Schism

It was late in the morning, and the smell of the afternoon was strong. It smelled different from morning air. Morning air was soft and alive, and vib.rating with the whole of nature waking up and shuddering its covers. Morning air was untouched and untouchable, and carried an odd rhythm to it. The morning air was not inhaled, but gasped.
But, it was later in the day now, and the morning air was nowhere to be experienced. The daylight had broken through the invisible clout of sweetness, and the softer details of scents were now hollowed out. The scent of it came over the hills and settled everywhere in clumps. Today, it smelled like wheat. There was no wind today, so the fibrous smell clung to anything.
Louis Osertes sat in the keep, above everything. The room was wide and now relatively vacated. It was furnished for war, not for prospective royalty, so all a man needed in this room was some stools and a sharp eye. It was grey and soundless as hard stone is credited for. The rock quarried to make this room was flecked with pieces of ore, and it threw back small pinpricks of light in the room although they were extremely soft and not obtrusive. It almost looked like sooty ice to Louis.
They had brought up a table and a bed for Louis; two immediate furnishings for the keep they placed him in. The table was muted and not in any way flattering for a prospective king- small and brown, with the obligatory depictions of dragons, ogres, and men all mingling in blood and myth. The bed was thinly shaped, but stained red and covered with gold trims of floral patterns that swirled and crossed over itself. It was also not much to be said for or spoken about.
Louis sat at the edge of the bed. It shrilled under the weight of his body, but it made noise no matter who had placed their bottom on it; Louis was not that heavy. He had dragged his table across the room to his bedside. It was extremely heavy, to Louis’s surprise, and it left four scours that ripped across the floor as though the table had put up a fight on the way over.
Louis most definitely did not care at this point.
Louis sat at his table, in the keep, in silence.
He could still hear the rush of the attack at the curtain walls below, in spite of the night and morning having passed. The surrounding walls were abnormally low, so whoever was attacking had a fairly easy time volleying its offensive over the walls. He couldn’t remember if he had ever heard the sounds of the attack stop. The sounds of the attack evolved through the night from horrendous shrieks like metal thrown down stone steps, to deep, regular thumps that sent soft shudders through the entire structure. Last time he actually listened, the fighting had actually sounded like a waterfall, and Louis wondered who the water was, and who the stones that broke the current.
He sat with his room in silence, away from the shouts of death and curses against his house. He rested his forehead on the table, next to a craved dragon poised with its mouth open. His eyes remained closed.
Louis had not moved from the foot of his bed since he had dragged the desk across the room early in the twilight morning. On the surface, it almost seemed as though he were a vital player in this drama, with advisors and commanders coming to the keep at regular intervals. Military men banged on his door constantly, seeking approval for emergency efforts, but Louis did not answer. They needed water and food that had been reserved for feasting with allies to sustain the men who were not actively fighting for Louis, but he did not walk to the door.
His abandonment tore at him like a sin. He wanted to proclaim that the lives of his men were of more value than the purchasing of politics. He wanted to be in there with the fighting, not held up in the tower surrounded by bloodied grass and orchestrated violence.
Why should I now help, thought Louis, their inheritance from me has been forfeit.
The men had continued to shout and bang on the door, in spite of Louis having not answered it. At some point, a boy had walked into the room, opening and closing a turbulent maw filled with strategists and horseback generals. Louis never saw the boy, but he sounded light and small in the way he carried himself, and reeked of filth. The smell of dung was sharp and immediate, cutting through the air like oil. Louis knew that the boy was not allowed out of the shit-smeared stables, let alone in the King’s quarters, and that was giving anyone who had any business in that room enough reason to cleave him in two, should they ever find out.
“Majesty Osertes, they are asking for your approval,” said the boy. A moment passed. Screaming and the consuming whoosh of fire could be heard outside.
“They need your guidance,” said the boy, trying to simplify the statement.
He could still hear the commanders on the other side of the door, still debating whether or not to make their own decision. They were also a smattering of outrage at the boy’s tenacity.
“They are not fighting for me,” said Louis, although it was mumbled to himself more than to the boy. “They are not fighting for me.”
The boy didn’t say anything else, and had left. On the other side of the door, Louis could hear the decisions of a King being proclaimed through the mouth of a boy who hadn’t been considered a human being for a fair portion of his small life.
His abandonment tore at him.
The incident with the boy had been hours ago, though. For all Louis knew, the boy could have taken the spirits of the choice and made too many hasty decisions, finding himself on the warring end of a bastard sword, the tinny taste of cheap metal the last meal the boy ever tasted, perhaps.
The night was now gone and the morning had not been able to reclaim any wonder. Louis was still mumbling to himself.
“They are not fighting for me…they are not fighting for me.”
Louis unclipped his sheath and yanked his sword from his belt. He grabbed the handle, and instantly felt the carvings on the handle and pommel, recognizing their shapes without having to look at them. With a heft, he pulled the sword over his head and brought it down flat-side on the table. The blade hummed with the impact.
Its name was Insinuo per Nex. Intimate with Death
It had been a gift from some smithy that Louis couldn’t remember, but had probably promised a high position once this is entire ordeal was done. The sword was too big to be used in battle and too light to wield with any lethal force. He had tried the sword beforehand, on the night he received it. Louis had been slightly drunk, and had brought the weapon down on a support beam for his bed. He had thought that he had bore down with such extreme power, that he was already planning on thinking of an excuse for why half the bed was sheared in two. When the sword made contact, it had left a nick on the post no deeper than his thumb.
In short, it was a sword that was meant to be used to usher in heads of state, not remove them.
Still, the workmanship on the sword was unmatched, and its value was placed outside of the value of any other object in his growing kingdom. There was even a training knight assigned the sword to protect it from looters, or Louis’s supposed absentmindedness, at one point.
The handle was done in Oliphant bone, with an iron core, stained black, and polished down to the standard for aristocracy. On the sword’s handle, there were two carved basilisks, one on each side of the handle. The tails wrapped together into a helix at the pommel of the sword, and a wing curled around each side of the handle.
Louis’s thumb ran across the mouth of the basilisk, and he could feel its prey- a young soldier. He could feel the grotesqueness of the carving, even the clothing and the flesh being pulled into the basilisk’s mouth. His index finger felt the exaggerated scales of the beast, all in perfect proportion to one another. He could even feel two slight indentations on its belly; supposedly they were the feet of the soldier being devoured. He went up the handle and could feel the soldier’s individual arms reaching above. The arms were a captured motion, and he could feel the individual cords of muscle in the arms of the doomed soldier. It reached with both hands towards the blade, as if it could be used to escape. The design was brilliant, but so intense that any military use with the weapon for an extended period of time would most likely tear the skin off of the wielder’s palm.
The blade was a cool red, forged with aethium, a metal that was culled from a complex variety of stones, and even a particular mixture of elements was needed in those individual stones. When smelted, the metal took on a translucent, colorless appearance, but was still as durable as any other metal. Even the slag that was clipped off was heavily desired, and used for utensils or even some instruments. It was sometimes called “The iron of the Angels”. Whoever forged this particular sword mixed the metal with a magenta dye, and it almost looked like a tall ruby. It reflected light with vibrancy, and colored any room a macabre red whenever it was unsheathed. It was socketed into the overall display with such force and such regal posture, that Louis often caught himself straightening out of a slouch after just seeing it.
When it was given to him, they said that the basilisk was known as “king,” since a natural growth at the top of its skull resembled a crown, and it was only natural that they assert their own king as having a natural “kingliness” to him. The creature was drawn largely on folklore, both mythic and drunken, and was thought to have carried a poison so deadly that even its gaze was considered lethal. A blade of such majesty was only matched by the hard principles that Louis would bring to the provinces, they had said to him. It embodied everything that he thought desired, and everything that was asked of him.
This time, as he groped the handle, he remained slumped over, and made no effort to sit up. His free hand was dangling from the table, swinging like a pendulum over a construction map that had fallen over when he moved the table. His eyes were fixed on the wooden floor, and they felt watery, and rimmed with fatigue. The table was modestly carved, but without veneer, and it bit into his resting forehead. His breath was leaking from his mouth, and it smelled stale and cold. Spittle had begun to drop from his mouth, stretch as far as it can, and snap off without a sound. He felt as though he was barely breathing- and when it did, it came in shudders and hiccups. He felt as though he had just thrown up. This is not going to take much longer, he thought to himself. This cannot take much longer…
Indeed it appeared as though the deception was nearing its end, based on the sounds coming from outside. They were disgusting and enormous before, with unbelievable explosions of gunpowder, grunts and human pain hanging in the air like smoke. But now the sounds had calmed down to a dedicated ringing of metal on metal and single shot pots exploding on the other side of the wall. If he heard any screaming, it was usually from some unknown soldier howling like some beast after a particularly difficult kill.
From where he sat, the glassless opening of the window was even with him, and he could only see the tops of the hills that were in the vista whenever he looked up. They were explicit and saturating in the sunlight, treeless now, and resembling two bright greenish breasts from the view. Black smoke wafted up from whatever was occurring beneath the window of the keep. It never blew into his room, and he was grateful for it.
He probably would have leaped out of the window if he was forced to smell the burning of battle. No, for Louis, listening to everything in his world go wrong was punishment enough…
The servants of the house had removed the glass panes from all the windows in terrible haste, reasoning that a strike so precise could potentially cause more damage than needed, but Louis had not taken a moment to see anything with his own eyes. At this point, for all he knew, the hills of dead could be bearing his colors and his symbol, a skull biting a dagger, in front of a blue backdrop. He could not watch these men die. Not with his own eyes. The eyes of a supposed king.
“They are not fighting for me,” he continued to mumble.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # #
It was in the morning. Louis had begun to pray by the side of the fireplace, a new custom which he had taken up after religious officials had begun to instruct him as to how he can obtain favor from the Gods of Ten-Fold, as well as favor from the mewling thousands who begged for leadership at the end of this campaign. Yet, whenever he had prayed it was alone, and away from any public eye, and in whatever room was quartered to him. Still, he was leery of defiance on any front, and was sure an appeal to the divine in times of attack could not do any harm.
He had wanted to shave tonight. He valued a close grooming, but had been unable to trim his mantle for several weeks, having sat on the fleshy back of a horse and not the hard oak of a stool for a better part of the time. The beard grew dark and red, and in a patch just below his chin. In the reflective surface that was carried with him, the beard resembled some strange spring vegetable. He pulled at it sometimes, hoping it would come off like a ripened fruit from the vine. Tonight, unfortunately, his servants had all decided to go to bed early, and he had no idea as to where anything was kept in his quarters.
Louis knelt beside the fireplace and started his prayer ritual, instead. Louis had left three of the candles burning, and it gave everything a jumpy, orange shade. The fireplace was crumbling outside, and it was letting in the icy, early morning air. The air was sweet, but still carried that intense bite air has when it has yet to be warmed by the sun. Louis felt his breath steam and it drifted up into his eyes. He kneeled off to the side of the fireplace to avoid freezing while in meditation. He brought his pitcher of water also, which was another part of the ritual.
Louis prayed. He prayed from his heart for the men, that each should be able to use a finger from the gods as a shield. He prayed for his family, a group of slightly related kith and kin who see him little, and understand him less. He prayed from his mind for his politicians, and the difficult task the gods have deigned them useful in. He prayed for the gods, also. He prayed for their struggles, infinitely greater than any earthly battle, and thanked them for their observance over this “game” of childish domination.
Louis did not pray for himself, though. As far as he felt, the praying was more political than emotional. He had appealed to the Gods of Ten-Fold in all avenues that would help or hinder him, but he did not pray for himself. He felt like he would not know what to say.
Louis finished his praying, and poured the water in front of him in a slow trickle, until the entire container was emptied. His religious officials, particularly an older man by the name of Symon, had told him that this was a pleasing symbol to the gods. Symon told Louis that the Gods considered him ready to accept any fate given to him, and that, wherever he may go, he will adapt to any structure, infiltrate it, and cause irreparable damage. “If the plains grew cold, you will be like the ice and ruptures their foundations in its smallest cracks, and if it grew hot, you would be a formless mist to the tiring armies, and would boil them alive behind their own walls,” said Symon, who was partial to boiling dissident himself.
He brought his hands down onto the water. It smacked lightly and the watered stones felt cold, far colder than the wind that blew through the fireplace. The stones under his hands now felt wet, as well as rough. He gently raked his hands though the water, leaving slight dents on the surface of water, but they returned as soon as his hand passed through.
He knelt by a pile of water, pawing at it like a cat, hoping that it was all it took to conquer an entire world.
The door to his room slammed open, and several men entered. The clatter of the door on the wall gave Louis a jolt of panic. Louis was surprised, naturally, since a visit from anyone during the graveyard hours typically brought news of attack, plague, theft, or surrender.
Louis pushed off the stones and shot up, his hands now dripping with water and silt. He was trained and training for all events to fall on his future crown, and this was no exception, so he regained his composure without effort. He drew both hands across his sleepwear to dry them. His sleepwear was decorative, with gold and black fabric threaded through soft grey linen in patterns that mimicked quarried stone. They were made out of respect and duty, and not out of love. Louis knew they were not very useful for anything besides making him look important.
Louis pressed his hands down and out on his sleepwear, trying to dry his hands off. The water beaded on the lightly oiled linen and rolled off his clothes in tiny beads. The cold drops hit his feet, but Louis ignored it.
His military advisor, a man by the name of Brune, had come in front of the group. The men who followed walked in with a little more caution than Brune. He had brought his bag with him tonight. The bag was an abused red in color, with a white patch crossing at an angle. It carried maps large enough to display Argoth ‘e Nom if it was draped over a table in a Commander’s quarters, the oceans and outlands if the map was unfurled on a feasting table. They were all either folded or flopping out of the knot atop the bag. It looked like it held an unconscious child when it was slung over Brune’s back.
Brune was not entirely known for his flexibility in politics and decency, and had entered the room as though he had discovered an empty quarter. At a time when most men, women, and servants were asleep, Brune was still stomping through the halls in his uniform as if the afternoon was just beginning to reveal some delights.
He was a constant fighter, and had decided that he was never prepared to dress unprepared. Louis was in his slippery soft sleep attire, but Brune was still dressed in his training garments that he wore during the day. His massive thighs, curdled with fat, plumped out from the top of knee-high boots, the dirty linen pants doing all they can to keep the man in a human shape. His vest was made of cheap leather that faded white at its creases, which caused it to resemble the marbling of fat in a cut of beef. His shirt was standard issue garb, off-white and roughly cut. It was soiled and tucked into pants and vest so it could not be seen entirely, save for the green blotch under each arm.
Brune had also decided long ago to never bathe unless it was for a whore or for his mother, who came as infrequently as did the whore. His head, horse-shoed with hair, was shiny and was wet with oils. His facial hair had locked together in black bolts, and it gave Brune the appearance of a man half-crazed and half-possessed. Scents of sweat and overused fabric ripened the room instantly. His men smelled in similar fashion, and the room was now warm and moist.
When he entered, he gave a small nod to Louis. He scraped his throat with an intake, pressed open an unlatched window, and spat a huge orb of phlegm out of the window by the doorway. Louis caught it for a second in the candlelight, and it was black. Even in the orange glow.
The salute was nothing official, or dignified.
Still, Louis was not intent on seeming unprepared. “Masterful Brune, man of iron and horse, why have you decided to visit me tonight?” Louis attempted a slow and deliberate smile, but Brune did not glance at him long enough. Brune was looking up at the ceiling, as though he were counting the tarred planks.
“I might say, Majesty Osertes, that they have certainly not given you a quarter suitable for a king,” said Brune. He was now wandering through the rest of the room, running a stubby finger across the surfaces and checking for dust.
“You speak too highly, Master Brune. I know that we will only be here a little while, so the size is of no importance,” he said with a fatherly laugh, “My bed is my true stead.”
And my desk, he thought, but that didn’t flow with the saying.
Brune gave a polite snort at the joke. He was pacing around the room, and his shoes banged against the wood in a morbid rhythm. He was not walking deliberately, but his pace was not unlike the banging of a clock, unfaltering and with equal pressure each time. He stopped by the window he had spat out, giving the air a sniff.
Brune spun around to meet Louis in the eyes. “Majesty Osertes, I have brought several of the strongest men that I’ve seen with me tonight,” said Brune. He took a deep, vibrating breath through his nose and reached out to the nearest man. The soldier was built like a siege tower, steepled in iron facial features and not single soft spot on him. He carried a yellow stare that Louis could not stand to see for more than a polite glance. “This is Teron. He was caught stealing a horse and a woman’s heart,” said Brune. The soldier didn’t smile, but smirked at the memory.
From the looks of him, I presume he held one in each hand, thought Louis.
Brune proceeded in similar fashion, introducing each soldier and each conviction. In total, Louis, the man whom they were designing to be king, was standing in a dark room with six criminals.
Louis laughed to himself, a trick they had taught him to buy time and garner courage. “Master Brune, I appreciate you showing me men of particular brawn, enough to even impress you, but, if I may ask,” he paused and laughed again, “Why did you bring me a line of prisoners?”
Brune’s eyes widened, as though an obvious fact had not been communicated. “Why, they’re here to serve you Majesty Osertes!” He threw a closed fist at Brighton, another prison in the lineup –the one who had beaten a cobbler senseless, literally senseless, after he made a pair of shoes with a protruding nail – and it set off a puff of dried dirt on impact. “These men know who you are, and they know who they are, and they are here to serve you!”
The men all watched Louis, expecting a reply. Louis allowed himself a small bow, thankful but not indebted to Brune. “Master Brune, I am always honored by your dedication of service.” He bit off the sliding look to the prisoners, and focused on Brune. Brune was now keeping a disgusting hand over his mouth, biting at his thumb to hide an expression that must have formed when Louis was not looking. It was a complete contrast in class and etiquette, the way these two were raised and were living; Louis, his demeanor unfaltering and stern, yet forcibly fatherly, and Brune, giddy with private thoughts and the inability to control them, no matter who he may have been insulting.
“These men, if they so impressed you, will have a future in my kingdom that is even envied by the Queen.” Louis remembered he didn’t have a queen yet, but that was for another day, when this was all done. He stepped forward to grasp Brune’s arm in gratitude. He was standing there for a considerable time, and the first step across the threshold was slightly dizzying and felt completely unnatural; he was tired from the night.
Brune moved his hand from his mouth and it shot out in front of him, halting Louis. There were three crooked dents on his thumb from his gnawing. Grime and spit were mingling in a brown slime that glistened in the orange candlelight. “Ah, Majesty Osertes! You see, I’ve haven’t brought you men that I’ve hand-selected, only to throw them back in the muddy pits of bestial war—
“There is nothing inferior about those men, Master Brune.” Louis cut in. Brune fluttered his hand at the reply, flustered through the interruption. “Yes, yes, I agree your Majesty,” said Brune slowly, quietly. He pulled himself up and his eyes brightened at something that had flashed across his mind.
Louis was beginning to ponder Brune’s more animated countenance. Brune had been elected as master of iron and horse as a result of his love of steel and torturing animals to do be as deadly as a foot soldier, not his talents in expression, and Brune carried a rotten cringe as violently as he carried a broadsword. Brune was picked for being able to move mountains of men at a bark, and not waste his time with a speech.
But tonight, Brune almost appeared cheeky. Look, thought Louis, he’s almost smiling now.
Brune began again. “What I had meant to say, appreciative Majesty, was that I had brought these men especially for you! The ranks of the common sword, while valiant and dedicated, cannot be trusted with prizes that they would more than likely run off with, or ransom.” He pointed a finger at Satchel, a prisoner who was fleshed like a hound, the folds of skin spilling over his collar and belt. He sucked in his stomach and straightened his slouching spine, like a jolt had run up it. Brune threw open his hand at the move, as if it had proven the obvious.
“These men are the shield that will repel any blade, even death’s, from caressing your neck.”
Louis was confused. “More personal guards?” he asked.
“No, no, no, Majesty Osertes. These men will help me to protect your world!” Brune started to walk across the file, placing a foot on individual stones. His boots were almost entirely made of metal—his preference—and slide across the floor in a rasp. “The men standing outside your door, gods belove them for their duty, cannot be trusted. A weak stomach is all that it takes to see the backs of those men shrinking away in the hills with the other treasonous bastards.” He spun on a heel, and the sound was abusive to the air. Brighton had even flinched at the grinding noise.
“But the men outside know me intimately, as one would know a childhood friend,” said Louis.
“Ah-hah, but will they open their necks to keep yours on your shoulders?” replied Brune. He was walking across the file again. The prisoners were all watching Brune, quiet and comfortable. “These men carry no rank, no etiquette, no class, no money, no prestige…nothing. They have nothing that might whisper in their ear that there is more to be had back home than at your feet.”
Brune turned suddenly, slamming a fist into the midsection of Satchel. His leather and rotted cloth gave a gasp at impact, and powdered dirt puffed out of him like a beaten rug on the line. Louis saw Satchel’s eyes tighten, then release again. He did not wheeze, cry out in pain, or even hint that a punch to the stomach did anything more than catch him off-guard. The rest of the men continued to watch Brune.
Brune jumped aside, landing beside the line so that Louis could see them all at once. He finally smiled, and his teeth absorbed any light that was reflected on them. Meat, blood and decay formed the new enamel. “They only carry their nipples as badges, but are tougher than any commander that I’ve challenged, and believe me your Majesty,” Brune gave a glance over to the prisoners, “I’ve fought them all personally!”
And with that, Brune’s dance was done.
Louis was feeling red. Not from anger, but from extreme misunderstanding. He had trusted the guards outside his door since he had been given a room and a future. He trusted those men more than he trusted his servants, whom he knew were stealing from the entire castle in minute quantities. No, the guards outside were good men, and Louis never once doubted that once. Not once.
But Brune did not wait to hear approval or denial from Louis. Introductions and arguments finished, Brune hastily unfurled his maps, some on Louis’s desk, some on the floor for quick access, and others were rolled out on Louis’s bed. It was a grimy contrast to saturated red linens that had almost been made for Louis.
Brune spoke to the men in a huddle. They all bobbed their heads at once, and two