in sure and single faith (ithacles)
"You should cower before the end!" Alvon barked.
Cavras only laughed.
Their swords met for the briefest of seconds.
Cavras rolled his shoulders, twisted his blade. Alvon let out a bark of pain as his hand was sliced clean from the wrist, followed by a more muted grunt as three feet of steel dove into his heart. Cavras let the weight of the body carry his sword down, put a boot to the old man's stomach, and then jerked the weapon free. Blood looked unnatural on the seal of the kingdom; a fixture on this balcony, it was patterned with colored stones. Blood seeped into the cracks of the thing. Without another sound the Reaver leaned from the waist, snatched up Alvon's sword. One in either hand. It was the fighting style he preferred, on foot and on horseback. It was the style he'd learned along with Prince Ithacles - King Ithacles - when they were both children. One of them was common, the other quite uncommon. Both of them trying to live up to something they'd never understood in the first place.
Lethe's mouth was dark with blood; her hand still clutched the hilt of the dagger buried in her side, as though she feared to pull it out. Ithunvel had watched Alvon fight with impassive eyes, dark eyes; now the king jerked his longsword up. The blade was narrow and bold. Coming to a diamond point, which the King raised over his head. He favored the high guard, apparently. It was a nobleman's style of fighting. One who hadn't seen war in so long that he'd forgotten what it was like. The sword itself was plain. It even had brass quillions. Yet it wasn't enough to keep him from the path he'd chosen all those years ago. Lethe stirred from her place on the stone. Just far enough to prop herself up against the heavy rail, of patterned and slender stone. Just far enough for the rain to strike the side of her face. A billowing wind inflated the awning as a ship's sail; they had no time for such casual beauty.
A moon smiled down at them. A change was unfolding. The course of history was being changed forever.
Ithunvel's eyes shifted to his daughter; only for an instant, before they fixed on Cavras.
"I do not expect you to cower," Ithunvel said quietly. "You have fought as a man should from the first, Cavras."
"What do you know of how a man should fight?" the Reaver barked.
Whatever he might think of the king's ability to lead, of his sovereign and ordained right to rule, Ithunvel was not a poor swordsman. Another might have found it difficult to keep the biting tongues of two blades from his flesh. Yet the king's face showed no strain as he swung left and right, high and low, always from the two-handed grip above his head. Streaking steel became the norm, then, as their boots scuffled and shifted along the stone. Cavras' mouth was slack; he knew it, and pressed on. Ithunvel was the image of control. Sparks showered the blood, forced it into clumps, even landed among the lank hair which graced Alvon's dead scalp. If Ithunvel mourned the old soldier, or feared for his daughter, he showed no sign of it. Instead he battled with the singular grim intensity that had marked his son, as well.
"I know enough," the king spoke as they circled. "You invoke the name of my son, Cavras. My son. Of all the lives I hold more dear than my own, my children sit atop the list."
"What future do you build for them?" Cavras snarled, his stance lowering. "A future full of master and servant, where a man doesn't fight - he obeys. If he is sent to die, then his only choice is how."
"Do you think life affords even free men such a chance?" Ithunvel raised the blade above his head. "If you must die, Cavras, at least know that all men face the same choice in the end. Not a choice between life and death, but a choice merely of how to face the death which comes for us all. When you hold me responsible, you flee from your fear. You believe Ithacles will be more just than I? Perhaps he will, when his time comes. That does not change the nature of a general's choice - or a king's, Cavras. Or a soldier's. How many times have you seen that look in my son's eyes?"
"What look?" Cavras rolled the balls of his feet.
"You know precisely the look," Ithunvel actually smiled. "The look which says he is willing to use your death to advance the goals of his command. Of his nation. Of his people. He has the same willingness for his own life. Just as I do."
"Liar!" and the younger man lunged as he roared.
Now the rage propelled him to far greater heights of prowess. Now Ithunvel was withdrawing before the power and consummate anger of the land which Cavras channeled through his limbs. It was no longer the same as a game, which he'd played with Ithacles when they were nothing more than boys. To and fro, this way and that way, seeking an advantage even at peril to your own life. In a younger man's hands that longsword might have given him pause. Yet Ithunvel was old enough that he knew all the tricks, and could not quite pull them off against someone in their prime. So it was that Cavras managed to trap the longsword between his two shorter blades, and twist it out of Ithunvel's grasp. The king froze on the instant. His hands spread wide, and his face was calmer than it had any right to be.
"Not the choice to live or die," Ithunvel murmured quietly. "Merely how to face it."
"Beg," Cavras said. "On your knees."
"Knees," Ithunvel responded in the same quiet voice. "Are meant for kneeling. And I will never kneel to you. Nor beg for the life which is not mine to possess. You might fight as a man does, Cavras, but you have the heart of a spoiled child."
"I said, beg!" and now spittle struck Ithunvel's face.
"Is that what Pathacles would have wanted?" Ithunvel's voice became louder, stronger. "Did Pathacles ask you to make me beg, Cavras? Was that his vision of a just future? Of a just king?"
Everything seemed to happen in the same instant. Those oak doors, so majestic on the hinges of Ithunvels' entryway, crashed open. Silk curtains had been torn away from this balcony. Moonlight illuminated everything. Only one man would enter so brash as that. It was the same instant that Cavras' sword thrust forward. Ithunvel tried to feint and then dodge, but the blade pierced his shoulder. The king did not cry out. He merely twisted away, before he fell. Not to his knees. On one side, hand pressed against his shoulder. Teeth were grinding together. And Cavras laid the point of his sword - one of his swords - against Ithunvels' throat. A squeak, as boots yelled to a stop. Only when he was sure that Ithacles had come to rest did he turn.
"You're seconds away from becoming king," Cavras used the same dry voice he always did. "Seconds away from deciding my future, and the future of this country. Don't spoil it by trying to be a hero, Highness."