Climbing up the mountain, there are no banners signifying a House in the confines of some great citadel, nor are there steps carved for an easy passage. One would think that this place, of all places, would be where a knight would go to slay the dragon. To free the princess from her cage, and among these deep slopes would the knight in question descend from this pedestal and obtain their prize in mention. Only, there was no prize here, nor princess nor knight. Perhaps, at one point Cerspheus had been (and the only name Bene is only a whisper on the wind, and it plagues the cold air as a grim reminder of past), only now to be presented as the False King.
Once a symbol of an honourable King who inspired hope and change, a sense of reason in their chaos of restarting foundations, he was now scorned and mocked in the presence of the New King. It was only reasonable, was it not? For something of high stature and promise to be cut down, as all that had been done had been undone within a single instant. The lion had been skinned, and the dragon had soon taken its place on another pedestal, this one long forsaken.
So where does the lion's pelt wind up, if not in the hands of those with a higher sum to offer than the house of which they belonged? Into the paws of some greater beast, and indeed, had it been left to rot on this dragon's former pedestal. The great monster itself lie dormant in their realms capital, while the hide was said to come alive like clockwork. Life breathed into the shed skin, an embodiment of some shadow that had refused to fall with the rise and fall of the sun. In such a case, it had become the sun, and shone like the gold that once had been reflective in its maw.
The symbol of the house, and likewise embodiment of the very torment that plagued the False King's mind, for what was more suited for a confrontation of courage? It wasn't as if he was craven fool, or stricken with poor conduct, but he could not face the dragon on his own. Nor would he suffice to allow his brother, his twin, to slay the beast. He could only find redemption in fighting his own demon before he could march to war, to fight alongside his own army and kin.
The death of his so called father (but was it his father, or just some nightmare that feasted upon his mind?) would be his only sense of salvation. In a way, slaying his own dragon, so that he may go on to serve with both its ferocity and its armour. No doubt, he was a lion, but this pride, in metaphorical and literal sense, was not quite his. Always would the fangs manage to pierce through his own shield, his own flesh, humiliating him and reminding him that he was no higher than the common man.
The man had given hope to the realm, and yet within the False King's self did he fail to inspire. Following into the shadowed depth, and only enabling his soldiers to fight for little less than a constellation. He swore that he would protect them, and give him blessings that not even Gods could offer. Here he stand, however, at the base of these peaks looking upward to where he'd find this golden hide. His cape bellows, not of stars, but a lone crimson that stains the dark.
For how was he to allow his brother to march into the battlefield and take claim to the death of what brought the ever looming nothing that circled among these kingdoms? To allow him to be credited of the New King's fall, and the end of this seeming tyranny and lack of resolve? They were mirrors, him and his brother, and he stole not only his glory, but his face and very being within the moment some king slayer sought to strike. Settling old debts, and fighting for something more than gold and honour, yet still Cerspheus feels every bit of dignity seeping away at the thought. He had struggled far to make it to this point, only to have another looming obstacle to clamber over. He was a lion, much like the one that lie in wait atop this rock-face.
He is not alone in this place cloaked with mist and the clouds that threaten to snow, for behind him is his very reflection - better suited in a more appropriate set of armour, and upon an even better steed. While the False King's own horse remain bear, dismounted, and only kept close with the occasional tug of the reigns by his brother's hands. The False King knows not if he has brought his mirror here now, as a sense of support that may grasp him at the bottom of these ledges if he were ever to fail and fall with the great beast in tow. Or if it was to give partial reassurance that he would not be starting this war without him, and settling old debts that had been vowed so long ago. They are mirrors, and yet their armour is not. His brother's is like a star among this dark ruin, forged of silver and intricate gold, a crimson cape akin to his own upon his back. His, nearly inverted, made of crude black ore with its own gold linings that attempted to bear resemblance of his twin's own design. One the light, one the shadow, as it were.
It was only natural that the shadow were to descend further into the darkness, perhaps immersing himself in what he had claimed to be a part of in their world full of myth and magic. Cerspheus had been called many things, besides the False King, and a shadow was one of them. As was the renowned title of King-Queen, to which he strode with the tenacity of a man, and the ferocity of a woman. Seemingly inter-changeable, he was like the savage's had said. Long in his life did he walk between two worlds and had been something different than the Gods themselves, so he would prove it. For the sake of those who still put their faith in an old monarch, and hold him to his grace. For the soldiers that had sworn themselves to him both inside and outside of battle. For his brother, who watch him depart with only a sad nod of recognition, but primarily for himself. To settle the score to the very thing that had crippled him through these years of a short (but longer than thought) life-line. The name of the Lion would no longer be within death, and the constant revitalisation of an abandoned pelt.
Cerspheus steps away from his brother, away from their steeds, and closer to the rock-face he must climb. Like these long-lost spoken tales of past lives, and the visions that the two had of children in their life among the stars, he is left to immerse himself within the abyss of fear and darkness its very self. Slowly he feels himself creeping into this place between realms that he was said to walk as a child, and indeed his soul was sensitive to what was about him. What his eye did not see, his body, his mind and even gut could feel.
The very reason he had left the steed behind, for this was a feat one must forgo by oneself. His own feet and grasp of his hands was much more reliable in the darkness, and on the face of rock than a clumsy and spooked animal. If the claws of the beast who played his father did not force him off its peak, the horse would not even halfway up the climb. Indeed, this seemed to be the case, as invisible assailants seemed to tear at the fibers of his spirit. Whispering his old name, and reminding him of every tragic moment that may cause him to stumble and wallow in self-destruction first, but then a single warning to not transgress upon the fractured peaks.
Everything is but a grim reminder, and the wind stings his bare face (a helmet was deemed too risky for such a climb), and for a moment it feels as if some phantom force claws its way through his skin. Anything to still the man, to invoke some pain to ground him, yet still, the False King climbs up this mountain. He even whispers on his breath, to these invisible spirits and the harsh winds, "This mountain is as false as I am. It shall do you no good to try to ground me, for even in the heavens, you know both of us do not exist." And this was true, in a way. What was everything, but a large tale to another story? There had been myths to explain their worlds, as it was, and if he was indeed walking in some mid-realm, it confirmed the uncertainty that fed into every man's heart. Cerspheus knows that they all exist on the whim of a higher power, if not their very wills themselves. His will, like a flame, had not yet died despite it's flickering nature. He would persevere.
Who was to say how much time had passed, and by what pace of which the False King had went? For soon the sight of his brother and their horses were long gone, smothered by a thick blanket of fog. Which, in the slightest moment did seem to embody the spectres that pursued him through this personal endeavor. Nothing is visible to him but the rock in which he climbs, and for once he finds himself yearning for the sight of some banner or torch, to show some sign of civilisation, even if it were to be of a warring house.
A human soul, at least, could be something of an honourable match. While a beast was only a mark of brutality and vigor alone, and there was no wit, nor honour to be gathered from slaying such a thing. For while they had sung songs about such a thing, the cost of the story was never worth the price paid, and always was something lost within the encounter. Cerspheus would redeem his lost courage, and perhaps earn something else from this encounter. No honour, he swore, for this day he would lose a father, and like his father would he be a murderer of kin.
All the same, the man finds himself searching for some source of light, straining to keep his sights up above and not below. A single search of the mists below would force his heart to his throat, and his gut would churn as his conscience force him to listen on a whim to the invisible forces that shroud him. Too easily would it be for this gloved hand to lose its grasp, to be rid of this cold stone. It was just as simple to imagine some variation of himself falling from the side of the mountain, following no steps, nor grasp of rock, and pressed on his back as crushed armour jut into his spine. Death would be quick, but it would be unwelcome, and fear threatened to grip this former monarch. He's reminded of a single phrase, not all cats land on their feet.
Even in weakness he pushes himself, and further does he ascend. Time is no longer of essence, and his mind is forced into bitter neutrality as he attempts to keep his bearings. The armour weighs him down, but somehow he succeeds through this painful struggle to reach the very top of this peak. He hoists himself clumsily, and weakly to what could only be deemed as a some-what level surface. Cerspheus had gone through much, to just give up on the very edge of the peak, and yet he finds himself lying flat on his armoured stomach for a time.
Moments pass, and the whispers seem to have given up their onslaught, and they with these invisible entities disappear in the mists that cling heavily to the land. His cheek brushes against the cold, ragged ground for just a moment, before he forces himself to his feet. It was too cold to be idle, and he still has his task at hand. Only after a small glimpse to where the surface of the ground should be, to where his brother should have already set camp, does he set off to find the pelt of the skinned lion.
His blade his drawn, as is his shield, and in mockery does it bear the very symbol of the lion itself. He represents his house, it is only just, and was it not his father's own misdeeds that had brought them to face each other here, this night? Assuming it is night, for no stars shine, and it is likely the very sky itself is still clouded. Snow still threatens to fall, and yet it still hasn't found the means. Possibly afraid to cling to a place as foreboding as this, and the spirits needed no more incentive to thrive within this mid-realm than they already had. To tempt them with water, in solid or liquid state, would simply be more torment. The False King does not doubt that they curse the Gods, and in doing such, their Gods had forsaken them. It is only in little mercy that their penalty is not made worse while condemned to this isolated and separate realm from their own. Poor for the spirits, but he knows very well a snow is ill suited for a lion. It could easily work in his favour.
A miserable existence, the man thinks, as he wanders this plateau, searching for even the smallest shimmer of light. A golden lion, and only in its death would he perhaps be able to done gold himself. Be furthermore like his brother and do some pride, and no longer skulk about the shadows as he used to. So he hopes, to be comparable to knights of legend, to be a ser rather than a falsified image. To do this, he hunts an already skinned cat, much alike a shadow in its own way. His brother was the slayer of kings (by word of the people), and more befitting to their reflection, would he now be the Kinslayer? The more thoughts that plague his mind without the dreaded mists, he feels a new weakness threatening to cripple him. He had not been grounded at the base of the mountain, but one could not say it would not happen at its very peak.
Nevertheless, there is no reconsideration, for out of the darkness does a paw break the mist. A being of gold gracefully steps from its white shield, and in its eyes is a sense of recognition, followed by an unspeakable rage. The animals gait is not effected by such a petty emotion, for it is the embodiment of pride, and Cerspheus expects it to begin to mock him. He knows well this creature, and what it had been like when it was not a luminescent ghost. Yet it says no words, merely keeps its distance and tenses, looking as if it were more than just a pelt of a skinned animal. It almost looked real.
His breath stains the air, visibly marking his own tension and distress, as he poises himself and waits for the lion to pounce. "I come to you, beast who bears the name of my father. I challenge you, and I will wear your helm. Mark myself with your own crown. The pride is yours no longer, and has fallen to a new name." The False King ushers the challenge, and he swears the animal laughs at him. Although it says no words, and shows no evidence of laughing. It merely bears its dead claws, moving gracefully through the stone and fog, before it springs forth. Its mouth is agape, and the man feels akin to a child, as he fears that this fang will pierce through his own armour and tear him asunder in a new way. Yet, he lifts his shield, thrusting it against the animal with all his weight to send it sprawling back down on the ground. The shield is moved aside, and he poises the blade for the next strike. Man and beast, one and the same, in a skirmish that he knows - may not even exist outside of his own head.
Where are the Gods in this moment? Is he within the heavens as they laugh at him, like this very beast does before him? The fall of his father not only meant inheritance, but the right to his pride and dignity. Stripped away so long ago, that it was Cerspheus whom may as well had been the pelt on this very peak. In a sickening way, he reflects on this, as he watches the graceful step of the golden on before him. That his brother was sent in his place to fight him, to regain his honour. That they were not familiars, and that suddenly they were strangers to one another. A part of him dies, another half angry, and in this anger does he manage to fight back his fear. The fury in the lion's eyes are matched, they are the same. This serves as only confirmation to his seeming delusional thought process.
