Til sits alone in silence, contemplating what Noan has told him and has asked of him.
There’s much to consider, and he wonders if he can be the person they need to help the children.
Dropping the dishes into a wash basin, Til knows sleep will not come easily to him. He nods to himself, deciding that if sleep will not come to him—for there’s nothing for him to do at this hour—then he might as well go about his duties. There’s always work to be done, and he’d rather keep his hands—and his thoughts—busy rather than lingering.
As he walks through the ancient walls of the castle, past the sleepy and stumbling staff, he thinks about why he broke so quickly and agreed to help.
He’s not trying to stand out; he has no desire to. He’s been a faithful steward of the King, and that’s all that he needs to be to one day reach his reward. But here he is, planning to offer himself like a lamb for the slaughter because tired, hurting, sky-blue eyes asked it of him.
Perhaps this will be what launches him to his final reward?
Til nods to a pair of knights, helmets off and chatting quietly, tucked away into a mossy alcove. They likely wait for the next tolling of the bells to stand watch over the early morning training.
Others were scattered around the castle as Til walked past.
The kingdom has only known peace since Til’s arrival there, with only the occasional attempt on the King’s life, even warranting the smallest number of the knights and Honored. There’s no need, never has been, for so many soldiers, for so many prepared for war. Even with the threat of King Adem’s devices, a threat of war never reached them. The knights and Honored were rarely needed outside of the city surrounding the castle, let alone farther out into the kingdom.
Although Til’s rounds often take him out of the castle and through the city, down a winding path that leads all throughout the streets—he and the other knights reminding people, warning them, the kingdom is guarded against attack—Til doesn’t go out into the city this time.
Instead, he stops by the massive gates that, when open, are large enough to allow a dozen men abreast to walk through. They have never changed location since Til’s arrival, which feels like a lifetime ago. One door is always open, and the other is always shut. Leafy vines anchor themselves on the sun and water-damaged wood, slipping through the massive bars holding it all together. A sight to admire when the flowers were blooming, though the vines themselves are just as pretty. Some of the tendrils are as thin as a hair, whereas others have grown as thick around as Til’s wrist.
There has been no need for the gates to be opened to allow an army to exit or closed to keep an enemy out.
Beside the gate was one of the other Honored, one who had only recently joined their ranks. It wasn’t long ago he’d been a child among many training, one of many in a crowd of youths in Til’s mind.
The practice of years of never seeing his fellows' faces had taught Til much about body language. The boy’s exhaustion radiated from him, despite his valiant job, standing tall and straight, without leaning on anything. Til thought if he wasn’t going to sleep, someone else should.
Til sends the newly graced Honored back to the castle, suggesting he rest before going out to the city to enjoy himself.
The younger Honored—whose name Til doesn’t catch—thanks him even as he looks around as though he was expecting someone else to appear and tell him to get back to work.
Til watches the young man leave, wondering about his name. He’d only left training the year previous; Til had trained him as well. He’s sure at some point he’d known the younger knight’s name, but now it proves as difficult to grasp as fog.
It doesn’t matter. Til would watch the front gates; it wasn’t the first morning he’d taken over. In fact, it was something of a habit when a restless night turned into an all too early morning, and sleep eluded him the whole time.
The code that the Honored were required to follow, that Til was required to follow, was certainly something that had kept him up before.
If that was his goal, he’d bring it up to the King when he was Kingsguard.
But today, he feels that talking to the common folk might help him understand his thoughts.
At this time of day, it’d mostly be people who worked within the castle who didn’t live on the grounds or those carrying supplies.
As most of the people he checks pass through the gates, none sway his thoughts from the missing children. Though they do remind him of his own disappearance, as it were.
When he’d fled his home to come to Argest, he’d been more than a boy but full of angry pride and determination. He’d been so sure he could change things, truly change things, and prove his kinsfolk wrong.
And he has.
But they weren’t the things that he’d come here to do. It didn’t stop him from wanting to help the young ones, children who showed up at the castle looking for a purpose, something like freedom, what they really needed. At least as close as they could get.
It wasn’t enough.
Before him, an older woman appears—one who’s long since started stooping and only seemed to get shorter in all the years Til’s known her—guiding her mule-pulled cart, the back of it covered with a heavy quilt embroidered with a field of flowers made from threads of a thousand colors. He’d asked her once how she got the quilt, but she would only say “magic” with a secretive smile. She stops the cart before the gate without being prompted and uncovers the back before Til can ask.
“Good morning, ma’am. What brings you to the castle today?” Even though Til knows the woman, it’s hard not to after seeing her twice a week for years, he can’t be familiar with her. Though a part of him aches to know her name. Like with the young Honored, he’s sure he’d learned it at some point, but it’s been too long for him to ask again.
“Good morning, Honored Til! I’m just bringing in the eggs for the castle. You know, I was talking to my cousin the other day. And she said that…” Til isn’t sure how she knows his name, just that she did. She starts her story without end once again, as it had been unfolding for all the years he’d known her. She shows him the mountain of eggs she has for the kitchen, showing him that none were cracked as she tells her story.
As the woman drones on, Til wonders what the King thinks of him. He makes all the right noises, allowing the woman to tell the plights of her and her cousins. Her stories aren’t the most interesting, but more than once, Til’s learned of a chicken-based catastrophe thanks to her, which was reason enough to listen to her stories.
The only reason he has to stop her is the next cart creeping up the hill. He likes to let her talk as long as she wants; he’s always been curious to see if she would talk the whole day away if given the chance.
“Alright, ma’am. See you next week.” Til waves her through, raising his hand for the cart that’s still making its way up the hill, “Next!”
The tailor isn’t someone Till knows well, not well enough to know his name or wonder even about it. An event is happening soon, so of course, the King needs new garb for it. But if Til’s one of the people going on this grand journey he may have already agreed to, then he won’t have to worry about it himself.
If he proves himself now, he can earn his place amongst the Kingsguard.
Now that he thinks about it, it’s really a golden opportunity being dropped into his lap.
He misses most of what the tailor explains as he shows his many cloths, but he has other people arriving at the gates, “Very well, have a nice day. Next.”
All he has to do is take it.
✨✨✨
Hours pass before he is relieved at the gate by another Honored, who sends him to rest. The lack of sleep tugs at him, weighing him down; his feet drag as he walks, and his shoulders dip until it seems only his armor holds him up. He pressed on.
He can’t think about his lack of sleep, about the dark fogginess that settles within his mind. He can’t think of his cell. If he goes back, he’ll be alone, truly alone with his thoughts. Without sight to distract him, only the most muddled sounds of those around him will keep him company.
Unease deepening, Til thought of times like these that made him question why he remained Honored. Why did he wear the Helmet at all times, at the oddest of hours? Why does he submit to the black abyssal cell to sleep and prepare himself in?
Among the most stifling rules the Honored follow is that he couldn’t even see himself. Can’t even take off the Helmet to look in a mirror and question if it was really all worth it.
This is part of being Honored. The knights, who’d already taken off their helmets, had no need to worry about the majority of the code Honored adhered to. However, when they drop Honored, they can no longer become Kingsguard and reap any of the rewards of that station. Til didn’t care as much for the rewards as the options they would give him. For the time being, he has to keep his Helmet on and follow the rules.
Then he’d be able to get that part of himself back when this was all said and done.
Til walks the courtyard alone, noting the knights who should be watching over it have left. Not that there’s much need for it to be guarded outside of the training hours. The only people who spent time there were pages and maids, who used it as a shortcut. Though Til supposes that visiting dignitaries could spend time here. Admire the artful stone structures and grown-over suits of armor from long-dead Kingsguard littering the courtyard while their personal staff followed.
It had been a while since there’d been any visitors. Til couldn’t remember the last time there had been some.
Even though there’s no need for watchkeeping, Til finds a place with good vantage over the courtyard. It also keeps him nearly completely out of sight as he wonders about the missing children.
Noan had been distraught, more so it seemed than the King. If he’d been looking for the children for some time now, then it’s no surprise he looked so tired. Til wonders what changed and what would happen when they were brought here?
A page appears as he sits, lost in thought.
The teenager, more like a child, really, looks around, her shirt darkened with sweat that drips from her. She was without armor but already bore the symbol of those who become Honored. Her head swings around, shorn short hair barely avoiding her eyes as she searches for something.
“Page,” he calls to the girl, “What do you seek?”
She starts, her body whipping to face Til. If his hiding place surprises her, she doesn’t sound it, calling back, “The King has called another meeting. All knights and Honored are to be in the throne room by the next tolling of the bells. If there are others with you, bring them with you!”
Til waves off the page, “Understood.”
He stands, stretching as much as he’s able before making his way into the depths of the castle. Maybe his questions will be answered.
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As he follows Noan from the castle, Til can’t help but compare his speed to that of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime. The man doesn’t stop, or even slow as they pass through the town and into the countryside around it. Hunkered down over his horse, pushing it faster and faster, Til wants to tell him that it’s not about speed, though time is of the essence, but that they’re going to run their horses into the ground if they’re not careful.
It crosses Til’s mind that Noan is fleeing the castle, or, perhaps, something or someone within.
The urge to flee the capital had lessened the older Til got and the more time he’d spent as Honored. It hadn’t left him completely, though, and as the castle, then the city, grows ever smaller behind them, a tightness in his entirety eases as well, from the tips of his toes all the way up to the ever-present pressure at the base of his skull.
He doesn’t put much thought behind it, just puts it to the fresh air and the ability to ride freely for the moment. That and trying to keep up with the Wizard.
It’s only as the city walls have shrunk to nearly nothing that Noan finally slows.
“So-” Til gasps, feeling almost as out of breath as poor Stoney heaving for air beneath him, “Where exactly are we going?”
“Wherever we need to.” Noan answers, looking windswept and pink, eyes shining as bright as his smile. Nothing like Til’s already exhausted and frazzled.
Til waits to see if the Wizard plans to add anything to that somewhat cryptic statement. A few moments pass while they sit in silence, rocked gently by the motion of the horses. Realizing Noan isn’t going to add anything, Til says, “That’s not exactly helpful.”
“My apologies, but I’m afraid there’s really not a better answer in this situation.”
Squinting at the other from the recesses of his helmet, Til wonders if it’s too late to turn around. Surely they were close enough still for him to be able to turn back.
It’s not worth thinking about. He’d agreed to be a part of this journey, and even though the last time he’d traveled this hard through these lands, he’d been rushing like the flames of his anger were nipping at his heels, pushing him faster onward like it was something he’d had a chance to escape.
That time was long behind him now.
Now, he needed to figure out where they were going next.
The night before, he’d been able to examine the maps to some extent, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable saying that he’d had them memorized. It’d been another story in his youth, but that was a long time ago, and he’d had no need to remember them since coming to the castle. Trying to remember what he’d seen the night before, Til concentrates on the memory. The map and the towns had only been uncovered a little while. The crystals had covered most of it too soon for him to memorize anything, but at least he’d known their direction.
“Well, we’re not going north, east, or south,” Til says aloud, more to himself than to Noan, but loud enough for the other to hear.
“How clever you are to know the direction we’re headed.” Noan drawls, not even giving Til the satisfaction of looking his way.
Feeling the flush of embarrassment heating up his cheeks and ears, Til thinks Noan is taking far too much pleasure in having all the information to himself. He can’t be surprised that the King’s favorite would know all the details, all the specifics that would certainly make this all the easier, but Noan keeps it to himself, choosing not to say anything. Fighting the blush, Till looks at the other, trying to compel him to say something, anything, to give him even a hint of where they were going, or what to expect.
This, this not knowing, this was one of the few things that could, and would, send Til right over the edge.
Unfortunately, Til’s silent attempts to force Noan to speak were fruitless. He has to get the information in another way, one that would also be much harder.
“I wasn’t aware there was much in this direction worth looking at, let alone stealing from,” Til says conversationally, as though discussing the weather.
“There’s not, not really. With how often fighting rolls this way, the swarms of bandits, I wouldn’t want to live here.” Noan’s gaze never leaves the road, but there’s something in his voice that leaves Til wondering what the Wizard had left behind when he’d gone to the castle. “And it’s certainly less populated than most of the kingdom, but still, there are those who choose to make their homes here.”
“Enough for some foe to try to steal them?” Til asks, adding on, “Who do you really think is behind this?”
“Why do you ask? Aren’t you supposed to follow the King’s word on all things?”
“Perhaps I wanted to know what you thought.”
“Whoever or whatever they are doesn’t matter; all that matters is they’re starting here, where the fighting was once strongest.” Noan’s voice has a note in it that pulls Til’s curiosity back to the forefront of his mind.
“It’s been a long time since there was fighting through here,” Til says loud enough to be sure Noan can hear him, but softer, he adds, “There used to be a great city near the border before that.”
Noan’s head flicks to look at Til, eyes big with shock.
Then his brows drop, and he looks over Til, seemingly searching for something. Though what, the knight doesn’t know. Eventually, Noan says, “I’ve heard of it, Dana City. I’m surprised you know of it.”
“My family often passed through when I was a child,” Til tells him openly. There’s no need for him to hide the half-truth. He hopes that sharing something of his own past might persuade the other to share about himself. “But I suppose it belonged to an age done and gone now.”
“Is that why you became a knight?”
Looking ahead to a small copse of trees, wary even with the knowledge none would be so bold as to attack a knight this close to the capital city, Til considers. “I wouldn’t say it’s the only thing that led me down my path, but it weighed into my choices.”
“You wouldn't be the only one. Disaster leads so many people to the capital.” Noan looks back to the road, shoulders higher than they were before, more tense, “I won’t even think of how many will be brought there by this tragedy.”
“You think the missing children will lead people to the capital?” Til nudges; he wants to know more, and this is the first opening that Noan’s given him.
Shaking his head, Noan answers, “In one way or another.”
Yanking the reins in hand, Noan abruptly turns his horse down a dirt path that could easily pass for a well-used deer trail. “Come on, I think this will lead us where we want to go.”
“Which is where exactly?” Til asks, turning his horse around to follow Noan.
“If we go this way, “ Noan explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child, “it’ll take us past where some of the disappearances have already happened; we might be able to cut off the enemy this way.”
In spite of the condescending tone of his voice, Til still hears the unspoken words, “And we might be able to save more of the children.”
Til has so many questions, so many gaps in his knowledge. How is he supposed to be able to help if he doesn’t have the answers? He needs to know more, to have more to work with.
But he knows that even if he asks, he won’t get the answers he seeks.
How’s a knight supposed to plan anything under these circumstances?
“Do we know how many of the Touched we’re looking for?” Til asks, realizing as he speaks how broad the question is, he tacks on, “Or even where?”
Noan sucks his teeth, loudly, “Well, we do. Somewhat. We’re going to some of the smaller villages, ones that are more easily overlooked-”
Til listens, thinking of how close they were to having to deal with the children. Til hadn’t spent a lot of time around children, not since he himself had been one. And even before he’d come to the capital to learn and train, he’d been more focused on learning from his elders. He hadn’t had time to spend around babes or little children, and when he did have them cross his path, he usually did his best to return them to a parent before they started crying. Traveling with the children was by far the least appealing portion of this while quest, and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.
“-which might still have children capable of truly incredible things. They’re the kind of places Donner wouldn't bother sending an emissary to. Too small, too few people, too little need for goodwill from them. And the children won’t really know until they find their key, you know? So many people don’t even know they’re Touched, and if they make it out of childhood without learning they can heal, or harm, or make a rainstorm-”
If he’d had the time, Til would have learned at least the basics of childcare; that would probably have saved him some trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t all be bad, though? Perhaps the children would be more focused on the shiny Wizard and what they themselves might be capable of doing.
“-But once they find they can do that one thing, once they begin learning, they’ll be able to learn how to do all kinds of amazing things. Things they never even dreamed possible. But they need to be taught by a good teacher, who will push them towards good-”
With any luck, Til wouldn’t have to deal with the children.
Noan could; he had to spend time with the Touched children, and he was probably good at it.
And Til could protect them all.
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Turning again to lie flat on his back, Til can’t be sure how much he’d slept, if at all. In the closed, dark chambers he calls his own, time is impossible to track, and the lines between wakefulness and sleep are blurry at best.
In the darkness, unable to tell if his eyes were open, Til wondered if he’d really agreed to an impossible quest, or if that was an interrupted dream lingering on. Focusing, Til tried to listen for what may have woken him, if he’d been sleeping at all. But there was little sound in the room, likely designed that way on purpose. Only the alarm bells rung jarringly loud in these rooms, though that had only happened a handful of times in Til’s time here. Even the morning bells weren’t that loud, and could be slept through by the stubborn.
Til prepared himself to continue languishing in his semi-dozing state, only for a sharp rap at his door to rouse him.
“Honored Tanner! It’s time! You are required at the gate!” A voice from the other side announces.
Til grunted something, it could have been words, he couldn’t be sure which, though, and set about readying himself in the darkness, possibly for the last time.
He shakes the thought from his head as he opens the door quickly, blinking quickly, trying to get his eyes to adjust as he leaves his chamber. There’s no one else around, but Til had expected that. The glittering predawn light barely touches this hall, and even if it did, the bells still hadn’t tolled, and the changing of the guard wouldn’t happen till well after dawn.
There wasn’t much Til would need for this journey, his weapons settling familiarly against his form, and the bag he carried only holding a few odds and ends, like a heavier, less embroidered cloak that would help keep him warm in the nights. One of the cooks had already packed a kit of food for him, and several sleepy maids who’d woken early or hadn’t yet gone to sleep told him they’d miss him and wished him a safe journey.
He’d been sure it would take longer, that there’d be more action, attention to the undertaking he was about to go on. But the gray of the very early morning was punctuated most of all by quiet.
The last thing he’d need was a horse, which a bleary-eyed stable hand led out to him. Stoney, an unimaginatively named stone-grey mare, was the only horse Til could think to take with him. He’d become somewhat fond of; for her easy demeanor and ability to follow even some of the more incredible demands made of her. She’d already been geared up and had saddlebags packed and on her back as well.
As the stable-boy stumbled away, likely to try to get what little rest he could before the hustle and bustle of the day, Til looked forward toward the quest he was somehow taking on.
Guiding the horse to the front gate, Til couldn’t help muttering a few reassurances to her, promising to at least get her back even if he failed in every other way.
She walked beside him, a silent and only witness to his departure from the castle.
This was surely an occasion that should be treated with great cheers, with great crowds cheering him, them, on as they went. But as the King had explained, they were trying to ensure that whoever was at fault for taking the children didn’t know they’d been noticed, so that they might catch them in the act and say with certainty who was at fault. A part of it didn’t sound right to Til, but he’d shaken it off.
He was serving his King and Country.
What the King said he was to follow and trust in his leadership, even if he didn’t understand it.
Waiting for him is an individual covered in a rust-colored cloak on a white, mottled black horse, whose coat has been brushed to shimmer, looking like the night sky had been made into their personal steed. Black boots had also been shined, and above them, dark fabric hugged strong thighs, which disappeared under the cloak. Dark leather gloves held the reins in a loose but sure grip. The rider’s face was hidden by the cloak and the dark as they faced out, looking at the world they were about to take on.
Til wondered who it would be; the person was almost certainly a wizard. There’d been plenty who’d passed through the castle over the years. Children mostly, though a handful in the early bloom of adulthood stayed within the castle walls, teaching the other children and enjoying freedoms the likes of which few could imagine, let alone attain.
“Hale, Wizard,” Til calls as greeting, wondering if this is the one he was supposed to meet, and if they were one he’d met before, or a stranger.
“There you are, Honored Tanner.” The cloaked figure calls him by name and greets him warmly. A laugh is hidden in his words as he continues, “I was wondering if I’d have to send another page to get you.”
It’s Noan.
Noan Isle, the King’s right-hand Wizard, would be the one to accompany Til?
Til couldn’t believe it; he was shocked and somewhat appalled, as this couldn't be right. He may have needed some kind of backup, but surely there had to be someone who was a better choice, someone other than Isle.
He was the King’s favorite. He’s been at the King’s side for almost as long as Til had been in Sunotoma.
Why would the King be so willing to put him in danger?
Til’s mouth moves faster than the rest of him, “What are you doing out here, Wizard? Shouldn’t the King be sending one of his less favored wizards?”
Noan’s head tilts, a knowing smile on his lips that doesn’t quite meet the darkness in his eyes, “The King knew he could entrust his favorites, both of his favorites, to this task. Now, we have places to be, Honored. Children to save. Enough with the gawking, and let’s get going.”
With a pointed look, Noan snaps his reins and races off, leaving Til to mount his horse as quick as he’s able.
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Just went into my randomizer of "active" writing projects that I haven't even looked at in like a year, and I not only finished two of the projects on there, but actually published both!
Normality is the name of the game as Til, Noan, Feter, and Anna go forth on the incredibly slow ride to the city. They cannot, under any circumstances, reveal themselves too soon. Noan didn’t think there were any of the Kingsguard left in the capital, something that made Til feel vaguely queasy as he thought back to their fight so, so recently, but they couldn’t afford to be found by them, or really, found out by anyone, before they found the king.
Getting into the citadel is almost laughably easy, though two guards stand, they’re arguing with someone else who would enter, and wave the small group through.
Til’s heartbeat hammers in his ears, anticipation warring with fear, and both quickening his blood.
The slow ride is a must, as much as Til wishes he could kick Stoney faster, faster, get them through the city and up to those massive, overgrown gates so that he could get this all over with. Now isn’t the time for faster, though; it’s the time for a relaxed, sedate pace. They belong there; they should be there. Don’t look at them too long or think too long about why they’re there.
They did belong, of course. Til was a knight, one of the king’s Honored. A step above for his ability, willingness to keep his helmet on, to truly uphold the mighty heavy rules that came with his role. Noan, as the king’s right hand, also very certainly belonged there. Those they traveled with were also supposed to be there; those in the castle just didn’t know them yet.
But Til also wished they’d hurry so he could take his helmet off once more.
It no longer felt right; instead, it seemed smaller and heavier than it had before. Weighing heavily on his shoulders, seeming to press in from every angle. It’d never felt like this before, never felt like an actual physical weight forcing him down, pressing against his head more and more.
Til couldn’t remember a time anyone he’d spoken to had mentioned experiencing anything like this when they’d taken off their own helmets. This was outside anything he’d felt wearing the helmet once more, outside anything he’d ever experienced before. The closest he’d ever come was the first night he’d taken off his helmet, and even then, that was nothing compared to this.
The more he thought about it, the worse the sensation seemed to be. Wondering if it was a punishment for the honored, or if it might have been the work of something else seemed only to add pounding like metal fists against his head.
A single knight stands guard at the great gates, stiffly bored at the day's long task ahead of him. But if he notices anything odd, he doesn’t say, simply waving them through without a word.
Crossing the threshold of the castle increased the pounding pressure a dozenfold.
If Til had been on foot, it would have brought him to his knees.
Somehow, no one else notices the utter agony Til’s found himself in, found himself experiencing for the sake of them all.
Beyond the gate, the castle is already alive, maids and the like already scurrying around, while a few of the knights patrol the space.
There are jubilant calls, recognizing the returning knight and wizard and celebrating their return.
Til waves, smiles, though the action is unseen and the movement seems to take more strength than he feels he can muster.
They are welcome. They are expected. A sight for sore eyes.
How long had they been gone now?
The knights approach from the front; a stable boy appears from one side, and a maid from the other.
Til stumbles getting off his horse, patting Stoney’s neck, he hands her off to the stable boy, aware on some level of the others doing the same, though he’s entirely focused on just staying on his feet.
A wave and some words send the knights away, not that Til knows what he’s told them.
His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his head, everywhere his armor’s touching him.
Feter touches his elbow, so soft he barely feels it. They need to keep moving.
A few more knights call out, welcoming and cheering their return. As long as they keep moving, just wave and don’t stop; they can get this done. Get it all over with.
As Noan leads them further and further into the castle, to where Til knows the secret door to the tower is, deep within the walls of the castle. A place few know how to get to, and fewer are allowed into.
Til feels the pounding in his head getting stronger and stronger, each step closer bringing a new wave of pain over his body, each step making it harder to take the next.
Passing once more through the hidden door, Til nearly collapses, the pain worsening to the point he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t tell which way was up. He was going to die here, succumbing to the suffocating magic that Anna had thought she was protecting him from.
The pressure releases him for just a moment, long enough for him to realize Noan has removed his helmet and thrown it to the side while Anna props him up.
Anna’s trying to ask him something, and he knows it. Her lips are moving and her eyes are darting over his face, but all he can hear is the pounding, pounding, pounding inside his head. He should be able to hear her, but realizes that the longer they spend trying to deal with whatever’s wrong with him, the less time they have.
It’s only a matter of time until someone tries to tell the king they’ve arrived, and they’re too close now.
Til insists they continue; he tries to tell them they have to get to the king’s chamber, that there’s no time for worrying about him, that he’ll be fine soon enough, one way or another. To Til, though, his words don’t have any meaning, any noise to himself, the hum of them vibrating through his jaws, but he is unable to overpower the pounding within his head.
He has to hope they understand him, but the slight lapse in the pain gives him just a moment of strength. Pushing himself off the steps, Til’s thankful he can stand under his own power.
He knows with a fierce certainty that the others wouldn’t leave him behind.
Each step is a struggle, but the others are there with him, their arms supporting him, helping him push himself up the flights of stairs.
At the top of the stairs is a single, heavy-looking door; the hinges and bands holding the wood together are the glittering multicolored of the king, of magic.
Til pushes himself to the front; he can’t let them stand in front of him here, and at the very least, as long as he wears his armor, he’d be slightly more protected from anything the king might throw at them.
At least, he hoped he would be.
Pushing open the door is no easy feat, but it only shows that it’s not barred or locked.
There’s no time for speculation, for thought.
Inside is a chamber nearly as grand as the throne room downstairs, though this one is empty of people and decorations. At the center of the room, at the topmost point of the tower, sits the king on a throne much simpler than the one downstairs, though no less ornate.
The king is still decorated, his jeweled crown heavy on his brow as jeweled rings rest on his fingers. The chair itself is as well, every conceivable inch of it covered in the glittering crystal Neryen.
Til strains to pull his sword from its sheath, and when he does, the tip of it immediately drops to the floor, the weight of it impossible for the size, for the number of times he’s fought with this very blade before.
Humming comes from the king, though it’s distant, just enough that Til is aware the king is speaking.
For the first time in far too long, Til looks upon the king with his face uncovered, unhidden from the world. King Donner’s mouth is moving, but Til can’t make any sense of the words he might be saying. They’re not real, they have no substance, they only add to the racket within his head.
With all his focus, Til lifts his sword, lifting it up, up, up until it’s at a height he can actually do something with it.
Til throws himself at the king, sword high, face uncovered.
After all this time, he will finally face the king and get revenge for all those the king has harmed and killed.
But colorful light bursts from the king and his throne, a shot of it striking him as surely as an archer’s arrow.
It’s not a simple arrow that hits him, with all the force of being kicked in the chest by a horse, the blast lands, but somehow, there’s no pain, pressure. Still, Til is unmoved as a wall of light gleams from his own chest, bleeds from the amulet, and bleeds from his very body, blocking the light of the king, though not the way it steals his breath.
The warm light spreads across him—the sensation not dissimilar to the way water flows with a body, or with blood dripping from his throat—settling, visibly, in the cracks between his armor, and following the blood groove of his sword until all of him is gleaming with the inky whiteness of the light.
He should be afraid; a part of him is aware of that, but instead of fear, he feels anger, relief, happiness, vindication, sadness, a thousand other things.
The pain in his head is gone, the pounding of a thousand people who’d sought the death of the king gone from his mind.
Finally, where he’s always been prepared to go, where every one of his people has been prepared to go. Til stands tall, aware now of the figures standing around him, with him, in a glittering array of light, short and tall, old and young.
For the first time that he can remember—that they can remember—the king looks scared.
He doesn’t look powerful on his throne—he never did—he looks small, weak, in the face of all those who’ve been hurt by him before.
Til raises his sword, hands and weapon lifted by the hands of all the knights—those who’d be trained to protect the king only to be killed by his magic—all the children—who’s lives had barely just begun before being ripped cruelly from them—all the should-be allies—people who’d once worked with Donner all those years ago—and everyone else who’d been hurt, betrayed by the king.
He doesn’t strike, instead, with a breath, releasing all of it from within him.
A glorious—frightful—blinding—retributive—shower of light bursts from the tip of it, all of it, all of those who’d come before him, all of those who’d suffered at the hands of the dictator, gave everything they were to him, to ending it all.
Til’s eyes blink open, blink away the artifacts of the lights.
Before him, the king is dead, fear frozen on his face, and with him, the end of an empire.
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The others had undergone their own battles, and fortunately, there was only one more injured child.
Til tried not to think about whether there were more they didn’t find.
Having regrouped and a chance to breathe—literally in Til’s case, Noan working to fix his armor while Feter applied cool hands to his throat that seemed to ice away the sting of the cuts and the heating of the bruises—they needed a plan, at least a part of one.
“By my count, there can only be a few left.” Anna, who’d updated her numbers when they’d met again, confirming for each other the dead Kingsguard they’d left behind.
“It’s not likely we’ll be attacked out in the open; the festival had to be a fluke, a chance while he had it,” Noan says, a heavy thunk following his words as he somehow pulled the worst of the damage from Til’s chest in a single move.
Til closes his eyes, taking the chance to just breathe deeply while he can.
There are so many things you don’t know you’re going to miss until you don’t have them anymore.
Feter steps around nervously to his side. Even without looking, Til knows without looking at the boy that he’s trying to keep an eye out for any potential threats, not that he’d be able to do much. Still, Til finds he’s not quite in the position to say anything, physically or emotionally, his own focus being on his hearing for the telltale clank of metal that will herald their visitors.
“But?” one of the men prompts. Til doesn’t know his name; he didn’t figure there was much reason to know it when he didn’t know if they’d survive the week.
“But the king is still pulling the strings from the capital. He’s probably well aware by now that there’s someone actively opposing him and his Kingsguard. And even if he doesn’t know it’s us, he’s still going to get his defences up against whatever the foe might be.”
“He’s going to get the knights riled up.” Til rasps. Finally opening his eyes again to look at the others, he really took stock of how beaten they all looked.
Feter immediately shushes him, though at least he has the forethought to not press on his neck at all while he does it. He’s uninjured, unsurprisingly. Til had told him before to stay back, that if he was going to be their healer, then he needed to make sure he was alive to do some healing.
Noan was scuffed up, his hair in a wild disarray, and his clothing torn, very probably bruised, but nothing seemed broken, and he wasn’t favoring anything that Til could see.
Anna was in a similar state, though with the addition of being covered in a layer of dirt, she’d obviously been knocked to the ground at some point.
“Til’s right,” Noan backs him, “even if they think he’s out of line or exaggerating, they’ll back him. It’s their duty.”
“So what do you suggest we do?” Anna rubs her temple, where a red mark is already forming.
“We could-” a woman starts—another person Til hadn’t tried to learn the name of—before stopping, shaking her head.
“There’s no way we’re going to be able to get in,” one of the men says, turning away from the others with his hand wrapped behind his head where he’s holding a slowly reddening and dripping cloth against a small wound.
Til would feel bad about being healed first, but the others had all taken one look at him and demanded that he go before them.
“You can’t get in.” Feter says, and when everyone of them turns to look at him, he seems to realize what he’d said, “I mean. We have two people right here who are actually supposed to be there, right? They can get in.”
As his eyebrows raise in disbelief, it seems that the others are similarly struck dumb.
“It can’t be that easy,” Anna breaths, “Can it?”
Noan suddenly nods his head emphatically, his whole body nearly following suit, “I think it can. Feter’s absolutely right, Til and I are not only expected there, but expected to return with people. We were literally sent on a quest for which there was very little explanation, and no timeline. No one knows when we’re to return, or who we’re returning with. I doubt many people, if anyone, is going to expect us to return with assassins.”
The man with a head wound scoffs, “You think if you just show up with a crowd of people, they’re just going to accept you?”
“They might not, but I don’t think there’re going to be many people who question our grand return.” Til says a little clearer, throat feeling a little less raw, “At the very least, we should be able to get into the castle.”
Anna looks at him, then around to the others, “Well? Does anyone have any other, preferably less stupid plans?”
They all look between themselves, but if anyone had one, they’re not willing to say it.
“Anna,” Til says, slowly growing smile growing over his face, “how’s it feel to know that my stupid, hairbrained plan set in motion a lifetime ago is finally coming to fruition?”
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Edmunt was much, much bigger than Til or the others had realized from the drawing on the map. Instead of a small town like the many Noan and Til had passed through on their journey, this one was a proper city, obviously large enough to host the population of people needed to have this many Touched. Even if there were more here than in most places.
Their whole group dismounts from the horses before reaching the city walls. Til wants to be ready for an attack should he need to be, and the others seem comfortable following his lead in this.
Around the city is a massive wall with heavily guarded gates that they must pass through. Though they pass with ease, the guards are more interested in the festivities happening within than in doing their job.
The roars and cheers of the crowd make it hard for their group to communicate, although they are also curious about whatever it was they saw that might be so amazing.
The horses themselves are anxious as well, and should one get hurt or lost in the shuffle, Til knows that it would be awful, but a small price to pay for the lives of many others. For the end of the Reign of Terror.
The downside of getting off the horses would be that it was much harder to see what was going on.
Til looks to either side.
On one side was Stoney, who’d made it all this way without any understanding of the world she had to deal with.
On the other hand, Noan had a hard look on his face as they walked further into the crowds.
He knew that behind him were Anna and Feter, at the center of their group, and behind them, the other trained Touched who would be protecting their backs.
As much as he may have thought he was prepared for anything, Til was not at all prepared for there to be a dragon at the center of the square, walking and hissing and billowing smoke from its daggertoothed jaws.
Before Til can pull out his sword, Noan stays his hand.
He looks at the other, asking what he thinks he’s doing, but Noan’s pointing to the bottom of the stage, which was actually walking on. Now that Til’s stopped for a moment to think, he can see at the bottom of the stage a group of three young girls, all holding up their arms and clearly puppeteering the beast. Before them was a crowd of children. He didn’t know if they were touched or not, but he’d keep an eye on them as well.
Realizing that it was no real threat, Till allowed himself a moment of admiration for the skill put into the great beast. It’s great shimmering form glittered in the light, long and serpent-like, though great wings raised and buffetted the air, no wind came from them, simply there to make the beast all the more impressive, a long winding tail slashed through the air, tipped with brutal spikes that looked as long as Til’s arm, and would peirce through his armor without struggle.
Til forced himself to turn his gaze from the display, the real danger was still out here, and if he allowed himself too much distraction, he wouldn't even see his death coming.
There were too many things around them that caught the light like metal, catching his attention for too long as he tried to determine if they were the Kingsguard already on the prowl or simply city guards that had wandered from their posts or were doing rounds.
Noan tapped his shoulder, pointing to where the rest of the group was spreading in their own search.
They hadn’t talked about this, hadn’t planned this at all; there was no real plan for what would happen when they found the Kingsguard. All he knew was that he needed to keep them all safe.
As he tried to focus on the other, though, he wasn’t sure where the threat would come from, and worst of all, he didn’t know if they would even be wearing the armor. What if they’d taken it off to better blend in?
Noan stays by Til as they move, keeping an eye on the children near the front while circling the crowd, as the others cut through it.
Minutes pass, turning to an hour without any sign of the Kingsguard.
Til dares not to hope that they’d still be far from this city and the capital itself, but it looks that way.
He turns his attention from the potential Kingsguard to the traveling companions they’d arrived with, but they seem to have vanished into the crowd as well.
Til turns back to Noan, ready to have him help him find the others, when a gleam of two helmets catches his attention. Kingsguard is here, swiftly approaching the stage area, where the children are seated together.
The armored knights have no regard for the people they push out of the way, moving in a barely hindered forward rush that Til knows means they’ll beat him to the front.
The Kingsguard, now that he’s seen them, stand out like a sore thumb; he can’t miss them, and when he looks around, he can see several of his own group are on their way to them as well. They’ll almost certainly beat Til to them, and beat them to the children at all.
Til looks further, spotting another couple of Kingsguard who aren’t moving towards the stage, instead moving away from the crowd entirely towards the back streets.
A bell goes off in his head, loud as the time he’d stood watch in the bell tower; they already have someone.
Til’s closer to these ones than the ones storming the front, and the others will handle that too.
He rushes towards the ones leaving the area, hoping beyond hope that he’ll be able to cut them off, stop them before they do the worst.
A voice in his head says that the king must be very, very desperate to be willing to steal children out in the open, with this many people around and this much going on. He can’t help but think that it’s also the perfect moment. There’s so much going on that no one would consider the Kingsguard might be at fault for any missing children.
The crowd perfectly parts for him, allowing Til to get right behind one of the Kingsguard and slip a knife through a gap in the armor, one that only another knight would know about.
He has only a moment to look at their hands, but he’s quickly proven right. The king's guard, who got the drop on him, has an unconscious child in his hands, and the other has one tucked under each arm, their limbs swinging limply as they turn to face him.
Til manages to pull away—knife left plunged into a chink in the armor—before the one he hadn’t attacked throws a child at him.
Instinct keeps him from dodging away, instead catching the child, only to be rushed with flailing metal fists.
Til turns, keeping the child safe from the raining blows, but quickly realizes the horrific noises he’s hearing are actually coming from the man attacking. However, they sound more like the rending of metal or the yowling of a cat than of any noise capable of coming from a human mouth.
Each blow from the kingsguard knocked the air from Til's lungs, hitting hard enough to warm the metal of his armor and leave each breath he managed to get in shorter and shorter.
A lucky movement allowed him to pull a leg up, kicking the Kingsguard away as hard as he could.
The man felt as though he were a solid block of metal, but it at least gave Til a moment to place the child on the ground before throwing himself at his attacker.
The Kingsguard stumbled, though he did not fall.
Til pulled back to pull his sword out, dodging the blows of the one he’d already stabbed.
The second pauses for just a moment, his glittering helmet seeming a cruel grinning mask as they threw themselves at Til once more.
Back in the fight, Til did what he could to focus on the head, the helmet, on getting it off.
If Noan was right, and getting the helmet off himself and the other knights was enough to disrupt whatever magic the king had done to bind them to his service, then maybe getting the helmet off the guard would be enough to stop him.
Til dodged more blows, really hoping this plan would work.
Maybe it would at least stop them from attacking him.
Maybe even get them onto his side.
The guard drops the second child, the distance to the ground oh so far, and Til can’t help but wince at the meaty thwack the child’s head makes when it hits the ground.
He can’t help them yet; he has to stop the guard and make sure it’s safe first.
The Kingsguard approaches again, this time unhindered by his own burden, faster now.
Til falls back further and further, trying, looking for any opening that might work, but he can’t land a hit that will stop the other, can’t get the larger sword up to any opening to kill him.
Somehow, he’s been backed against the wall; he could have sworn he had more space, but his back is against the wall, and he has nowhere to run.
A far too strong hand swats his sword out of the way before lifting to his throat, wrapping around it, and squeezing.
The sharp metal of the gauntlets digs into Til’s throat, stopping the air from reaching his lungs.
Rivulets of blood drop down his throat, soaking into his clothes.
Til’s not strong enough to pull the hands from his neck; no matter how he pulls, nothing works.
A last.
Desperate.
Thought.
He pushes.
The helmet.
The hands ease.
In front of him, a gaunt, half-rotted face.
The eyes, what’s left of them, roll back.
And the body of the Kingsguard collapses.
Til looks first to the other Kingsguard, but that one seems to have succumbed to his wounds.
He pushes the body off of him, gasping for air, what little he can with his throat already bruising and the armor keeping him from breathing in fully.
He checks the children. The first one, the boy who had been thrown at him, is starting to come around, whimpering softly as he does. The second boy is breathing, but otherwise not moving. Two welts on his head are steadily dripping blood. The third boy is also slowly coming around.
Once the two boys who are waking up can stand on their own, Til carries the more injured one in his arms back to the main event. He’d seen a healer’s tent there earlier, and he dropped the boys off there, only saying they’d been attacked.
The healer tries to stop him from leaving, clearly concerned about Til’s neck, but he has to find the others.
He exists just in time to see Noan tussling with another Kingsguard not too far from where Til’s own fight had been. He rushes towards them, breath rasping over the damaged flesh of his throat.
With Noan fighting with one of them and distracting the small group, Til’s able to rush them and yank the helmets off of two of them before the other two even seem to know what’s going on. Noan catches on quickly as they crumple and reaches up to rip the helmet off another.
Soon, they’ve all collapsed, no longer held up by whatever magical binds they had been.
Neither man says a word as they take a moment to examine the bodies.
They’re more rot than man, more dead than alive, even before the helmets had come off.
If Til hadn’t fought them just moments before, he would have thought they’d been dead weeks, maybe even months, with how bad the damage was.
Til and Noan stand as one, knowing without a word they needed to find the others, and they needed to do it right then.
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