The morning sun rose up over the horizon of the Purified Ocean. It's light danced and glittered on the water's surface and burned dully beneath the surface. A tall, regal man stood on the edge of a cliff on the coast of the mainland watching the sun rise to greet the world. His face was stern and hard as stone, jaw square and set in place. His teeth ached. He hadn't spoken in hours. His flaming red hair tussled against itself in the oceanic breeze. His cape swooned with the wind and his skin grew goosebumps from the cold. He was tired: they were all tired.
The man wore a noble attire of clothing fit for his rank and position. Primarily green in color, his torso was covered by a thick, linen lined V-neck shirt with a red cravat bushing out from the front of it. His neck was wrapped in a scarf, held in place by a solitary pin depicting a dragon. Over this long sleeved adornment he wore a military coat that blanketed his back and sides in a tight, well knitted leather colored a dark, earthy green. The nape of his neck and his shoulders were covered by his red cape, held in place on his shoulders by a pair of golden pauldrons, signifying his military rank as Supreme General. His hands were gloved, his wrists covered by a similarly silky set of frills attached to the end of his sleeves which he hated but knew were unfortunately necessary. His pants were perfectly fitted and dark brown in color, curled up and ruffled over the cuffs of his black belt buckled boots. His left breast was decorated with every sort of honor as was able to be had by an officer in the military of The Empire along with a few special adornments that labeled him for who he was. His green eyes burned red from lack of sleep. He was the First Prince of The Empire, one of three, the eldest son of the late Emperor Gawain. His name was Ganymede.
***
Elsewhere, at exactly the same moment, his brother, named Mordred by his father Gawain, was rising from the cool, soft sheets of his bed, his long blond hair a mess and his body completely naked. He wasn't groggy. He'd been awake for some time now but had elected to stay in bed as was his privilege as Second Prince. What had made him sit up to greet the day was the day greeting him. The first locks of sunlight sprang in through his windows and poked at his eyes. He turned towards it and looked out at the morning sky. It was slightly overcast. It would rain that day.
Prince Mordred rose up from out of his bed and stood up, leaving the warmth of his sheets and his mistress behind him. He walked over to his sizable wardrobe and opened up the two doors, looking at his array of clothing and trying to decide what to wear that day. It was important that he look his best. Today, above all other days, was perhaps the most important day of his life, barring the day that his father, Emperor Gawain, had died. His blue eyes scanned over the wardrobe and found nothing there that seemed appealing, so he shut the doors and turned away, walking over towards another wardrobe and stepping on the rays of sunlight purposefully as he made his way across the master bedroom that used to be his father's, now his. He didn't know what he would wear for the occasion, but he knew that it had to be perfect.
***
Still elsewhere, their brother, Third Prince Bayamon, sat in a canvas tent, his left hand on the pommel of a sword and his right pressed snugly against his cheek. He was listening idly to the rain as it pounded against his tent while three of his generals spoke to him of plans for battle against the rebel forces that ailed them. His short black hair was swept back and his deep blue-green eyes were intently focused on a patch of dirt not an inch away from his left foot. He was bored, and he was tired. He'd been up all night discussing plans of action against these rebels held up here in the Wuldrang mountains known simply as the Western Peaks. He and the majority of his forces had been there for three months. He found the mountains depressing and he didn't understand how they hadn't managed to wipe out a simple group of guerrilla militiamen yet. They had been discussing the matter all night, which was too long in his opinion. He preferred action over talk.
Bayamon was sat against one of the posts of his tent with his knees buckled up and his legs spread. In the light of the lanterns' flame it could be seen that he was wearing a simple attire that, unbeknownst to him or anyone else within the Wuldrang mountains, was similar to his brother Ganymede's. His shirt was white and frilled, a cravat held in front of his breast and wrapped around his neck. He'd ripped the frills from his sleeves long ago and so the rest of his attire was similarly left to fall to disrepair – wrinkles, tears and smudges of dirt plagued his clothing. His black pants and boots chaffed against his legs. His black leather military coat and cape, along with his helmet, horned and ornate, decorated with a long black feather, were at his side, balled up into a nest and setting atop his garment respectively.
***
"Your Majesty," a voice said from behind Prince Ganymede, drawing his attention away from the sunrise. He turned his head and looked over at his Colonel and Knight, Gilford, who was positioned some ten feet away on one knee, his head bowed and his right hand held over his heart in salute to the Supreme General. The morning dew made Gilford's knee wet to the touch. "Speak," Ganymede bade him softly, lifting his left hand up slightly in the air as a command for him to rise as though he were a puppet on strings. The Knight Colonel did as commanded and stood, his legs and spine held straight and rigid together while his left arm was held similarly at his side, his right staying in a position so that his spread hand was laid over his heart like a cage.
"Your Majesty, it's time," Knight Gilford said. Prince Ganymede nodded and turned back towards the Purified Ocean and sunrise. It all seemed so peaceful. Without a care, unaffected by the rest of the world and it's politics. Yet, he suspected, that there would never been another sunrise quite like this one that he would see in his life: and so, First Prince Ganymede elected to stay a few moments longer to enjoy the warm rays of light upon his face, to appreciate the sun which provided them all with life and the ocean so vast and sparkling like an endless gem. He stared until spots appeared in his eyes and his eyelids begged to be closed. He shut his eyes to the sun and turned his back on it, walking towards his Knight. "Come, Gilford," he said, the words heavy upon his tongue. "With me; to war."
***
Second Prince Mordred sat in a well crafted chair fit for royalty, looking himself over in a tall mirror. He reached up and brushed a stray hair from off of his forehead and forced it back into place upon the left side of his face. It was enough to make him consider combing his hair again for the umpteenth time. He had been at it all morning, getting dressed, making himself appear presentable to the best of his abilities. It all had to be perfect, he would not and could not accept anything less than that. Roughly an hour he'd spent on his hair alone, brushing and combing the thick golden locks back against his skull and over his shoulder. When it was all orderly, he had separated his bangs, which he had trimmed to make sure that they were aligned and even so that they fell down two inches past his chin, over both sides of his face. Then, he'd separated the back of his hair, which fell down to the mid section of his back, into three separate parts then pulled the left side over first and separating it into three from his skull to the ends of his locks. He braided them intricately, making the weave tight as he went along slowly, his eyes deadly focused on each individual turn of hair, ever watchful of himself to make sure that he didn't mess up, stopping half way down the lock. He repeated this process for the right and then the middle, taking extra time and care with the middle one since he could not see it. Then with the remaining halves of his locks he formed a single braid, thus uniting all three into one and tying off the ends with a white ribbon. Lastly, he had separated two sections of his bangs from the rest and formed them into a thin braid, tied around the back of his head with each other and fastened tightly with yet another white ribbon.
Before this, he had taken much less time in preparing his face. He'd run water into a bowel and used a razor to shave himself, though he hadn't needed it. The gesture was precautionary, a testament to his desire for his appearance to be perfect and angelic. After, he had taken a few minutes to darken his eyes, dipping his fingers into a jar of decorative powder that was set upon his desk. He'd closed his eyes and spread the powder delicately, evenly, over his eyelids, making sure that every part was covered and yet not leaving the boundary of his eye socket. He only opened his eyes when he felt certain that he could. The effect gave his blue eyes the look of a looming shadow – they were much bigger now than they had been moments before. After, he painted his lips a deep ruby red, using the brush meticulously and making sure that no smudges, streaks or droplets of red were placed anywhere but his lips.
Before this, he had selected his outfit for the day. It had taken him some time but when at last he had settled upon what he wanted, he knew that it was exactly the garment that he should wear. A pristine white long sleeved shirt with a black cravat underneath a thin white satin jacket with red borders along the collar, wrists, waist and hem. The jacket was also equipped with a pseudo cape of a deep crimson with fell in a crescent shape down below his shoulder blades. The buttons were made of some sort of ivory. His pants were that of a comfortable white satin which clung tightly to his legs which his shirt was tucked into, the seam of which was hidden by a black leather belt with a buckle in the shape of a dragon's head. Tucked tightly beneath this belt, held in place by it and rising up to above his hips and wrapping around his backside was a beautiful crimson silk sash which fell down to his ankles, pure in color and flowing. Lastly he had put on a pair of polished black boots that rose up over his pants and came up to the bottom of his knees.
He sat now, staring at himself and going over the details of his form, searching for any imperfections and finding none. He had taken the utmost care in making sure that it had all been perfect, and so perfect it was. Second Prince Mordred continued to stare though, looking at himself as though he were looking at a dear friend, or perhaps his father, for the very last time – memorizing every detail of his perfect and beautiful form, missing not a detail as he sat with his right leg crossed over his left, his hands held gently atop his knee and his posture straight and pristine. His braided hair rested over his right shoulder and fell down past his ribs. The final touch to his outfit was draped upon the chair behind him – the cape which he would fasten beneath his jacket's pseudo cape when it became time for him to go. It was a time he was almost dreading, for he knew that this would be the last time that he ever saw himself in this manner as he was right then and there; this would be the last time that he looked upon himself as Mordred, Second Prince of The Empire.
***
The flap to the tent of Third Prince Bayamon's tent opened up and in stepped a soldier dressed in a simple set of tanned and studded leather armor. "Lord Bayamon?" said the soldier, gaining the Prince's attention fully along with the generals'. "Yes, what is it?" Prince Bayamon asked, stifling a yawn before any of the three ranking officers could scold the grunt for his interrupting their, what Bayamon felt was a, pointless meeting. He'd begun to doze off just then and the call of his name had brought his attention snapping back to the present.
"My lord, my apologies for barging in like this. It's just that... well, I bring word... from the men, sir. I fear they speak of insurrection..." the soldier confessed.
"Insurrection?" one of the generals asked gruffly, a pudgy man in his later years who wore a full and dark beard. "What evidence do you have of this, soldier? Speak up!"
"None, sir," spoke the soldier, straightening his posture and moving his right hand up over his heart hurriedly as though he'd forgotten the gesture. "I bring the concern of my own volition, having spent time with the soldiers sir. Sir, morale is becoming dangerously low. With rumors spreading of Prince Ganymede making his move and with our forces being bogged here in the mountains -"
"You insubordinate whelp!" interrupted another one of the generals, slightly younger than the first and with a gaunt face, his fist slamming down on the table. "How dare you say such things in front of your commanding officers and your Lord! What unit are you from, soldier!? I ought to have you whipped for barging in here and your commander stripped of his rank!" he roared, making the soldier whence. He'd only come with good intentions, after all.
"Enough!" barked Bayamon, earning the gaze of his generals while the soldier who delivered his concerns straightened up all the more and clutched his hand tighter over his heart. The Prince looked up at the soldier, then at his generals. "Soldier, what is your name?" the Third Prince asked softly, feeling very sore and achy from lack of sleep.
"My Lord, my name is Goman," he answered, his gaze pointed off in the distance. He dared not look upon his Prince without permission.
"Look at me, Goman," Bayamon commanded, placing his dark green gaze upon the man who did as he was told, looking down upon him. The generals stirred lightly at the command but did not speak up – they believed that mere soldiers should not look down upon a Prince, even if he were sitting on the ground. Such is why they had avoided looking at him since he'd sat down upon the ground. They had such tremendous respect for him. "Goman, in your opinion what do you think the men need to keep their morale high?"
The soldier Goman hesitated a moment, not expecting to be offered to give his opinion. Frankly, he was surprised that he'd been allowed to get this far and still remain standing, practically frozen as he was. When he had told two other soldiers of his idea to approach the Prince with his concern hours ago, they had neither encouraged nor discouraged him and had done nothing to stop him as he made his way over to the tent, nor had they wished him luck. The lack of any words, positive or negative, had only made Goman's feelings of dread deepen. Frankly, he'd never set eyes upon Prince Bayamon before that very moment and his heart was pounding as if to leap into his hand. "My Lord, it is my belief that some encouraging words from the generals... or better yet, yourself, My Lord, would be sufficient to raise morale," Goman said humbly.
"Hm. An excellent suggestion," Prince Bayamon noted, thrusting his blade into the soft ground between his feet. He reached over and grabbed his helmet and cape before standing up. The three generals stood up as he did and Goman made sure that his posture was straight as an arrow once more. Sticking his helmet beneath his left arm, Bayamon used his right to sling his black cape over his right shoulder and neck so that it covered his right side, the golden tassel rope fastening easily to his left shoulder both front and back. This done, he placed his helmet atop his head, the black plumed piece of armor giving his head the visage of a dragon. "Come, let us go address the men," Bayamon said, waving his arm towards the front of the tent and out into the rain. The generals saluted their Lord, clasping their right hands over their hearts. Goman lowered his right arm and stepped aside, clearing the passage for his Prince. Bayamon moved around his generals and their table and pushed the tent flap open, stepping out into the rain and looking towards the camp.
***
Far away, First Prince Ganymede strode towards his own troops – those who chose to defect with him when he made his leave of the imperial palace. Over all, they were small in number but mighty in stature. With Gilford at his side, even as a solitary Knight, he and his men had strength – real strength. With each step he took he reinserted in his mind that this was the start of a new age and that it would be a long, arduous, hard fought age that would end only in blood. It was an age long over due, and yet it would give way to everlasting peace. He prayed that it would give way to everlasting peace.
The ground beneath his feet was rocky and sparsely covered in grass. It looked almost as a balding head with patches of hair still struggling for growth. This place, along the cliffs overlooking the Purified Ocean, was less than ideal. But it was isolated though, cut off from the rest of the mainland and all others thanks to the Ysgrambull mountain range – the Northern Peaks. For his current purposes of remaining hidden and defended, they were perfect. No other mountain range within the entirety of The Empire was so treacherous. Were it not for his knowledge of the range he would have lost the majority of those who had defected with him just in getting to these cliffs. Yet with his help and guidance they had reached this place and this would become the new capital once it was all said and done; First Prince Ganymede had already made that decision during the three months that he had his army had held camp there. Ganymede lifted his head and spotted the crest of the hill that he had climbed while it was still dark to get to the cliffs. Camped down below were his men. Gilford was at his right side.
Stopping at the crest, he looked down at the shadow he cast that stood over the shadow of the hill. Contained within this shadow was his men – the lone garrison which had chosen to come with him when he made his retreat from the capital Damocles. He owed each and every one of these men his life, and they owed him the same. No more than three hundred men were at his feet now, some still sleeping but most up and about, attending to duties as soldiers did. Three hundred men – three hundred soldiers, one Knight and one Prince. Ganymede believed in these odds with all of his heart because he had to. The road was long and arduous before them all. They were his family now, and it tore his heart in three to have to admit that to himself.
"Colonel Gilford," Ganymede said simply, finding he lacked the strength to say anything more. Knight Gilford stepped forward onto the crest of the hill beside his Prince, looking down at the camp. Three months since they had left Damocles, and in that time they had managed to change this little enclave into a suitable military camp. Tents were set up, equipment stockpiled, machina positioned properly in case of an emergency departure or an attack. He saw that soldiers were up and about, calling out orders to those who were subordinate to them and those receiving the orders following through with them. It was a well oiled machine they'd managed to build in three months. Now it was time to make it an industry. Gilford could see some men looking up at he at First Prince Ganymede, squinting in the morning sun and covering their eyes to get a better look, curious.
"Attention!" Gilford cried out, giving those looking up at them no doubt that they were being looked upon. "All men gather up! Your majesty, First Prince Ganymede, wishes to speak to you all! Come! Raise your brothers! Rise to meet His Highness at once!" His voice traveled far and his words carried weight with that that propelled men forward, dashing through the camp and into tents to get the attention of their fellow man, to alert the rest of the machine that their maker was calling to them and that it must obey the summons. Knight Colonel Gilford stood watching the thing in motion along side Ganymede, his arms held behind his back and his gaze stern. His shadow was nearly as large as his Prince's, and even in this he felt unworthy.
It took perhaps ten minutes to get all three hundred soldiers at the foot of the hill at the ready, each and every one of them falling into an orderly line that formed a rectangle. When all were present, all bowed. The motion was fluid and unanimous, an action carried out by a hive mind of soldiers who had been living together in isolation for three months and had served together and trained together much longer than that. As their left legs moved back and down, their knees bending to act as support, left propped upon the ground, their right arms moved over their chest, their hands clasping over their hearts in salute. Their left arm moved behind their back and their fingers curled half way with their thumbs rigid against the palm of their hands. They bowed their heads, ready then to listen to their Lord. Knight Colonel Gilford did the same after they had all committed this salute, taking two steps back away from Prince Ganymede to show his reverence.
"Lift your heads, my brothers," First Prince Ganymede called out, "for I wish to look upon your faces this morn." They did as they were bid, raising their heads up gracefully and craning their necks to look up at their Supreme General. Gilford did the same. "Three months now we have been settled here. Three long months sat in silence and in fear of constant attack. Some of you may have presumed that we have done so out of cowardice or spite, that we have remained hidden in this place because we could do nothing else. This is not true," Ganymede said. He'd begun to pace as soon as he started to speak. Pacing always helped him speak in front of soldiers. It helped him to remember his lessons long ago on how to speak properly.
"The truth is that it has taken me three months to consider everything! Yes, you heard me correctly. Three months it took to take it all in. My father's death, the actions of my brothers, Princes Mordred and Bayamon, our own actions and what it all means! I have reached my conclusion though, and it is a conclusion I believe you all will find sound. Brothers, the reason that we are here now is because of fear. You see, three months ago while we still sat within Damocles, I was afraid to march you upon my brothers as I have come to realize I should have. I was afraid of so many things, and none of it matters now! What matters is I have seen the way ahead and it is clear. We must come out of our self imposed exile and fight back against my brothers!"
Ganymede paused to catch his breath and to look down at his men. They all looked up at him silently, holding their positions and waiting for him to finish, clinging on to his every word. He continued. "You may say to yourself that we do not have the numbers or that we do not have the man power but this is not true! There are others out there who are opposed to how things have come to be! You've all heard the rumors of rebels all over The Empire! Pockets of resistance cropping up all over in outrage of what has occurred! It is to these masses that we shall go! They shall become our strength just as we shall lend them ours! In this way, we will all become brothers and our family will grow! Together, we shall take back Damocles and The Empire so that the rightful line of succession to rule shall be upheld! Are you with me my brothers!?"
"Yes, My Brother!" they all cried, none more loud in Ganymede's ear than the voice of Gilford at his side. He looked to his Knight who nodded at him in encouragement. He turned back to his men. "Then get ready to move out! Prepare to go, prepare to fight and to conquer! Make way for our family! The dragon never dies!" he roared, throwing his right arm up into the air and holding his fingers open and rigid like a claw. Everyone of his soldiers let out a roar and held their right arm up in the same manner; a symbol of solidarity and of readiness. The garrison began to disperse to achieve the Supreme General's commands. Knight Colonel Gilford stood and continued to salute his Prince, who turned to him with an expression that was almost fright. "How was that?" he asked.
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"Magnificent, your Majesty," Gilford replied, lowering his arms down to his side.
"Let's hope the scribe thought so as well," Ganymede said, looking back down the hill. "Those were the words to spark a change in history, Gilford. We have much to do... may the books that be written on the matter be in our favor."
***
Far away, Third Prince Bayamon stood in the pouring rain in front of his men – at least, what men that were there in camp with him. The majority of his troops were spread throughout the Wuldrang mountain range in several different camps. It was his generals' beliefs that their forces should be spread as thin as possible to cover as much ground as possible to surround the rebels. It was their belief that with their superior numbers, weaponry and military tact that it was only a matter of time before one camp or another smashed one of the rebel lines or found a key figure that could lead them to the rest or some such nonsense. He thought that it was all silly. Truly, the mountains themselves were their biggest enemy. It had held them off for months now and continued to do so day in and day out. In his opinion, the whole range should be destroyed.
The rain spattered against his armor and rang in his ears: a million bells singing over and over that they were falling from the sky! Men in dark gray and black uniforms stood before him at attention, saluting. Their eyes were tired and their hair, those who chose not to cover it during this early hour of the morning, was soaked through. He'd had them drug out of bed and brought before him, these few men who remained with him, perhaps seventy in total, they who had elected to flee the capital Damocles with him rather than stay and be executed or worse. He knew that without a doubt each and everyone of them believed in their cause – believed in his right of succession to the throne was superior over his elder brothers. So why was one soldier, this Goman, telling him that they did not?
Behind him his generals stood at attention, waiting for him to speak. By far their Prince was the most ornately dressed man there, as was fitting for their Commander, though they weren't far behind. Goman stood off to the right of Bayamon, nervously looking between the rest of the soldiers and the Prince, no doubt wondering what fate he had brought down upon himself. Perhaps thinking, even, that whatever it might be it would be better than what the generals had in store for the rest of the men. All was silent save for the rain crashing down against the men and the mud and the armor.
Prince Bayamon lifted his right arm and pointed at Goman. "Do you know who this soldier is?" he asked, raising his voice so that it would be heard among every man over the rain. "This soldier's name is Goman. He has come to me this morning with some concerns that he felt the need to address to me personally over the officer in charge of him. Shall we address these concerns together?" he asked.
No one responded. All was silent.
"Soldier Goman's concerns revolve around morale," Prince Bayamon told them all, taking a step to his right and beginning to pace back and forth. "He tells me that he fears it is getting dangerously low, and that he fears an insurrection may in fact be imminent! Treason! Mutiny! Against your own Prince!" Bayamon barked, slamming his arm down against his side and glaring at the line of silent, stoic men. "Now, you may be saying to yourself, 'This Goman's got it all wrong, hasn't he? No insurrections here, no sir My Lord. No talk of abandonment and rebellion here, no no!' Normally, I would be inclined to believe you... but the thought occurs to me, soldiers, that Soldier Goman here would not have brought this concern to me were it not valid in some form or another. He did, after all, skip over his officer in charge and come directly to me... so who's in charge of him?"
The soldiers in front of their prince stepped aside, making way for a single man to step forward. He saluted, as perfect a salute as one could give, and stood silently. Prince Bayamon walked in front of him and looked him in the eye. "It occurs to me, officer, that the reason that your subordinate did not report to you is because he does not respect you. Because you are inept," Prince Bayamon informed him, earning no response. Without warning, the Prince drew his blade and thrust it into the man's side through a hole in his armor. The soldier cried out in pain and surprise, masked by the shuddering gasp of inhalation as blood filled his body and poured out of his wound. The blade was removed and the dying man fell to his knees, only to be kicked over by Prince Bayamon. No one objected. All was silent.
"An inept soldier is a useless soldier!" Third Prince Bayamon shouted with disdain. "I have no need of them! I have no want of them! I cannot retake the capital from my brothers with useless soldiers! Soldier Goman tells me that morale is low, that there are rumors spreading around of an insurrection. Why? I ask you why!?" the Prince asked the silent crowd. He glared from under his helmet, beginning to pace again. The sound of the rain was beginning to annoy him.
"Is it because we've been in the mountains too long? Are you worried that we're losing sight of our goals, is that it? Well speak up men! Is it the rebels that are causing you to feel so reproachful? Have their rebellious thoughts begun to poison your will and minds!? Then heed my words and use them as anti-venom! What is apparently not understood is that this campaign here in these dreadful hills is a necessary one! If we do not eradicate these rebellious forces now in the early stages, they will come back for us in the future! When we are weak and tired from fighting against my brothers, they will strike like the scavengers they are! Neither of my brothers has taken measures to meet this threat as I have! They lack the foresight that your Prince has! Right now, Ganymede is preparing to strike at both me and our brother Mordred, while Mordred himself sits secure in Damocles believing himself safe within his walls! Don't you see? Don't you understand? I have lead you down the true path, the only path to rule and conquest of The Empire! We fight now against these rats so that they do not come to bite our heels in the future!" Prince Bayamon stopped to catch his breath. He felt light headed from raising his voice so much. He wasn't used to making grand speeches, he feared that he was drawling on and his words were falling on deaf ears. He was angry that he had to make this address in the first place! It was necessary though, necessary as destroying these rebels.
Once he'd caught his fill of moist air, he continued in a more hushed and sinister tone. "Should I hear anymore talk of insurrection, there will be consequences. I did not break free from Damocles and the shadows of my siblings to be betrayed by those men who followed me, claiming to want to help in my ascension to Emperor! Soldier Goman!" Bayamon barked, snapping his head towards the man. He gave his Prince his full attention. "You will take up command of your squad. Since you were the only soldier with the insight to bring this matter to me directly, it would seem that you have the potential to lead men. Congratulations on your promotion," the Prince said, then, turning towards the rest of his soldiers, he held his right arm tall in the rain, his fingers spread and held rigid like a claw. "The dragon never dies!" he shouted, earning the mirrored salute and call from over seventy others.
The matter settled for the moment, Prince Bayamon turned and walked towards his tent, fully intending to sleep for a while after all of that. He would leave his generals and the newly appointed Goman to clean up the body he'd made.
***
The doors of the Imperial Palace's master bedroom swung open and out stepped Second Prince Mordred, his arms held out in front of him as his hands had been the ones to push open the doors. He stepped out into the long, grand hallway, his foot steps echoing off of the stone walls and the ceiling high windows to his left that over looked Damocles. Behind him, his mistress from the night before was just beginning to wake. She sat up and looked around, still in that morning daze and wondering where her Prince had gone. In all the time he'd spent getting ready for this day of days, he hadn't once disturbed her.
The doors were shut not long after Mordred had stepped out of them by a pair of soldiers, ornately dressed in red and white uniforms that were decorative for the occasion. The hall was lined with soldiers on both sides, two apart from each other on opposite ends of the hall every ten feet, one hundred red and white soldiers in all. Each one brandished a halberd in their right hands. As their Prince walked within five feet of them, the heads of their weapons were starkly lowered to a forty five degree angle to signify his passing. Once he was passed, they were raised again and the men who were holding them would turn and follow their prince as the previous set of soldiers made their way past them. An escort was thus formed down the hall with Prince Mordred at the front.
The Prince stared out the window at Damocles as he walked by. He completely ignored the soldiers for the sake of this view of the city and the sky. Things were growing darker outside in the early morning sunlight but the sun was still breaking through the clouds. He hoped that it would stay bright long enough that his ceremony would be lit by it, he truly did. The darkening sky was as much of a sight to behold as the rest of the landscape was, but it was on said landscape that he spent the majority of his attention on. Damocles was wounded, it's sores still gaping and black, festering fumes rising up to join the clouds. Each crater a reminder of what had taken place not so long ago after his father had died. He shuddered to think what his father, Emperor Gawain, would have said at the sight of it. To know that the proverbial heart of the empire had been struck and wounded by his own sons would have been devastating. Mordred was thankful that he was not there to see it.
He turned his attention away from the scars of Damocles, a slight smile rising on his ruby lips. True his father Emperor Gawain would not have approved of the damage that had occurred to the city, he most certainly would have been proud of Mordred for tending to it immediately. Once the First and Third Princes had been repelled from the city's walls, Mordred had made it his top priority to rebuild what had been destroyed, to recover what could be recovered and to help the citizens of Damocles in any way that he could. Over the weeks that had turned to months, he'd visited the city many times and had personally helped where he could despite the advice from those older and supposedly wiser than him to stay within the palace, where his brothers supposedly could do no harm. His disregard of their words had earned him a just reward – the love of his people. People who would be here in the palace today, who were already there he was sure, waiting for him, their Second Prince, soon to be a Prince no more.
The hall ended at a tall, wide stair of pure white marble. At this stair case he paused, looking down the steps and remembering the many times he'd run up and down them, how he'd utilized them to their fullest over the years to explore the Palace. His father had told him once, long ago, that these stairs were the first thing to be built in the Palace proper, and indeed, the first thing to be built in all of Damocles. He'd told him how through these stairs you could access every section of the Palace, how it was the central pillar that connected every other part of the building they called home and how it brought together the history of the place. Emperor Gawain had told his son Modred how when Damocles was being built the Palace had come first and the rest of the city around it, how that when it was being built the people who had helped build it would stay within the palace itself. The thought had appalled Mordred at first. He couldn't quite understand how commoners would be allowed to stay within the walls of the Palace, even if it hadn't been properly built yet. When he brought this up to his father long ago at the top of these stairs, his father had clapped him on the shoulder and told him that it was ordinary, regular, every day citizens that made up The Empire, even back then, that while they ruled, they were not above the ideal that The Empire was for one and all. Thus they had been allowed to sleep within the grounds while the staircase and the rest of the Palace was being built. Thus Second Prince Mordred personally helped to rebuild what parts of Damocles had been harmed during the Struggle for Succession.
Second Prince Mordred reached out and took a hold of the smooth marble railing as he had done so many times before, though this time there was a delicateness to it. As he recalled the conversation with his father, his chest was filled with the warm throbbing pain of sorrow at the loss of his father and his brothers. He was reminded how he would never again sit atop these stairs with any of them and it made him want to weep. Never the less, he stepped forward onto the stair and began to descend, his cape falling on each step behind him as he went and his entourage of one hundred soldiers falling in two lines behind him with him at the center. He was grateful for the company, even if it was just ceremonial.
Down the steps they walked, one story leading to the next. The Palace was made up of ten stories and stood as the tallest building in Damocles. At each story, the central staircase broke up into four walk ways that lead to different parts of the Palace, each walk way positioned in the cardinal directions. Descending ever downward at an even pace, Mordred felt that somehow the stairs had grown longer since he'd last been up them. Every step seemed to make his stomach drop as though he were about to fall down into a hole. He kept his eyes down on the stairs and occasionally looked over the railing to try and get a glimpse at the bottom. His view was obscured by the floors below though, and so he'd try again a floor down only to find his view blocked once again. He did this compulsively. He was nervous, and who wouldn't be?
The time did come when he could see the bottom though, when he turned the final turn and the stairs did indeed grow wider as they fanned out, spreading along the floor like a ribbon being undone. At this bottom stair was the floor which in precisely twenty steps lead to another set of stairs and another floor that lead to a tall set of double doors. Beyond these doors was the throne room, his destination and his future. He strode towards them without hesitation, descending the final stair case that had exactly ten steps to it and ten steps from it's bottom stair to the doors. He was ready for this. He'd gone over every detail of the ceremony that was to come in his mind, had spent three months agonizing over the details on just when and how he should do it, and now he was ready. Butterflies or not, in a mere forty steps he would step through those doors and become a new person. He was nervous, as he had every right to be. How often does one become emperor of the world?
He stopped two paces away from the door and waited, as he knew he should, for the two soldiers closest behind him to step forward and grab a hold of the gold plated handles. They looked to him, waiting for his signal. He could stand there all day and they would stand with him, waiting for his nod to open the door. Whether or not they could see he was nervous was of no consequence, what Prince Mordred would have preferred was their understanding that he was nervous in the first place. After a moment and a breath, he gave his nod and the doors were pushed open and Prince Mordred was bathed in golden light.
The room was filled as Mordred was expecting. Nobility, the eleven remaining Knights who had stayed in Damocles, but most of all there were people. Throngs of them filled the massive and open room, all dressed in their finest clothing. Ningen, Animunculi, and Bloodlings were all present. The Ningen made up the majority of those present while the few Animunculi and Bloodlings were in small parties – emissaries to their respective cultures who came to witness this historical event. He was glad to see them there. Their witnessing would act as justification to many of the other races of the world, those part of and not a part of The Empire. Mordred knew that in the days to come, they would be watching him and his people closely.
Down a final, smaller, set of stairs he descended which lead to the platform on which the seat of The Empire was sat. He walked straight forward while the two lines of soldiers who had followed him thus far left his company and descended down the steps on opposite sides, following the walls of the room and creating a perimeter for the ceremony. Many people who saw him as the doors opened up cheered. The Knights all saluted their Prince and bowed their heads, stooping down on one knee to show their loyalty. Prince Mordred waved to the crowd and lifted his hand up over his chest in salute, signaling the eleven Knights to rise and turn their backs on him, bowing towards the crowd – all save for Gawain, who remained standing in front of the throne and facing Second Prince Mordred. In his right hand was a bright red silk cloth, roughly in the shape of a pyramid. Prince Mordred eyed this cloth as he made his way towards the throne. He knew was what laying beneath it.
Second Prince Mordred walked in front of his throne and sat down slowly, placing his hands on the arm rests first and then taking his throne for the very first time. The crowd quieted down almost immediately. They were all eager to see this – all eager to see history in the making. The soldiers all around the room lifted up their right legs and stomped on the floor before turning in unison towards the throne and lifting their halberds as high up over their head as they could in practiced precision. Mordred watched with approval on his lips. His hands shook lightly on the throne. His nervousness from the long walk down to the throne had been replaced by an excitement he hadn't known since he was a child. This was it. This was actually happening.
Knight Gawain stepped forward and knelt down before the throne, his chocolate brown eyes never leaving Mordred. With care, he reached up and removed the red silk cloth from what was within, one fold at a time, revealing the crown that lay beneath. Mordred drew in a sharp breath at the sight of it. When last he'd seen the crown, it was laying atop his father's funeral pyre. It was beautiful. It's polished gold ring appeared as gums to the ivory teeth that jutted out from around it's top at odd angles, like the maw of some great serpent. Towards the front, near where his temples would be, two ebony horns rose up and towered over the teeth, ending in sharp points and curving organically. Much like the marble stairs that served as a central pillar to the Palace, his father Emperor Gawain had told him the story of this crown as well. He'd told him how long ago, before history was history and before ningen walked the world, dragons had ruled the skies. By the time ningen came along, he'd been told, the dragons were dying off. Realizing that ningen would inherit the world, the last remaining dragons came together and helped ningen form the crown for themselves as a symbol of the dragons' will which they passed on to ningen. They passed it on to them so that, as he was told they put it, "the dragon would never die". This story served also as the source of The Empire's slogan.
"My lord," Knight Gawain spoke, his voice carrying like the wind in the great hall so that all could hear. "Do you henceforth swear to live for the Empire, to rule the Empire in the name of the people, and to die for the Empire?"
"I do," Mordred pronounced in equally loud fashion so that all could hear.
"And do you swear to protect the people from all enemies, and to maintain a peace to the best of your abilities so that the Empire may continue to grow and exist prosperously, so that the will of the dragons may never fade from this world?" Knight Gawain asked, speaking each word of the Imperial Oath in question form as he had memorized and repeated to himself for weeks now.
"I do," Mordred answered.
"And do you carry the dargon's fire within your heart and soul, such that your words may forge the metal that will support one and all within the Empire, that your will alone will continue to sustain the Empire, and that your power be equaled by no other?"
"I do," Mordred replied. He bowed his head as Knight Gawain stood up, closing his eyes and waiting with heart thumping in his chest for the moment that was rapidly approaching. Knight Gawain turned towards the crowd and held the crown high up over his head, the blood red silk that had been used to cover the crown before now falling in his hands and hanging in the air, showing it to be part of the crown itself. All bowed their heads, save for the animunculi present who felt no such need to heed an inanimate object with respect, and Knight Gawain turned around and slowly lowered the crown onto Mordred's head. His upper braid served as a seat for the crown atop his head, the silk falling along the back of his neck and shoulders. He felt the weight of it upon his head for the first time and it felt good to him.
The crown placed, Knight Gawain stood back. "Hail, Emperor Mordred!" he called, falling in line with the other ten Knights and saluting their new emperor while bowing his head and falling to one knee. "The dragon never dies!" Emperor Mordred lifted his head and opened his eyes to a room full of people saluting him and down on their knees. Only the one hundred soldiers who had accompanied him down the stairs remained standing, stoic and watchful. Even the animunculi had taken a knee out of respect for the new sovereign of the realm.
Emperor Mordred stood, and with him the masses. They cheered, clapping their hands together and waving their arms excitedly. From where he stood in front of the throne, it was easy to separate the groups of people from one another. The nobility all stood towards the front of the throne, clapping politely and smiling but otherwise remaining still. The citizens who made up the majority of the crowd wriggled and bounced off of one another in excitement and glee, becoming a pool of writhing, joyful flesh. The Bloodlings acted much the same as the noble ningens though in the back which was appropriate seeing as they were nobility in their own right. The animunculi were the easiest to spot, being the most out of place element in the room. Their bodies of metal and tubes stood stoic and unmoving in the tide of bodies, seemingly unaffected by the cheer in the room. The soldiers all turned as one towards the crowd and lowered their halberds to their sides, ready to step in should the need arise and the Knights remained bowed before their new emperor. This was how he'd imagined it would be. Soon, he would be moving among them all and he would interact with each group respectively, but first there was the manner of tradition to address.
Emperor Mordred raised his arms up over his head and spread his hands, calling for silence which came gradually. All were excited to hear what his first words as Emperor of the World would be and he planned to not disappoint. When the room had fallen silent, he lowered his arms but raised his hands. "Knights, arise," he commanded, soft authority in his voice. "Face the people."
Eleven Knights rose, the highest ranking officers of the Imperial military and indeed all the world. To all else present, these knights in white satin were but a single step below the Emperor himself. As both nobility and military officers, they were afforded the right to act as such as well. These eleven looked out at the room as they were told, awaiting for their Emperor to speak, letting every word sink in.
"People! Look at these Knights. Brave, loyal, faithful knights who chose in the Struggle of Succession to remain loyal to the crown when all was chaos! Only Knight Gilford is missing, but for this I do not hold Gilford at fault. He and my brother Ganymede are extremely close, and so it was no surprise that when my brother absconded from Damocles, Gilford went with him. Truly, his loyalty is to be admired, were it only placed upon the crown rather than my brother!" He paused here, gathering his thoughts before continuing.
"The times ahead we face are grim indeed. My brothers, Princes Ganymede and Bayamon, seek to take the throne from me and thus from you! When our father, the Late Emperor Gawain, passed from this world, my brother Ganymede was quick to try and claim the crown for his own, caring not that his actions affected the Empire itself in a ripple that would be felt by all others! My brother Bayamon, seeing this and feeling wronged by what our elder brother was trying to do, sought to take the crown for himself, if only to keep it from our brother! Only I stood in their way and refused to let either take the crown of their own will rather than the will of the Empire! Only I sought to act for the sake of the people! And so here we are today, standing within this great hall of Emperors' past within Damocles, left hurt and in want after the battle we three brothers had. Yet when Bayamon had made off like a bandit in the night with precious soldiers and machina after burning homes, I stayed. When Ganymede recruited his men who believed him to be in the right and left the city after destroying lives, I stayed. In these trying past three months, I have done all that I could as a Prince to help rebuild the city, but it wasn't enough! The time came for me to do more, to be more! And so by the will of the peoples of the Empire, I stand before you today as your Emperor and Sovereign!"
Cheers erupted from the crowd again. The citizens who were there could barely contain themselves at their newly appointed emperor's words. Emperor Mordred raised his hands again to call for silence and so silence befell the room, and then he continued.
"As your Emperor, I will speed up the rebuilding of Damocles. As your Emperor, I will defend its walls from my brothers and do what I can to return them to us all, so that we may stand as one empire and one family! As your Emperor, I swear I will do all of this and much more! I henceforth swear to live for the Empire, to rule the Empire in the name of the people, and to die for the Empire! I swear to protect the people from all enemies, and to maintain a peace to the best of my abilities so that the Empire may continue to grow and exist prosperously, so that the will of the dragons may never fade from this world! I carry the dragons' fire within my heart and soul, such that my words may forge the metal that will support one and all within the Empire, that my will alone will continue to sustain the Empire, and that my will be equaled by no other! The dragon never dies!" Emperor Mordred cried, repeating his oath and raising his right hand up high over his head, fingers curled like that of a claw. He relished the cheers of his people, he felt within him an ecstasy he'd never known at the sight of their joyous faces. Yes, dark times were ahead of them all but in this moment, on this day at this hour, he enjoyed being the Emperor of the World.
It began to pour down rain over Damocles.