Knight to F6; King in Check
A thief of blæd this cladded beorn was.
Every rush that was wrought in the horizon, every arrow that was nocked, every drop of blood that was shed; he possessed an arcane love for the siþ.
He’d slash his blade across the throats of many feond—a macabre scene decorating the rich reeds of the land in wake of his slaughter—as he slaved for the aged monarch.
The broad man in question, boorishly covered in riches, observed the beorn as he led the kingdom's charge; the grip on his throne became vice-like whenever he heard news of the victor. It wasn’t a distant foe that was a threat to the monarchy—it was the bat that clung to the pillars of his castle, taunting him with shrill squeaks.
Day after day the steel-cladded beorn bent before the monarch in that throne room. Head down, he lent his ear to every intricate hatan that was bestowed on him.
The crown’s eyes lingered on the beorn’s figure as he delivered his commands—he admired his creation, but grew fearful that it was outgrowing its maker. He peered at his own reflection in the steel; a confrontation that left him questioning what he’d sacrifice for the land… perhaps the very royal that stood before him? He stewed in anxiety at such a prospect.
Were the bat to fly away—march on the kingdom in search of a grander purpose—he would be left bereft; not only of his role and right hand, but of the monster he’d grown fond of. Each curt order he spoke, every detail left vacant, was laced with a trembling reverence; a terror that the beorn might one day resist to kneel.
Stand tall on our walls as the storm breaks…
Leave not a single soul alive in your
venture…
And, above all, let that sword of thine carry
my essence as you seek justice for the realm!
The realm’s banner unfurled along the rolling plains, where the sound of brave cries rattled the stained blades of grass. The brooding sky, stewing with a rich tempest, laid a foreboding scene for the souls so unfortunate that their fate rested in the bat’s wings. The blood of those men ran through the fields as water spilled from the heofon—the beorn’s boots glistened with such elixir.
With every thrust of his blade into their bellies, his mind turned to the King—to the question of what loyalty demanded of him. As much as the bat’s helmet limited his vision, his ears never failed to unveil the truth that quivered between him and the monarch; their relationship was not so simple as servant to master. The longer he served the realm, the more his armour weathered, the more the King’s gold softened; loyalty and longing were too often the same thing.
Through his helmet, corroded by the blood of duty, only his eyes dared meet the monarch’s gaze as he knelt before him.
I understand, Your Grace.
At your command, my liege.
I will see to it, my lord.
It was a dance between them—one that swayed around veiled details of their affairs. Their vision of the throne room remained a haze; were they to one day mistake an expedition for a farewell? A command for a profession? A kneel for a touch—one that they were so long denied?
The answer could only be found in the reeds, where the blood of those who fell to the Knight’s sword remained pungent.
Written by Karma Georgouras.