by G M Archer
Mortem rolled his eyes, “Oh, come on, and you get onto me for being dramatic. I cannot believe it affects you this much.”
Lafayette’s hat fell from his head, his cane on the stone beside him as he brought his hands to his face, his fingers twisting through his hair.
Mortem looked at him, curled his lip, “Such feebleness. I didn’t expect this from you, especially since you didn’t care about her. You let her be tossed in a sewer ditch, you distanced yourself her whole life. You’re in a position of power, you could have taken her back, but you don’t want her. You took your crippled child instead, and keep him around as a circus act, as laughing stock for the nobility. You don’t care and you never have. About either one of them. And now it’s gotten her killed and you bawl like a baby? Seriously?”
Lafayette reached down, fingers wrapping around the head of his cane. He rose slowly, then rushed forward, twisting a blue glowing sword from the cane. The Remnants around him screamed and fled. He ran up the root, drew the sword back, and stopped, the point inches from Mortem’s throat.
Mortem looked down at the blade, his surprise morphing into a satisfied smile, “Do it,” he hissed, “Start the sand through the hourglass for both of us,” his skin blistered where the light of the sword shone.
His expression soured as Lafayette drew the sword back.
He looked up, face cold, “I did not want her to bear the shame of who I was.”
Mortem scoffed, “Don’t try to justify things to me, I know how corrupt you are.”
Lafayette sheathed the sword, clicking the head of the cane back into place, and he gave Mortem a crooked grin, “At least now she never will.”
Mortem took a step back, but quickly regained his impassive composer.
Lafayette turned, “A Journeyer could kill you, Mortem.”
Mortem chuckled maniacally, deep in his throat, “Ah, my old friend, you of all people should know that any sword can kill, but it’s the hand it’s in that makes the difference,” Mortem turned his fingers into claws again and wriggled them in the air.
Lafayette’s eyebrows quirked, glad he was facing away, “You say that, but you don’t know who it is.”
“Maybe I do,” Mortem laughed, “Maybe I don’t.”
Lafayette walked down the root, not stopping for Mortem’s voice this time.
“Go on, Lafayette, go run back to Varrick and tell him to destroy more lives in fury and fear. Go burn some more kingdoms and cripple some angels. Widow some wives and orphan a few children. You’re exemplary at all those things,” Mortem’s voice cackled.
Wings rustled across bark, claws skittered on wood, a bulk ascending back up through the tree.
A voice that echoed like an army boomed through the cavern, “Run back to your only child, your court fool. Will it devastate you when you outlive him too?”
Lafayette flinched, broke, and spun, “Go to Hell, Mortem!” his voice echoed down the hall.
“I’ll save a seat for you there!” the voice of many sang.
Lafayette practically ran down the hallway, going away from the decimated garden and everything within it as fast as he could. He slammed the door, cutting of Eve’s pleading cries to do so. He walked out into the city, moving through the empty streets, past shop windows and shiny new lampposts.
He stormed through the castle gates, leaving the guards still scrabbling over trying to address him. He moved across the grounds, never slowing till he reached the keep, coming to a viscous halt as two Guild knights barred the way, weapons drawn.
“The king will see no one right now, especially you. You have much to explain concerning the actions of your unstable cripple,” the first knight pointed his broadsword accusingly.
Lafayette’s temper flared. He did not have time to waste reasoning with the ignorant knights. After he killed the first one, would the second one cry out? How many people would that draw? There was a patrol outside the keep. Four men. He didn’t know if he could silence them quickly enough.
“I demand to see Varrick,” Lafayette growled.
“No,” the knight said.
They did not sheathe their weapons, but they held them idly, they considered him to be no threat.
One of Lafayette’s hands was braced on the body of his cane, the other slowly moving to the head.
“Put away your weapons, how dare you threaten me like so,” Lafayette commanded.
“After the attack on the king, we take no chances.”
“I do not have time for your stupidity,” Lafayette started to smoothly turn the head of his cane.
“Lafayette?” Varrick walked out to the top of the stairs, holding a bloodied rag to his nose.
Lafayette clicked the sword back into place, letting his hand fall back at his side, “I need to speak with you, Varrick,” he looked up.
“Yes, you do,” Varrick looked at the knights, “What are you two doing? Put away your weapons.”
The knights obeyed, and Lafayette smirked at them as he walked by, climbing the steps as Varrick turned back into the throne room.
Lafayette closed the door behind them, leaving the two men in the silence of the room, moonlight filtering through the stained glass of the windows above. Varrick crossed the space and collapsed onto the throne, head in his hands.
Lafayette waited a moment. Head down, and feet shuffling, he walked to Varrick.
Varrick looked up, a line of blood dripping down onto his lip. His tired eyes were puffy and bloodshot, hands quivering.
“I-I don’t know what to do,” Varrick adverted his gaze, “It- it’s not fair. Isn’t that childish?” he gave a laugh that almost turned into a sob, “My childhood crush on her would have been consider incest in the eyes of the public. Then I had to watch mother pick out a betrothed for her. How I hated that boy. Then after everyone found out about her lineage I couldn’t love her out of rank difference. I- I couldn’t even look at her, it hurt too much,” he winced, “I drove her away. I did something terrible in an attempt to get rid of Donovan and I drove her away. And now, she’s gone- and it’s,” he choked, “my fault.”
“Do remind yourself,” Lafayette started to pace, “That I lost a child,” he drew close to Varrick, hands on the arms of the throne, “So you better not let anything happen to my other. Go pardon James.”
Varrick moved back, putting his head back in his hands, “Let me mourn,” he moaned.
“There is no need to waste time on the dead,” Lafayette said simply.
Varrick cracked an eye, “Are you truly that heartless?”
“For now I must be, for I am combating someone who is,” his drew back, grip tightening on his cane, “War is no time for weakness.”
Varrick paused, then looked up with resentment in his eyes, “You spoke with him. That’s where you were,” he said accusingly.
“Yes, I did. I’m keeping my enemies close,” Lafayette said.
“What am I, then?” Varrick looked out from under a dark brow.
“As long as you stand against Mortem, you are my ally,” Lafayette assured.
“And when he is gone?” Varrick questioned.
“Don’t speak of victory till it happens,” Lafayette leaned his weight onto one leg, “Come, let’s get James.”
“I am allowed no hope, and no mourning, what sort of man do you think I am?” Varrick stood, almost dragging himself up.
“It does not take a man to win a war,” Lafayette looked away, “It takes a monster.”
To Be Continued . . .