A herald announced her presence, listing off the meaningless titles that she had acquired over the years, ripping her away from her observations. The elf’s monotone voice somehow seemed to make all of her achievements seem so small and mundane.
With Lorsan at her side, she made her way to pay her obeisance before the Peacock throne. With each step, the air grew heavier with an ominous, almost palpable pressure. It felt like a funeral procession, or the final steps to the headsman’s gallows. Finally, she reached the foot of the throne and, together with Lorsan, planted her head on the floor.
“Lady Arimea, Lorsan, you may rise,” boomed the voice from the throne. If she was not mistaken, there was a hint of something odd in his tone.
Slowly, she looked up to gaze upon her king. Yes, it was not just imagination, his voice tinged with something other than expected anger. There was a note of… amusement and his ancient ageless face had hints of a boyish smile. It was disturbing.
“You have failed us,” came the immediate judgment from the ancient elf. There was sound as the whole court drew an intake of breath. She would have laughed had the matter not been so serious.
“Yes, my king,” she answered honestly, doing her best to keep her voice steady. Excuses and other social machinations would not work before him. The eyes of the throne knew all.
“Yet, in a completely different matter, you have succeeded beyond expectations. To slay the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men, is no small achievement. Humans and their ridiculous titles. The wiles of fate and destiny are as capricious as they are cruel, are they not Lorsan? To think that the greatest sword master of our generation crossed blades with the Dragon Slayer, and prevailed no less.”
The king turned the full force of his gaze upon Arimea.
“Surely, you would think that Lorsan would look a bit happier, despite being somewhat diminished,” the leader of the elven nation commented wryly in a clear voice that both expected and demanded agreement.
Nervously Arimea looked to Lorsan, meeting his eyes and giving him a small nod.
“It is as you say, my king,” the elven swordmaster responded neutrally in Arimea’s stead, his eyes firmly fixed on the living carpet of green before the throne.
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“So, it would seem that I must both reward and punish you? And Lorsan too, by association. That is what they would have done in times of old, no?” the ancient king stated, the mirth coloring his voice plainer for her ears to see.
Still, the feeling of dread did not leave her. The pressure both within and without grew. This was a crossroads, an intersection of a planned fate. She could feel it in the song of Mana.
“My king? What is it that you wish of us?” croaked Arimea, failing finally to keep an even keel.
“Still, not even a hint of an apology? You will not beg forgiveness from us? You are proud Arimea, like your mother, and her mother’s mother. Too proud by far. Shame Lorsan could not impart upon you a fraction of his humility,” the ancient one rejoined without answering her question.
“We have begun the rite of the Summoning. We will call forth our own Hero from the Distant World. We will have an Elven Champion of our own. Like in the times of yore,” announced the King with great aplomb.
Like a wave rippling across a tranquil lake, a great gasp took the assembly. A gasp that soon turned into panicked natterings. As the gathered nobles reached a crescendo of worry, the king raised a single hand and the court fell once again into silence.
“Our seers will call forth one that they have seen in their visions. He will come from the Kingdom of the Lonely Star and his soul shines as one of the mightiest of warriors and generals of his world,” the old one announced to the gathered elves.
“And I have chosen the pair of you to be his guide. You will show him our ways. You will instruct him to fight, using only our ways. You will be the bond that glues him to the First Children. Especially you, Arimea. Flawed as your beauty might be, you will serve him in both body and soul. Your remaining charm will have to serve to bind him to us,” the ancient King stated with an almost lecherous smile.
“But I am promised to another! I will be no…” Arimea protested. She looked around for her promised one. She caught his eyes for a moment, but in that moment he looked down, guiltily. Of course, with her reputation in tatters, she was damaged goods now.
The king looked down at her as if she was just a cross child. “You will serve your people and you will thank us for the honor of it,” he declared simply, silencing her.
"But your Majesty," Lorsan asked, clearly puzzled, "teaching someone our ways takes centuries. Just as trees cannot be forced to grow, can a worthy warrior truly be made in such a short time?”
A laugh resounded from up on the throne. “Lorsan, I have been told that a Champion, when summoned to our world, will learn very quickly. It is simply about preparing the correct… conditions for growth.” The King’s words were like a river, washing away all chance and challenge of a response.
“By your will,” they both acquiesced with nothing to add, pressing their heads to soft green. Any further comment in such a public arena would only serve as a direct insult to the throne’s authority. Stoic as she had thought she had become, Arimea could not help but to allow a single hidden tear to track its way down her face. Soon it was lost into countless green blades beneath her.
“And when he is ready, we will sail once more across the seas with our armies. We will call our satrapies to war and claim what belongs to us,” stated the King, as cheers took the court like a rapturous fire.