[ P ] The Reckoning

the crownless again shall be king

I felt like nothing more than a machine. One that could be called if it suited a higher demand. One that could be controlled with the bark of an order. And that did not settle well in the pit of my belly. It did not make this burning ambition quell nor did it make me want to continue serving. Once upon a few weeks ago I would have leapt at the chance to gain rank within the army, but now I simply scoff at mention of it. I wouldn’t ask why. I already knew the answer. My journey would end with something greater, even if I had to create my own path to glory. The painted image of triumph and status through the imperial army beneath Adamh was once a dream - but I set fire to it. Massive frame shifted toward the nearest pool of clear water. It was time for reflection and gathering of the mind. Haunches folded to sit, my one working eye staring silently back at the mirror image it offered me. Stoic, heavily marred visage, torn and tattered ears, but despite it all a young, handsome face. Plumes of visible carbon expelled with steady exhales, the winter air nipping at my nose and stinging the eye. I had peeled away from my Witch, but I was certain she wouldn’t be far. Her possessiveness rivaled even my own. What a wonder that was. It was she who helped me realize my worth was being wasted serving beneath. So why was I wasting my precious time? The clock was running out. And my place wasn’t beneath someone else.

code // art

Oh what lives soldiers live. So many in King Adamh’s service, they had joined because they had nowhere else to go, nowhere left to hide, no shop or tavern that they could belong to. This world, for wolves such as those, were not for them, and so it was decided long ago, perhaps before there were wolves, that such useless wolves, as they saw them, must be ground into dust. And so it was, and so it has always been, year after year. These wolves, alas, served a vital purpose to so many, even if their lives were deemed expendable. Safety, protection, the embodiment of order and interests, not to mention, giving the short-lived lives of so many a purpose. War, it was destructive, but it was necessary for one’s own kind. A prescribed burn of a forest, after all, burns all it touches, but do any shed tears over the destruction? No… for a better world ultimately may come from it. And to conquer one’s enemies, knowing they wish to do the same to one’s own… there is no choice other than to bring waste to their villages and towns.

But… this war, and those that served in it, they were atypical. This war, between the Imperials and the rebellious, ungrateful Highlanders, who in their backwards practices and hopeless traditions… it was more than necessary, it was compulsory. This realm, fractured as it now was, all because of their arrogance, their witless yelps of being special, was broken. Their claims of subverting order and rule lay upon false stories and beliefs, of being ungrateful for all that had been provided to them for generations. Their way of life was a hopeless, dwindling one… could they not see that? This war, this necessary, brutal reminder of the liberating feeling of subservience to something other than one’s self… it was because of them. But those that gave their lives, their abilities, their faiths to this war, how were they received, when their cowardly Imperial leaders sued for peace? Politics… at the end of the day, someone must bear the blame, and in this war, it fell upon soldiers. If they could not kill their own unworthy populace off in combat, those so-called powers conspired, then they shall let them live a life in shame, a worthless, putrid existence. Let the world know them only by their failures, and nothing more. But it is they who failed… failed to smother Jacob at his mother’s teat, failed to keep order at home and abroad, and failed to win the war. And now, those very same soldiers who gave everything short of their lives… now failed to live at all.

The stench of failure was almost absent in Sussex, a far trek for the Imperial officer. Of course, a far more putrid scent, those of enemies of the state, coalesced… like fifty wolves packed in a den made for ten. If ever a place deserved to fall into the sea, and all its inhabitants drowned… perhaps this might be the one. As Falltore ascended a cliffside, looking down upon the smoky centers of commerce and subversion of authority… his only thought was not on how their kind lived on borrowed time… but on stolen time. He crept high and away, heading to a secluded spot, a freshwater watering hole, a place he felt best to be alone. No wolf would be so bold as to venture to such a place. After all… would the water not be frozen? It might be an ideal place for the soldier to remove his salve, let the cold soothe his burning flesh in the privacy of his own domain. And yet, as he approached such a place… he found it to be occupied. And, from his brutish appearance, his scarred visage… his isolated, downcast gaze… something told him that this wolf had the makings of a soldier… one whom, perhaps, had thoughts on his mind.

Whatever they might be, whether they concerned him, and whatever might occur next, it did not concern Falltore, stopping short of the drinking hole, ceasing to look in the stranger’s direction, as he lapped the near-frozen water from his spot on the pond. Not a word was spoken, not that one needed to be, nor wanted to be. While he had not come here alone, Falltore by no means was conversational, had no desire to make friends simply because of convenience. Of course… there was something familiar about this wolf, from how he looked. Alas… such thoughts were secondary. Nothing else mattered.

the crownless again shall be king

The approach was silent, foreboding. It blanketed the area in a sense of dread that I couldn’t shake. It caused for my one working eye to drag itself from my reflection, slowly rising up and up in survey until I was forced to twist my head in order to observe the Lieutenant Major as he descended. I knew not his name, but I did know his rank. I watched him a moment before returning to my wallowing. He did not speak, so I didn’t push him to. In fact, I felt a sense of tingling jealousy wash over me. He had ascended higher than me, a measly low rank. How ridiculous that others did soar and yet here I was left in one place - stagnant. I wouldn’t be for much longer, a quiet promise to myself. I tucked it away deep in the confines of my mind. What was the point in my service? What was the purpose of my performance and the sacrifice others made? I wasn’t so sure I believed in this vision anymore. The vision of another. Not my own. It made me sneer at myself, watching the image contort, scarring limiting the motion. I wanted my earned titles to mean something, I wanted my name in lights. I wanted it to drip in blood, my ambition to burn a path from before to the future, speeding past all this murk and mess. I’d not serve in another war for Adamh. I dare not even call him King. Nor would I falter to Jacob, a chief overthrown. No more. I stole another glance at the man who was still legally considered my superior. He seemed steeled and weathered, but nothing about him said hardened battle warden. What were his titles? Where were his skull collections? What did he sacrifice, serve, offer, give up? Had he murdered and pillaged? All questions I’d not ask. They fueled the envy I felt. He must not be that great, I didn’t even know his name. Another nameless face.

code // art

A glare, another glare, and yet another glare. Somehow, despite his quiet drinking, Falltore had seen each and every look flashed his way, out of the corner of his eye. He knew that look, that wrathful stare. He knew if for he had given such himself, to the cowards that declared this war triumphantly to be lost. But for it to be directed his way at such a wolf was cause for… investigation. Those long, icy gazes in his direction, odious as they were, they were not without their reason. They were the signs of bitterness, and for what? What had this wolf, whose name and reputation he had not known, to quarrel with him over? He did not look the part of a conscientious objector, or so said his scars. Was he furloughed, cast away like so many, only to place blame wherever he saw fit? Did he feel no longer as special, to see a wolf with wounds to match if not surpass his wounds? Or was he eyeing up his prey, a cowardly Voxi or Jacobite, feeling it to be easy? If he was… he was making a mistake, one that would easily be corrected with the removal of his other eye in as swift a motion as a fractured neck might be. For his sake, it best not come to that.

And yet, as Falltore had gotten his fill, he took the time to return the same odious glare in the wolf’s direction, solemnly, fearlessly, closing the distance between them. His treads, stiff and purposeful as they were, were a mixture of complacency and potentiality, a concoction of challenge and steadfastness. There would be no need for blows if it did not come to it, as far as he was concerned. That is… unless there was a reason to do so. But in such a political landscape, and with every wolf vying for what they had or did not have… anything was possible. Falltore spent the next moment sizing the wolf up, calculating in his mind what best to say, and what might be best to do if this wolf were to think himself the physically superior one. But… he was never one to rush into combat, unless if it were the only option. Blood, after all, tended to be difficult to get out of one’s fur this time of year.

There was only one thing that could be said to break the tense ice between them, as the two strangers exchanged identical glances with one another, each one sizing up the other, each one waiting for the other to blink first. And yet, neither one seemed to do so, to break the silence. At least, at first, until Falltore spoke but a few short words. “I hear that King Adamh favors the idea of speech without consequence,” he said, his stance widening, “is there something you wish to say to me?”

the crownless again shall be king

Even though there were no words, we spoke volumes. My stolen glances seemed to have been taken harder than they were, which is really no one’s fault. If I felt offended I’d definitely react the same way, so I didn’t take any hard feelings to his shifting, darkening aura. But the excitement of the possible opportunity to learn from the man in any way? I’d hardly be the fool to pass it up. Any battle, any spar, any lecture, any lesson was up for grabs and I was too hungry not to eat it up. So my one good eye narrowed in on the higher ranked wolf, by miles at this point. I stifled a smirk, refraining so that my signature stoic expression was all he saw. The smirk would have been childish and full of envy, but I wasn’t willing to burst with jealousy any longer. I wanted to let go of that and move on, but this pride of mine was a killer sometimes. My one good brow furrowed slightly, my body unmoving just yet. While he slid with a predator’s expertise into a defensive battle stance, I remained seated at the edge of the corresponding pool. I truthfully wanted him to know that I meant no harm or disrespect, but I knew once there was suspicion of scorn, none would rectify but a fair and brutal spar. And who was I to ever turn town the chance at a fight? "Nothing to say. But if you’re offering a spar, I’d be happy to oblige," Baritones rolled thunderously as I chose then to move. I stood, walked with pride toward him, and stopped a respectable distance away. This proves my willingness to spar, and my unwillingness to yield. "it would be an honor to fight a lieutenant major. It’s just a pity I don’t know the name to match the title." Deep vocals drawled on, as I too with my own uncanny grace positioned into a defensive pose, watching my possible opponent with intent. I gave him this time now to decide what he’s doing. If he decided to reserve his energy, so be it. I’d not fault him for either choice.

code // art

A spar. It was a delightful suggestion, to be sure. Nevermind the false sense of respect that this wolf seemed to offer. No, for Falltore could see through it the moment he saw the way those eyes had glared at him. But unlike any insecure officer that Adamh might otherwise have relied on, Falltore seemed to have suffered no wound from any of it. No, in fact, he found himself intrigued by this wolf. There were so many officers that would be wounded by this challenge, perhaps might reprimand or court martial this wolf for so daring to challenge their supremacy. They were afraid to lose, simply put, afraid to get hurt. And was it any wonder, then, why this war had gone the way it did? Because those scared, yet elevated youths had grown into fossilized, worn out leaders, who had their pensions and families and lofty interests to protect. And any spatter of blood on their pelt was… undesirable. So badly did Falltore wish to say yes to this wolf and have their spar be the end of it. But now… he found himself only more interested with this scarred youth.

“A pity, you say,” Falltore cooed, sarcastically, “you know my rank, yet not my name? How curious… usually those two things are one in the same.” If there was some intent to wound Falltore by this wolf stating he knew not of his name, then he was sorely mistaken. The sense of there being some concept of honesty for a wolf’s name and actions to be all known was outdated, pathetic. He preferred to move in silence, after all, have his name only be uttered by those who wished not to greet him, to be seen only when he wished to be seen. The concept of the ideal warrior being a name that everyone knew never sat right with him anyhow. All that mattered was the result, the outcome, and let that be his legacy. In terms of scale, who he was would be whimper, compared to the loud bark of what he hoped to accomplish.

Laughing quietly to himself, as if amused by the thought of fighting this behemoth, Falltore took his time to size the brute up, taking note of his form, his presumed strengths and weaknesses, as he continued. “You intrigue me,” Falltore said, with a smile, “such a fascinating specimen you are. Tell me… are you truly honored to spar with me?” After all, the manner in which he had been glared at belied how this wolf seemed to truly feel about his presence. Not to mention, the insinuation that seemed to sit behind his statement of not knowing his name. And the way he stood in front of him, then and there. Was he truly asking for a spar, or was he demanding it?

“Because I don’t think you really feel that way,” Falltore continued, taking a step closer, “after all… you don’t know who I am, and I don’t know who you are. Perhaps if we change that… I would consider your offer.” Cut out your bullshit flattery, he seemed to say without saying. Of course, the way wolves were expected to behave, there was so much that so many didn’t know about the subtlety of interactions. Or perhaps this wolf knew better than to openly say what he really wanted to to an Imperial officer. This wolf felt himself fearless for asking a Lieutenant Major for a spar… was he fearless to show his true self if it meant getting what he wanted?