“Stop.” Jartor growled. Bending at the knees to crouch and look at his son. He was a bear of a man, larger than any other. Even the other primus' were dwarfed by the sovereign of Haran, at least in height. Jartor was the tallest, and the strongest. He stared for a bit, brow twitching, obviously conflicted over something. “He's alive.”
“Alive...!?”
“Primus...?”
“What!?”
They turned away from the dying count, clutching at his chicken neck in the rear of the viewing gallery. An intelligent man, he had fled his place as soon as the marble face had started to crack. Not fast enough, though. Only five seconds or so had passed from start to finish, Tyr had moved like a hurricane, and struck twice as fast. Somehow... Leaving many with questions.
Astrid and Sigi both balked at this revelation, their grip loosening until both women were made to step away with looks of horror and shock on their faced. Tyr didn't move from his position, clutching at his face and babbling madly. Tiber was weeping now, not from his wounds, rather from emotion. Samson had risen, still bound by the shackles that threatened to give way at any moment under his titanic strength. That was a man who would impress Jartor if they'd been given the chance to speak as equals and not as man and primus.
“He's alive.” Jartor repeated. He could see it, the aura of death that hung about his son. It was a sickly thing, pungent, but only death. Undeath was different, it was unnatural. Strength was, contrary to what others may believe, not his sole ability. A primus was capable of many things. He'd spit out the sword out, feeling a shallow chip at one of his canines. Whatever had happened to the boy, it had been a temporary thing. The brief flash of pride that his son might have been awakening to a power similar to his own was dashed as soon as he realized.
But... This. This was different. Jartor had seen many things, but never a man brought back to life after being beheaded like that. Days after interment, as well. He wondered if the call only stopped long enough to allow him to witness what his son was capable of. A truer immortal than he, a man who had seen true death only to rise again and spit on his own ashes. It was incredible, but impossible. It hadn't just been the defacing, but the wards too. They had stopped at nothing to ensure nothing could bring Tyr back, and yet here he was.
Resurrection magic was difficult, costly, but not impossible in most cases. In this case, it hadn't been. Possible, that is. Not even the gods had answered Jartor's plea. Not the gods, not the priests, none of the holy men he has visited. They all taken one look before shaking their heads. Tyr was dead, they said, dead for good – claiming that no power could return him to this earth. It wasn't just in the runes and wards, but his very soul had been damaged by magic. Forbidden magic.
Jartor waited, staring down at his son. His only pride, for all Tyr's failings – he was still a son with a father who wanted what was best for him. Tyr had risen, been tempered by loss and managed to track down his mothers killer. Had acted where Jartor could not.
'I'll kill that man. One day.' That's what Tyr had said all those years ago. Staring down with dry eyes over Signe's memorial. Words spoke with conviction that should be alien to a boy so young.
Had he been ten? Eleven? Hells, fourteen? Jartor couldn't remember. His mind was sharp but his memory faded over time. Iron in a boy so young, that was a source of some pride for him. Primacy be damned, Tyr was still his son – wayward or not. He'd failed him, been too confident, allowed him to die when he was well aware of where Tyr was and what he was doing at all times. In fact, he had never considered the possibility. Blades of mortal men were wooden on their flesh, or less than. Like walking through reeds along the river, Jartor felt nothing of their toy blades. Even the uncommon artifact could barely scratch him.
He'd thought his son might show his true potential when pressured. Resulting in him taking to death like any man. It was a great shame, but here he was. Risen again. An immortal. Perhaps this was his power. Jartor knew not, his wisdom had never been infinite.
Tyr had crawled, and Jartor had let him. Crawling on a gradually weakening body until he reached Samson and Tiberius. A spark of flame came from his finger, vibrant scarlet, cutting clean through the cold iron and freeing both the men before collapsing into unconsciousness. Right through it. Tyr had never been able to use his magic without causing great pain to himself, and damage to his body. And it did damage him, Jartor watched as the blackened skin lightened in hue to become whole and uniform again.
Samson rose, though Tiber remained kneeling. Jartor could see it in the black ones eyes, staring down at his son with a complicated expression, mouth moving like a fish out of water. He saw their promise fulfilled. This man saw Tyr, a man who had come back from the dead to ensure that Samson would remain free of the shackles forever more. Loyalty. A promise returned. Breeding loyalty and grooming talented men for great things was in itself a talent. Jartor could see the strings that connect a man's hearts to another burn and flare as more were added between the pair. They were connected by more than just a promise now, but in sacred bond as well.
“Leave us.” He growled. “All of you. And free the prisoners, see Tiberius to the healers.”
With that, those present saw the primus striding from the room after a brief moment, prince cradled in his arms, leaving his knights to carry out the abrupt command.
–
Fever. It was hot, hotter than he'd ever been. Like he was roasting, tossing and turning in his waking moments just long enough to scream aloud. Everywhere hurt. The process of healing hadn't been without discomfort. Tyr felt himself wilting under the heat. Barely noticing as his sheets were changed, priests mumbled above him, and a horde of faceless people came to visit him.
Often it was his father, though Tyr had not the strength nor consciousness to wrap his hands around the mans neck.
Why?
Perhaps it was a question for the dull minded. Why did dying hurt so bad? Suppose it should be self evident. Dying was dying. Tyr had died and been brought back, though barely. The body of a man could only handle so much punishment before buckling, but he held on. Tried to, though he he didn't know from where the motivation for that sort of effort came from.
What was living? Why live? What point was there in any of it? Shouldn't he just surrender to sleep?
Tyr liked sleep. It was his second, no – his third favorite thing. To sleep. The first was eating, always, there were so many things about food to add to his passion. The second was... No, not killing. Fighting, maybe. He wasn't passionate about killing, unless it was necessary. It wasn't that he felt remorse, but allowing someone to live and standing over them in triumph was objectively better. 'I win', live to know that for the rest of your days. As sick and sadistic as it was, he really did love that.
Nihilism was what he felt. Listening to the word of the priests and nobles subordinate to their household.
'If he isn't a primus now... What if...?'
What if he'd never be. It wasn't an outlandish idea. But Tyr wasn't a primus. He was just Tyr. He didn't feel like the gods chosen sons. Haunted by dreams replaying the death of his mother in vivid detail and exaggerating his helpless. His inadequacies and insecurities. Her face staring down at him from the heavens in disappointment. If he'd been stronger, more able... Maybe. Maybe she'd still be here.
Life was unfair. Tyr felt it. Born an imperial prince, he was privileged beyond belief, not that anyone ever chose how they were spat into this world. But the way his life had progressed... Steeped in a need for vengeance, and how short the culmination of that vengeance had been. A tragedy, perhaps. Didn't he deserve more? But at the same time... Did he deserve anything at all? Did anyone?
“...Water.” Dying men often want only for one thing. Water, more times than not. Tyr wanted it bad, and he begged for it. He had never known his mouth to be this dry. Blissfully, a hand brought a cup to his lips, allowing him to greedily suck at the liquid it contained until it caught in his throat and he erupted into a fit of coughing.
“...Who?” He managed to sputter after some effort. His eyes were shrouded by wet cloth, as was the majority of his face. Only his mouth was bare of adornment and the earthy stink of healing herbs. It would seem that they'd spared no expense. Not that it would help, he could feel himself in a way he never could before. Whole ago, given as much time as they needed to examine him there wouldn't be so much as a scar.
“It us, you idiot.” One said.
“Sigi... Really?” The other sighed tiredly. “Don't worry, we're here.”
Two voices. Their voices agitated him enough to provide him with the energy to rip free the bandages that swathed his face. Wet gauze, it came free like a chunk of soggy bread. He wanted to... He didn't even know. Insult them? Tell them off? Tyr had no idea what he wanted from his 'wives', so he remained silent. Just staring back at them with his mouth moving a bit before his lips closed into a harsh line.
“Gods, his face is back together. Not a scratch on it. I was wondering you know, if they'd force me to lay with a lipless man. Ugly bastard... You're still ugly.” Sigi remarked. “Not my type at all. Better than before though, believe that.”
“Sigi...” Astrid tutted over him, gently wiping away what residue remained of the compacted herbs. Poultices, he'd heard them called. They tingled at his skin, many of them were not comfortable. And the stink of it... It was hard to believe two highborn women could sit through that, but they had. Their eyes said so. Dark ringed and red with sleeplessness.
“Thank you.” He managed to croak. It took them aback, as his apology had at the training fields. If attentiveness as a husband could be ranked on a scale of one to ten, he was a hard zero. Every quality one would expect of a husband missing. Zero. He'd never apologized, until back then. And now he was thanking them.
For their part, neither woman seemed overly surprised this time. It had been some years since their betrothal and two since they had begun residing in the capital full time. They had become somewhat accustomed to the dynamic. It suited them just fine, rather than being groped at by lustful hands. Forced to bed. That had been their fear, and they'd come to find Tyr a very impersonal part of their lives. More of an acquaintance than a husband,
“You're welcome.” Astrid replied with a smile, still dabbing at his face. Sigi could say nothing, looking almost offended in comparison to her sister.
“How long have I been--” Wheezing, there was a lot of that. Tyr felt as if his lungs were full of phlegm and it shot out of him when he coughed. Bloody mucus that stained the sheets and the hem of Astrid's court dress. She didn't seem to mind. Perhaps she wasn't all prim and proper, certainly not dainty. Her fingertips were hard and calloused, worn away by something. Not the needlework, but not sword work either, Tyr didn't know what could give someone hands like that.
“You were out for three days.” She said softly. “We were worried. Thought you'd die, my darling husband. Oh how my heart buckled under the anxiety.”
Playfulness in her voice. A joke, or something like that. He recognized that right away, but had no energy to retort, simply nodding in response. She deserved a free jab or two. Or twenty.
“Go to sleep....” Wheezing. “Both of you. I will survive, I have the touch of a god upon me. As strange as that feels to say. He had promised me I wouldn't--” Wheezing. “Die... Not today, not any time soon.”
Not ever... But he didn't say that.
“We would like to stay with you.” Astrid protested. She had a cuteness about her that he was well aware of. A puffing of a cheeks and turn of the lips. Like a child. Her hair was loose, not done up in the bun she normally wore. Tyr had never realized her hair was so long, near down to her waist, held back be a turtle shell band.
The color was nice. He quite liked that color.
“That was some throw, Tyr. Straight across the room. Surprised everybody, took that old geezer by the throat and made him make this noise... Like a baby mallard being thrown down a waterfall. Or perhaps...” Sigi said in amusement. Her every word punctuated by her resisting the laughter bubbling up inside of her. Astrid, apparently, didn't approve – given the look on her face.
What kind of metaphor is that...?
For some reason, she wasn't wearing her armor. Tyr supposed it was uncomfortable to be in such dress for the extended amount of time they must've been here. However long that was, but he knew it was no small amount.
The loose fitting linens, that which a man fresh from a sparring match might wear accentuated her figure. He never realized how big... Well, he was a man after all. Even on his deathbed, or close to it, he could appreciate a nice pair of...
“Why?” He asked. A simple question, with complex meaning behind it.
“Hummm...” Astrid blushed ever so slightly. She had girlish charms. They both had quite a bit of feminine charm in general, but Astrid knew how to use it. Or at least did use it. “I think we can both admit you're a bit of an ass, but...”
“We didn't want you to die.” Sigi finished, her lips curling ever so slightly at the edges. “I don't want to win that way. Letting you go out in a storm of glory. Heard you killed six men, two of them were knights in full kit. Bards have been singing of it. The dead prince, they say. A story that seems to change every time I hear it. Now they're calling you 'one eye'. Ridiculous, but catchy.”
“Mhm.” Astrid chuckled. “If you'll believe word from the taverns where they play, you fought a demon in the skin of man. A monster that enslaved young women and only you could stand before him and his dark army. At first it was six men, they said. Then ten, then twenty. Now, you're like a hero of legend.”
“Not a hero. The first part was closer to the truth though.”
“What do you mean.”
Tyr struggled to rise, only able to do so with Sigi's strong arms supporting his back. He was still weak, frail and breathless after every moment. And despite her words, she was there – holding him up. It was embarrassing, but he wasn't so far gone as to not appreciate it. “Baron Regis owned several underground brothels in various parts of the kingdom. The largest was in his demesne, of course. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but...” He had to pause and take a breath, even the act of speaking was starting to drain him – but he fought through it.
“Young women forced into servitude by blackmail. Threats, all of that. He kept their children too, as insurance. Some of those women and boys in his hire were fourteen winters, some younger if I... If what I was told was the truth.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Is that why you killed him?” Astrid looked impressed. “That was very noble of you.”
“Not really.” Tyr shrugged, wincing with the effort. “It's not a good thing, or a bad thing, but he deserved to die. It certainly wasn't noble. I did it for my own gain.”
“Are you glad those people are free?”
“Yes. Nobody deserves to live in chains. Or in fear.”
“Then--!” Astrid had never had him so candid, and she had many questions. Unfortunately, with their voices carrying beyond the chamber, the door was opened and Tiberius stepped into the chamber followed by the titanic Samson. Behind them were others. A priest, a healer, the middle aged mage that seemed to always be following Tyr through the palace halls.
“My prince.” Tiber bowed. His lips were curled as well, though in the wrong direction. “I am glad you are awake. How do you feel?”
Tyr waved away the concern awkwardly. “Your legs...?”
“Magic.” Tythas leaned forward to show himself, twirling his hand sarcastically and making the palace bishop grumble after being shoved out of the way. Normally, there was a order to such things... “Welcome back. Scary thing, that. Seeing you rise from the dead and all.”
“Indeed.” Tiber commented. “You saved our lives, I will never be able to repay the debt of allowing you to die in the first place.”
He and Samson both approached the foot of the bed, dropping to their knees. One in the knightly custom, and one in... Whatever custom Samson's people were called. Both men seeking his forgiveness. There was no point in lording over these men. Tiber had fought beside him, nearly dying then – and nearly dying later at the hands of the primus himself. As for Samson, he was too late to act – but ultimately this was Tyr's doing.
In any case, it wasn't their fault. It wasn't his way to lord over them like that, but that didn't mean he'd absolve them entirely. If Tyr could use this to his advantage, he would. If only he knew how.
“Get off the ground, there is nothing to apologize for. It was a good fight. We lost, and that was my fault. Our fault if you want to take credit, I'm certainly... Not...” Tyr groaned, his ribs ground again, resetting themselves without command. It was not comfortable. “Not complaining.”
Tiber did as he was asked. “That it was, my prince. That it was. You'll need to work on your center guard though, you were all wide swings and no finesse. Might teach you a lesson or two so that it doesn't happen again.”
He winked. Playing a part, but Tyr knew the old man. There was a deep regret and no small amount of self deprecation burning in his eyes. Tyr figured he'd be lucky if the man ever let him out of his sight again. Oath or no oath, Tiber was like family and had always been overprotective. A solemn, and rather unfortunate duty considering Tyr's predilection for running straight into danger.
Moreover, he figured Tiber was thankful to be at peace. It had taken a long time, but judgment had been dealt on the count. Faster than they would've liked in the killing, but it had happened. It would have to be enough. Life didn't always play out like some grand romance.
“Let me get some rest.” Tyr grumbled. “You're all so loud. Speaking all at once like that, and you call yourselves – yes, you in the back – you call yourselves healers? Damn, man, let me heal...”
“I'm afraid we cannot.” Tiber said. “You've been summoned to court. As soon as news of your rising spread through the palace, your father called. He is expecting you within the hour.”
'He is expecting you.' Words nobody wanted to hear from someone communicating the will of the primus. It was almost never good. Still, Tyr relented. If he refused to join, he'd be bodily dragged to the throne room. Something that had happened multiple times in the past.
“Though before we leave, I must say. They did quite a number on you. I can scarcely believe you look so... Whole.”
“They did more than that.” Tyr growled. If he'd had the energy... “...More than that. Let's go. I'll need someone to carry me.”
Sigi did. Tiber, while he looked fine, was still injured. He could walk, but he limped heavily on his left leg. Tyr felt ridiculous, cradled in her arms, but he felt safer than he had in a long time. The way she bore him through the palace was very reassuring.
“Thanks.” He repeated himself. She didn't respond, didn't seem surprised this time either. Stoic as ever. Not complaining as Tyr sipped from a wineskin in her arms until he was well past the point of tipsy. It helped with the pain, as he wasn't exactly whole again. Even with his poorly understood ability to heal beyond what normal magic was capable of – nothing was that fast. It was insane as it was already.
Tyr had always been like this. Not this – this was on another level, but as a child he would wound himself. By accident, not design. A source of shame for a primus, seen as a betrayal of the durability supposedly provided by their inhuman bodies. But his wounds would heal given time. Even a broken arm that he had concealed from his mother. He'd asked his father about it, but that man hadn't been impressed. After that, Tyr had taken it for granted. Not like this, though. He could feel himself healing on a cellular level, having been left to rot entombed there was quite a lot wrong with him internally. And his body was actively repairing itself.
He was glad to have lips again, wondering what horror his life would've been without them. It made him think of the lame and disfigured commoners in the kingdom who couldn't afford treatment. Just for a moment. That would've made for a sad life.
It didn't take long to reach the throne room. What with the rear chambers of the palace segregating the royals from the more public chambers being built along the mountain face. It was, perhaps, the most famous of all structures in Haran. Both a castle, a citadel, a cathedral... A symbol. Built half into a mountain with terraced skyways tracing the length of the city allowing the well positioned to look down on the citizens below. Perhaps that was why the court saw the common civilians in such a poor light. High enough to be free of the odors and inconveniences of a 'lesser' society from their perch among the clouds.
They'd grown arrogant after generations of peace and prosperity. Ever growing in their avarice and envy of what others had and they did not. There was no end to it, their lust. Tyr didn't look favorably on that kind of blooming degeneracy, but everyone knew that. He was quite loud. These thoughts were not secret, and they hated him for that too. Opinions shared by his mother who had been a dominant figure in politics while the primus absconded from direct interference.
'We are guides, not tyrants.' Or some such, Jartor's words. Fancied himself some kind of shepherd of humanity and refused to intervene directly unless necessary. Tyr figured that's why his mother had died, though deep down he knew it was his fault. His fault for being born weak, deformed, or defective – whatever the problem was that caused him to be so... Inadequate.
Tyr found himself staring at a crowd of that degenerate filth. Late in the afternoon, they had arrived some time before him, clearly agitated and impatient at having been made to wait. Soft men and their powder coated ladies who stank of the compounds they lathered their faces with. And sweat, Tyr could smell like never before. An odor, sickening in its sweetness.
He clenched a fist, separating himself from Sigi and wobbling to his feet.
Thanks to a quick meal and a bit of magic along the way, courtesy of the priests, he could at least stand on his own. Far be it for him to allow them to see weakness. He was better than them, a superior breed awakened or not. There was more steel in his left hand than in any man present in the chamber who didn't wield a sword or knife at their belt. Or so he thought, the pride spoke to him. The same arrogance that had kept him alive so far. Well...
I'm still alive. No point in dwelling on it.
“With the arrival of the prince, mmmm...” The man speaking over the hubbub of court was a personal retainer of Jartor's. Duke Donakan of Serron. An incredibly paunchy man that was overly fond of food and drink. Letting out an 'mmmm' sound, his breaths between sentences. Such was his bulk that a special chair wide enough to contain it had been crafted for him. Goldwood and wolf skin, it was a thing of beauty.
Donakan held no annuities under the 'crown', and therefore no official surname or land. A noble of the cloth they called it, with no demesne or official title. A retainer, not unlike a magistrate, but his reputation and merit made it so that few within the throne room considered themselves his superior. He had been given many offers, and refused them all. Many said that it was out of some grand duty to the Empire and its people, others that his desire to serve the primus was so strong that he refused to leave the palace.
The second was more true, Tyr knew why he remained. Not out of some duty, it was all about the money. Duke Donakan, also known as 'The Don'. An old term for a privateer admiral of Milano that officially did not exist. Thieves and criminals. Powerful men, though. Merchant princes. The duke didn't seem to mind. From his perspective, it was a tremendous benefit to be feared. For a man who cared only for coin, it worked well enough.
To Tyr, he was simply 'Don' or 'Uncle Don'. Sometimes, when the mood was on him, it was 'Fat Idiot'. Donakan didn't mind those names either, taking them in stride with a twirl of his mustache – facial hair manicured in defiance of natural law. Not quick to anger, he'd laugh. Pat the young prince on his head and return with his own jibe. 'Sewer rat', 'pup', 'whelp', 'boy'. Tyr didn't mind those either, not from him – a close friend and confidant of his mother.
A master of coin, and it wasn't just in his desire of it. He might very well be the richest merchant in Haran. Only remaining in close retainer to the primus because a palace noble was given special treatment. Most importantly, they paid no tribute and saw a greater benefit to tax. For a man like him, who loved coin above all else and was a master of rubbing together two to make four, there was nowhere better than here.
It was a good thing, though. Economic matters in such a large kingdom as the empire were bound to be complex. Uncle Don handled them with masterful precision, inflating his own wealth and ensuring Haran's coffers grew annually in turn. A kind man who treated his commoner employees well and protected his interests with a viciousness one would not assume from his soft appearance.
Tyr liked him a great deal. He was a man that knew how to get things done. For a merchant, at least, he kept his lies within reason.
“With the arrival of the prince, mmmm... We shall now be--”
A look from Jartor silenced him. Donakan bowed as best he could before sinking his girth back into the padded chair at his rear with a sigh of relief. He certainly didn't mind being bade to sit.
Tsk.
Tyr hated it. Hated the brooding silence and wondered why his father was such a stranger to the concept of asking when he wanted something. An unspoken imperiousness that made the legs of men weak and their tongues heavy in their mouths. Perhaps he was just envious of the gravitas possessed by his father, and wished he had that level of cool composure.
Those sharp eyes stared down from the throne, the father leaning forward to get a better look at the son. There was a hard line to the bits of the primus' lips visible behind his steepled hands.
“It would seem that the gods that rule over the planes of death have much in common with the young wives of our prince. Neither want anything to do with you.”
Silence.
Jartor had never been a long winded man. In the last five years, this was the most amount of words he had strung together in one sentence during any of their discussions. Unless he was beating Tyr in the process. Certainly never in the midst of court. And this time it was a...
A joke...?
That was the most uncomfortable part of it all. Jartor was not silver tongued, but the fact that his father had made a jest? He was a clever man, but not one prone to comedy. The scathing words Tyr had meant to speak crumbled to ash in his mind, lost forever under the awkward silence. Sigi and Astrid both began alternating gazes between one another, Tyr, and the primus. As confused as he was.
'Emperor Grim.' 'Iron Ass.' He had a lot of less reverent titles amount foreigners and commoners.
Silence. Though few could miss the hastily stifled snort that came from behind the throne. Regar, in all likelihood.
“Was that...” Jartor seemed puzzled, his stony mask of supreme confidence cracking slightly. “...Not funny?”
He turned to Regar, who leaned around the throne to whisper in the primus' ear. Jartor seemed somewhat pleased, though a bit concerned as well. Some of the nobles began speaking out, still nervous – with a handful of shrill and uncomfortable cackles in the rear of the galleries.
“Truly divine, your grace!”
“Our primus! Who knew he had such--”
Jartor slammed his fist against the arm of the imperial throne and rose. “Silence. I was not speaking to you.”
It did the job. Returning the fear and discomfort of an audience become so quiet that a pin dropping on the marble tiles would have been easily audible. Tyr was sure that many of the men and women had stopped breathing altogether, waiting for one of the old fucks to collapse and die. That would be nice, one less rat he'd have to deal with in the future.
“My son, my daughters. Did you not find my jest to your liking?” He asked, towering over all of them even as he made level by dropping from the raised dais.
“It was witty, your highness.” Astrid, ever dutiful and courteous curtsied in response. It was a somewhat bizarre gesture considering that she wasn't wearing a dress, and had been given no time to change into one. Instead, she wore slim fitting leather chaps tailored for riding. It accentuated her lithe figure, a masculine outfit according to the more traditional nobles who mocked 'northerners' for dressing that way in their leisure time. A bizarre insult considering those same men called themselves 'northerners'... As a point of pride and all that.
Sigi laughed aloud, showing none of the courteousness of her 'sister' and slamming a fist against her sternum enthusiastically. “It was very appropriate, primus.”
Jartor nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answers. “But still, my son does not answer.” He raised a hand to his beard and began playing at the long black whiskers like a wizard or philosopher. “And you, Tyr? Has your tongue grown back as I've been told, or are you still growling?”
There was a mischievousness in the mans eyes, Jartor blurred forward with a gust of wind to take Tyr by the jaw. Not roughly, but enough to communicate the idea that he was attempting to open the boys mouth. Tyr hated that the most. His father had never touched him before except in anger or disapproval, they had never even embraced. He was unused to the gentle thumb that rested just below his lips, slapping the hand away by instinct.
Gasps of indignation rang out from the viewing gallery. Nobles stood on their feet and began protesting the offensiveness of it all. More rats who found themselves desperate for the approval of the primus, most like.
Unfortunately for them, their attempts at making their choler known and perhaps earning a lick of approval were drown out by booming laughter. Loud enough to cause the smarting of ears. Tyr winced, but didn't balk from the man despite knowing what was coming. Jartor had only laughed once in the entire time his son had known him as a father, only once. What had came was the worst beating Tyr had ever experienced. Leaving him bedridden for days after. It was better to speak now and hold onto his flimsy pride than silence himself when he had already earned another.
“It was a shit joke.” Tyr said. It would have to be enough, though he was far from satisfied. In reality, if it hadn't been directed at him, he would have given it some credit for creativity. A hundred 'bonus points' of sorts, considering the man it came from. Certainly surprising.
Jartor twitched, imperceptibly. All expected him to strike the boy again as he had many times in the past, but no hand came.
What the hell is happening?
“That's too bad.” Jartor chuckled. “I'll have to try again at a later date.” He raised his voice, though he rarely needed to as all would remained hooked on his every word regardless. Even a whisper would've been enough. “My son is alive, your future primus – is alive. Our humble empire has been graced by the gods, and so I shall declare this day a celebration. Donakan shall handle the specifics, of course. Won't you, my old friend?”
The way he said your future primus had an edge to it. A familiar edge that seemed to suggest that the 'old Jartor' still existed somewhere underneath the mask he was wearing. A suggestive one, a lesson was there but Tyr wasn't of a mind to take heed of it. He had no idea what had happened to his father, doubting the reality of the situation until Astrid pinched his arm with an exaggerated smile to indicate her displeasure at his own actions. Few nobles, even princes, would be given face to act in such a way before their lord father and walk away unscathed.
“As is your will, my primus.” Donakan rose, or tried to, before flopping back down and bowing from the sitting position. If there was comedy to be had in this hall, it was in watching the flustered man flop about. Still, nobody laughed. He was a man to be feared as well, in his own unique way.
“Father.”
“Hmm?” Jartor's flinty eyes met Tyr's own, and the latter couldn't help but come away thinking that his father seemed to be... Shining? There was great mirth in that glance. Jartor was ecstatic about something, perhaps reason for his strange behavior.
“Why have you brought me here? Just for this announcement?”
“Be patient.”
As if to drive home the fact that their brief conversation had ended, the doors of the hall slammed open with a force, flustered knights following in the wake of two stout figures angrily striding into the throne room.