You're alone here. It's just you, me, and him.
Aethel was giving a good fight and putting up a spirited resistance, that much was true, but he was clearly starting to flag and falter. His breathing was heavy and arms trembling. Whatever energy he had before the start of the duel, it was all but gone now. Seventh felt the fear that had been supressed this whole time begin to creep into their system as Aethel was pushed further and further back.
Seventh watched, paralysed in fear and utterly helpless as the moment they dreaded arrived.
Ser Aethel's blade came up just too slow, and Aenethar's sword swung in a wide arc at his neck. It seemed as though Ser Aethel realised the danger and was moving back, but it was far too late.
The blow did not quite strike his head from his shoulders, but it was far from being merely a shallow cut.
The sword had cleaved through the front half of his neck, and for a moment Seventh could actually see the intact vertebrae in the new gap before the torrent of blood poured down.
Ser Aethel staggered on his feet, his sword clattering uselessly to the floor as he reached and clutched all around him, desperation in his eyes. He reached an arm out to support himself on the wall as the other held his opened throat. He staggered forwards, towards Ser Aenethar and Seventh, moving towards the young Seer.
And then his legs gave way and he clattered to the floor, staring all the while.
Blood, sticky and red, coated the floors of the keep at Haestinghen for the second time in half a decade. There was a gurgling noise from the ruined throat of Ser Aethel, still trying feverishly to claw his way towards them, but they didn't need to look at his eyes to know that his desperation was fading.
Aenethar lifted them back up, holding them under his arm.
Seventh felt themself losing consciousness as the adrenaline of watching the fight wore off, but caught a brief glimpse of a blindfold made of the finest green silk discarded in the pooling blood of the knight who had tried to protect them. They must have dropped it at some point in the carnage.
Tears filled their eyes as they left Ser Aethel alone in his last moments, the green stained red from his blood as the blindfold was covered under the crimson waves.
Wait, they thought to themselves, I don't want to lose that.
Rhema gave me that.
Please.
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When they came back to they were in a saddle. Their eyes fluttered open and shut a few times as they tried to will themselves to stay awake.
Where are we?
They were on a horse, that much was obvious, probably a large but common draft horse if they had to guess. A common roughspun cloak was about their shoulders, its hood protecting them from the worst of the rain. Behind him he could feel a much larger figure clad similarly upon the back of the horse. Their body tried to tense, recoiling at the notion of being so close to Ser Aenethar given what he had done, but they were just too tired. Their muscles wouldn't move, and they found themselves slumping in the saddle.
Aenethar held them upright, preventing them from slipping into the patchy cobbles and boggy morass that constituted the road.
This is... this is the Woodsroad? But that would take us to the capital? Why...
They wanted to work out why they were going to the capital. They wanted to get away from Aenethar.
They wanted to be safe.
But they were far too tired to move.
I'll escape soon. I just... I just need to rest for a little, that's all. I'll escape soon.
I just have to rest a little.