???????? Chapter vi : A Sea of Snakes ????????

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  The city air thrums with anticipation.

  Yet 'neath the festival's gilded standards and savory aromas.

  A palpable tension doth stir.

  The temple of Providence, incense mingles with the monks' solemn chants.

  As the royal pair egress the sanctum, sunlight graces the Cadell leathers of the Cradle Guard.

  Though a few newcomers have dawned amongst them.

  King Arwen had recently recruited a few knights Guinevere had previously replaced.

  They heeded only the words of the king.

  Arwen's insecurities and lack of faith regarding Guinevere were rendered conspicuously visible to all assembled.

  The schism between the king and queen is now manifest openly through the agency of their respective retinues.

  Today marked the auspicious occasion of Solis's Last Blessing.

  As the serpents commenced their hibernation, heralding the twilight of the Snake Season

  To usher in the Season of Tigers.

  With the advent of chilling winds and the encroachment of snow.

  His Royal Majesty, King Arwen.

  Bestowed a regal wave upon the crowd.

  Stoic and commanding but his gaze was tarried momentarily upon the Queen's shadow.

  Rather than the adoring masses.

  Queen Guinevere, radiant and poised with her hand fluttered near her heart.

  Twas a habit since the Saint Solstice Hunt.

  Freyja Red-Blood, with a predator's grace, maintained a vigilance.

  Her crimson tresses billowing like a pool of spilled rubies.

  The King's suspicion has ossified into a gnawing certainty.

  Ever since Freyja rescued the Queen that fateful day, their bond has flourished like a blooming rose.

  Yet Freyja's gaze betrays the affections of a lover, not a mere soldier.

  As for Guinevere... She regards that woman as if she were the very sun itself.

  The festival is intended to commemorate Solis's final sun.

  The forthcoming joust presents a most opportune occasion to ascertain loyalties.

  Trumpets herald the commencement, the commonfolk bestrew floral tributes like a shower.

  Whilst the King's grasp upon his scepter pales his knuckles.

  As His Majesty muses, the Great Houses have convened to the arena akin to a convocation of vultures.

  Each circling the royal impropriety with their meticulously honed agendas.

  Not all could attend for sundry reasons, though the most notable have indeed graced the arena with their presence.

  Within a secluded alcove of the Providence Temple, as the orisons near their culmination.

  Duke Gruffyd observes from behind a stone pillar.

  Guinevere delicately dislodges a stray petal from Freyja's cloak with a careful, soft and lingering caress.

  It was far too tender for royalty and too familiar for mere guard duty.

  Gruffyd's lips subtly ascend in a smile.

  Though his assassins have failed to extinguish the Queen's flame, he sees an opportune vulnerability before him.

  Initially a mere conjecture, now confirmed.

  An undeniable affection simmers between them, poised to blossom forth in due season.

  "A heart too heavily armored...

  I wager it is but a cracked pot waiting to spill its contents..."

  Gruffyd whispers to himself.

  He needn't depose the king directly.

  The merest suggestion of calumny to King Arwen's ear shall suffice.

  Should Arwen condemn his Queen and her bodyguard for perfidy.

  The throne shall stand isolated, whereupon Gruffyd may have full control of the king's court.

  Duke Gurlouen of House Glyndwrl, single-eyed and unyielding.

  His gaze adhering to Freyja.

  He recalls the Saint Solstice fiasco.

  Whereupon Gruffyd's assassins ambushed him within the forest's canopies.

  It was Freyja's blade that saved his life from an impending fatal blow.

  He deems Gruffyd a serpent and suspects he is coiling in on the love affair, evident even to Gurlouen.

  Or perhaps, he simply remains indifferent.

  "Let them indulge in affection..." Gurlouen mutters to himself inaudibly.

  "Both women fight in battle like the gods of war themselves incarnate.

  Should the King dismiss a warrior of Freyja's caliber or the queen's aptitude of warfare.

  He would lose not one but two chess pieces on his board."

  Gurlouen ponders to himself.

  "But then again it is the king's honor on the line...

  It is your choice, King Arwen...

  On how you thread this path...

  The Queen and Freyja both are loyal to the crown's cause...

  Despite their affair...

  This I'll say as much..."

  Gurlouen ponders again deeply but with a glance at the king.

  He too knew in his guts.

  A storm was on the horizon with the efforts Gruffyd had laid forth.

  The fat Duke Ieuan of House Maelor lies interred amidst a platter of honeyed boar.

  Its grease staining his silken doublet.

  To him, the prevailing tension serves merely as seasoning for the feast.

  "Verily! more wine!" he commands, impervious to the censorious glares.

  Adjacent to him, Duke Alaric of House Maerwynn strikes the table with a forceful hand.

  He holds no regard for Gruffyd's schemes.

  He observes Freyja with a boorish covetousness.

  "She is but a wisp of a maiden!" Alaric proclaims.

  "King Arwen permits a cadre of lamenting widows to defend the queen!

  Whilst I am relegated to idle consumption?!

  I ought to contest her in the lists, shatter her prowess!

  Humble the King's hubris!

  And seize the crown through might!"

  Alaric in a gesture of disdain, chugged a tankard of ale with marked contempt.

  The festivities advance toward the Grand Arena.

  Arwen is consumed by envy.

  Gruffyd orchestrates a tapestry of deceit.

  Alaric eagers for carnage.

  The arena's atmosphere is redolent with lilies and the metallic essence of steel being honed.

  As the sun ascends to its zenith, shadows lengthen and chill within the castle and temple gardens.

  King Arwen, his back to the entrance gazes upon a tapestry depicting a light, the grace of Providence.

  The resounding clatter of Freyja's greaves heralds her arrival, halting three paces distant.

  The epitome of a soldier.

  "You preserved her existence, Freyja...." Arwen intoned, his voice a resonant murmur.

  "A debt for which recompense shall forever elude me.

  Yet, I find myself contemplating...

  Was it merely the Queen's welfare you secured.

  Or was there something of even greater intrinsic value to yourself?"

  The countenance of Freyja is akin to polished marble.

  "I am Captain of the Cradle Guard, Sire.

  My existence serves as the Queen's aegis.

  There is no 'self' beyond that obligation.

  I did, in fact, retrieve you from the pool.

  Ensuring your continued well-being too when the assassins attack."

  Freyja replied but the memories of Guinevere's lips lingered in her eyes.

  The ever so enclosing embrace of their forbidden love.

  But Freyja tried to remain resolute to her duties for giving in to their passion would result in the queen's danger.

  Arwen pivoted.

  His gaze locking onto hers with a fervour born of desperation and ire.

  He encroached upon her proximity, exuding an aura redolent of vintage and trepidation.

  "Duty is a frigid mistress, Captain...

  Yet, the manner the queen caressed you at the temple...

  Bespoke of profound warmth.

  Pray, do not misconstrue my indebtedness for naivete."

  King Arwen warned Freyja.

  For their feelings were beginning to be caught amongst eyes of the dukes.

  And especially the king who is boiling with envy.

  Even if they have not embraced each other.

  "I was ascertaining her pulse, Your Majesty."

  Freyja responded, her tone descending.

  But resolute yet perilous.

  She perceived the burgeoning envy permeating the king's very core.

  Though she, in truth, harbored no malice toward the King.

  Behind weighty velvet drapes, Duke Gruffyd remained breathless.

  Observing the King's hand edging toward his blade.

  Yes, Gruffyd mused, a subtle smile gracing his lips.

  It seems all he needs is to give this brewing tension a little push for it to implode.

  As the tourney was to commence amongst the knights of the realm.

  The King prepared his stratagem.

  Guinevere located Freyja near the antique sundial, ensconced in its umbra.

  The Queen's visage was pallid beneath her auric veil as she extended a hand.

  Her digits gently caressing the leather of Freyja's gauntlet.

  "He is aware...Freyja..." Guinevere murmurs, her voice betraying a tremor.

  "Arwen's gaze...

  It no longer holds that of a husband but rather the scrutiny of a judge.

  I fear he has commenced to rue the day he absolve me at the court..."

  Freyja catches the Queen's hand.

  She pressed it briefly, passionately and against her rusted chainmail.

  "Let him judge. My blade is sharper than his suspicion.

  But you must be careful, My Queen.

  If he sees us like this..."

  "I am unconcerned!" Guinevere interjected.

  Her gaze gleamed with a confluence of affection and trepidation for Freyja's impending entreaty.

  Her brow nestling against her bosom.

  "At court, he would have permitted my demise that day had I not secured my own preservation through the recitation of an oath.

  Twas you who suffered sanguinely on my behalf within the forest.

  Should this transgression brand me a heathen in Providence's grace, then I have no light for its grace."

  Freyja was once resistant. Now swayed by the queen's will.

  Freyja regarded her, a most infrequent, gentle smile.

  For a moment eclipsing her martial countenance.

  "Tis settled, then.

  Beyond the tournament's close.

  We shall devise a means by which we may coexist.

  Whether in proximity to the King or at a dignified remove."

  Her hands, resting upon Guinevere's shoulders.

  Conveying a silent pledge that this was far from their final chapter.

  Freyja and Guinevere apprehend that this burgeoning love they harbor for each other could precipitate their demise.

  Once anchored against the tides. Freyja now chooses to sail with it.

  Hark, the trumpets herald a resplendent finale.

  A veritable cacophony of brass.

  A multitude of citizens exclaim as the Royal Party assumes their positions.

  Floral tributes descending from the heavens, heralding regal eminence.

  King Arwen occupies his throne, yet a deliberate alteration to the seating arrangement is evident.

  Freyja is conspicuously absent from her customary station behind the Queen.

  She is directed to stand at the periphery of the royal dais, a considerable distance removed.

  "To celebrate the sun's grace!" Arwen proclaims regally to the assembled masses.

  "We shall finish with a most grand of battles!"

  He beckons a steward, who presents a magnificent, ruby-laden chalice.

  Arwen fills it with wine and proffers it to a page.

  "Her Majesty has been... Regrettably, indisposed since the lamentable incident at the Western Pass!"

  Arwen declared, his voice carrying to the assembled Dukes.

  "Freyja! As the Crown's most 'devoted' protector!

  You shall be entrusted with conveying this restorative.

  A testament to the inviolable bond between the Throne and its Shield!"

  As Freyja graces the dais, Arwen's men at his clandestine behest.

  They contrive to collide with her, causing the wine to besmirch Her Majesty's lap.

  At this unfortunate juncture, Guinevere emits a gasp with her hands clasp to her lips.

  Whilst Freyja, with reflexive deference, kneels to expunge the libation from the Queen's silken girdle.

  To the court, it appears a mere mishap.

  Yet to Arwen and the observing Duke Gruffyd.

  It crafts the desired tableau of a commoner genuflecting before her liege.

  Her hands were attending intimately to the Queen's limbs in public.

  "Captain, your attentiveness is... remarkable..."

  Arwen remarked, his tone laced with venom as silence descended upon the assembled masses.

  A hush descends upon the Grand Arena, heavy as a shroud.

  Wine, alas, mars Queen Guinevere's silk lap with the semblance of a crimson wound.

  Freyja's hand stills, arrested mid-air.

  The sole sound being the wind's capricious dance with the banners in the air.

  Duke Alaric, ever the opportunist.

  He spies the Queen's perceived indignity and the King's barely-contained ire.

  He rises, a titan cloaking the royal box in shadow.

  With a resounding clang, a gauntlet of iron is flung upon the arena sands, its echoes like a death knell.

  "Has the 'esteemed' Mother of Bereaves truly degenerated to this lamentable state?"

  Alaric thundered, spittle flecking his lips, his voice akin to the grating of granite.

  "Inept pups, brazenly fawning over the Queen's girdle in the light of the final sun?!

  It is an insult to the crown!

  If the Captain cannot maintain her composure!

  Or indeed, her equilibrium!

  Perhaps she ought to confront a warrior of genuine mettle!"

  Alaric declared with performative ire.

  He directs his gaze towards King Arwen.

  He was presenting the king with a pretext to witness Freyja's downfall.

  "Sire! I implore you!

  Sanction a trial by combat!

  Permit me to demonstrate to this self-proclaimed 'bodyguard' the gravity of a Duke's properly forged prowess!"

  Ere the King could deign to acquiesce.

  The one-eyed Duke Gurlouen did arise.

  His singular eye, a beacon of discernment.

  His eye sweeps from the tremulous Queen to the rapacious Gruffyd, before settling upon Alaric.

  With a thunderous report, his foot strikes the flagstones below.

  "Do take a seat, Alaric!

  Your bearing leaves much to be desired!

  As does your judgment!"

  Gurloeun intones raspingly.

  He then directs his gaze towards King Arwen.

  His voice resonant with the gravitas of one who has made sacrifices for the kingdom.

  "Your Majesty, the Captain was vital in Her Majesty's preservation and ours!

  While some undoubtedly anticipated a division of holdings upon her passing.

  An overturned chalice is of little import!

  Yet the needless spilling of blood stains your honour, not hers!"

  Gurlouen aimed to sway the king to protect Freyja, given his profound debt.

  His interjection caused a stir, for he was the only man Arwen esteemed enough to openly contradict.

  Many of House Taliesion owed House Glyndwr a life debt for their valor during battles.

  Not to mention the many contribution House Glyndwr has given to Taliesion war efforts.

  Yet, the King's gaze remained fixed on Freyja's hand, lingering a touch too near Guinevere's knee.

  Amidst the ducal disputation, Duke Gruffyd executes a maneuver with arachnid subtlety.

  Feigning a moment of imbalance whilst reaching for his vintage, a meticulously folded parchment escapes his sleeve, alighting with precision upon His Majesty's lap.

  "Pray, forgive the intrusion, Your Grace." Gruffyd murmurs, his tone silken.

  "A trifling indiscretion... I oughtn't have aired such licentious missives amidst the revelry." Gruffyd purred and returned to his seat.

  Arwen seizes the missive, his discerning gaze tracing the counterfeit script.

  A flawless simulacrum of Guinevere's refined penmanship.

  "To sojourn in these barracks with thee is my sole respite.

  My King is a craven, yet thou, my Aegis, art my very existence.

  This eve, at sun's descent...

  We shall leave from these fortresses and inaugurate a new life afar..."

  His Majesty's visage undergoes a transformation most alarming.

  His face shifted from pallor to a violent purple hue.

  The parchment is crumpled within his grasp, a clear indication that the snare has been triggered.

  Ignoring the dukes, his gaze descends upon Freyja.

  Who, perceiving the alteration in atmosphere.

  Has risen, her hand now resting upon the hilt of her blade.

  King Arwen ascends to his full height, his tone resonating with an ire that can no longer be constrained by mere formality.

  "Enough, I say!" he thundered.

  The arena, now hushed, awaited his pronouncement.

  A trembling finger he directed towards Freyja.

  "Duke Alaric desires his trial?

  He shall receive it forthwith!

  But not with the dull, uninspiring steel of tournaments.

  Captain Freyja...

  Given your avowed dedication to the Queen's 'service'!

  You shall defend your very existence against Alaric.

  This instant!

  Unto death!"

  King Arwen declared ontop of his lung lost in both his ire and envy.

  Guinevere lets out a stifled cry, her gaze converging with that of Freyja.

  Freyja gazed back at Guinevere and closed her eyes in acceptance.

  The sun casts a fierce glare upon the arena's sands.

  The festive spirit is now eclipsed by a more base desire.

  Freyja descends, her countenance grim.

  The scar upon her face pales as she steels herself.

  A veritable giant amongst the Cradle Guard, she is accustomed to surveying lesser men.

  Yet, as Duke Alaric enters the fray, a hush falls over the assembly.

  He is a man of prodigious stature, towering even over Freyja.

  Casting aside his ceremonial cloak, he reveals a blackened plate.

  It holds marks obtained from the battles at Hywell Basin.

  "I have subdued steeds of far greater stature than yourself, girl!"

  Alaric declared, as a prodigious poleaxe whistled through the air with its arc.

  Freyja brandishes her greatsword.

  Its weight, normally so familiar.

  But it feels negligible against Alaric's considerable mass.

  The initial strike reverberates like a thunderclap.

  Alaric retaliates with the force of a felled oak.

  Freyja parries, yet the impact resonates through her very being, driving her boots into the yielding sand.

  Though swifter, for the first time.

  She finds herself the inferior in raw strength.

  Aloft, amidst the carnage.

  Duke Gurlouen disregards the fray.

  His singular gaze fixed upon the crumpled parchment clutched in King Arwen's trembling hand.

  He witnesses Duke Gruffyd insinuate himself, whispering further treachery, a visage of feigned solicitude.

  Gurlouen murmurs to himself.

  "That paper, Gruffyd 'dropped' it. That ink is too fresh for a letter supposedly carried in a pocket all morning."

  As the assembly roars, Alaric's poleaxe splinters a timber barricade nigh upon Freyja.

  Specks of wood splints flew across Freyja's visage.

  Amidst such palpable gravitas, Duke Ieuan finds himself in transports of delight.

  He has progressed to the very precipice of his seat.

  A drumstick in one hand and a goblet of honey-wine in the other.

  "Observe, if you will!" Ieuan exclaims, scattering crumbs betwixt his guffaws.

  Indicating Freyja as she evades a perilous swipe.

  "She doth resemble a feline ensnared with a ursine!

  I wager a hundred gold upon the lass!

  Nay!

  two hundred upon the brute!

  Let one chronicle this spectacle!

  The wine hath been spilt! The blood doth flow!

  This contest surpasses all others within a decade!"

  With each clang of steel, his mirthful countenance and burgeoning midsection jiggles.

  Quite unaware that the kingdom crumbles figuratively around him.

  Alaric, pressing Freyja against the royal box's stone facade.

  He raises his axe for a decisive blow.

  The arena's atmosphere heightens as the royal box's composure disintegrates.

  The refined Queen vanishes, replaced by a woman familiar with the gory fields of warfare.

  Guinevere casts herself against the railing, knuckles blanching.

  Her silken voice now cuts through the crowd's roar with a general's authority.

  "Freyja! The portside pivot! post-haste! Observe! his deltoid betrays an excess of commitment!"

  she doth exclaim, her gaze alight with tactical perspicacity.

  A marvel even to King Arwen. For in times of war, it has ever been Guinevere who commanded the armies.

  "Beneath the arc! Instantly! Engage the articulation!"

  Arwen beholds his wife, both horrified and mesmerized.

  He's never witnessed such vivacity and such ferocity from her.

  To his perception, her fervor in combat is the ultimate declaration of her love for Freyja.

  Below, Freyja discerns the Queen's pronouncement.

  Invigorating her weary frame like a jolt of lightning.

  As Alaric descends with the poleaxe in a dire, vertical sweep.

  Freyja does not evade. Instead, she reaches aloft.

  With a roar that rends her very core, she seizes the haft of the weapon just beneath its edge.

  The impact devastates her gauntlets, yet her grip remains steadfast.

  With a torsion of her mighty torso, she harnesses Alaric's momentum.

  Breaching into his defense.

  She casts him onto the sandy expanse with a sweeping throw.

  It renders him utterly dazed, landing on sandy grounds with dust flying about.

  She seizes Alaric's gauntleted hand.

  Twisting it violently rearward till the metal shrieketh and the wrist doth break.

  The poleaxe clatters on to the ground.

  The two titans then crash together, descending into the sands in a chaotic display of brutal barrage of fist.

  Freyja's fist, weighty and scarred, hammers into Alaric's skull as he attempts to punch back at her helm from below.

  A particular blow to her rubs almost sends Freyja gasping.

  Duke Ieuan, verging on a precipitous tumble.

  His considerable girth pressed firmly against the railing, exclaimed.

  "Good heavens!

  They comport themselves like ravening canines!

  A further ten gold pieces upon the scar-faced one!"

  The sands are imbued with the hue of red blood.

  In the pit's confines, Freyja changes her mount from Alaric's abdomen to his chest.

  Rendering him from any further punches.

  Her hands bashing onto his forehead blow after blow with blood splattering all around them.

  With one last mighty fist poised for a final, skull-rending descent.

  The dust from the arena descends, draping the combatants in what can only be described as a golden shroud.

  The roar of the assembled crowd modulates into a confused and expectant hum in all estimation.

  To terminate a life that lingers suspended in the air.

  Freyja's gauntleted fist remains drawn back.

  Possessing sufficient force to shatter Alaric's skull.

  Akin to a ripened melon.

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  Alaric reclines beneath her, his breath emanating in a ragged and bloody gasp.

  His eyes dilated with the sudden cold comprehension of his corporeal existence.

  Freyja's gaze shifts, ignoring the King's frozen fury and the Duke's pronounced bloodlust.

  She is fixing instead upon Queen Guinevere who was dead worried for her.

  Slowly, deliberately, Freyja opens her hand, exhaling a lungful of blood-tinted air.

  She rises and steps off the broken Duke.

  She picks up her sword and sheathes her blade with a definitive clack.

  "As a warrior sworn to the Crown!

  My voice shall resound!"

  Declared Freyja, her pronouncement amplified within the arena's venerable walls.

  "I serve not as an executioner for idle amusement!

  Verdesainte's edicts are wrought with justice and clemency!

  Not wanton carnage! He stands vanquished!"

  The crowd erupts in thunderous applause and cheers with petals thrown into the air.

  Basking the victorious Freyja in a sea of petal. While Guinevere looks on to her at the verge of tears.

  In her magnanimity, she's stayed the hand of justice against the schemers who sought her ruin.

  Thus denying Arwen his due dispatch.

  She stands resolute and a veritable paragon of virtue.

  Casting the King upon his throne in a most unflattering light.

  To Arwen, Freyja's clemency smacks not of virtue.

  But of insufferable arrogance.

  An effrontery implying fealty solely to the Queen.

  Thereby flouting his decree for retribution.

  Gruffyd inclines, his voice a feather's caress against the King's auditory sense.

  "Indeed...A most gracious spectacle, Your Majesty...

  Though one suspects she exercised clemency less out of adherence to the King's justice.

  But more from a compassionate regard for Her Majesty's sensibilities.

  Lest the Queen be unduly distressed by a demise enacted in her name."

  Arwen offers no riposte, merely turns and departs the balcony.

  For he has been disgraced.

  Leaving the festivities to a fractured silence.

  As servants hasten to remove the fallen Duke Alaric from his sandy predicament.

  Duke Ieuan releases a sigh of disappointment, casting his half-consumed drumstick aside.

  "Bereft of a head?!

  Devoid of a bloody cascade?!"

  He wipes his greasy chin, looking genuinely offended.

  "Bah! A squandering of excellent wine. Yet."

  He rallies, observing the roiling discord between the regal pair.

  "I surmise tonight's repast shall furnish a divergency of amusement.

  More wine, I say! The theatrics have only just commenced!"

  The oppressive hush succeeding Freyja's benevolent deed was rent not by royal pronouncement.

  But by a voice akin to the rasp of iron itself.

  "Upon a sullied honour! The sun shall never deign to set!"

  The crowd is stilled.

  Behold, at the arena's threshold stands Sir Olewain.

  Adorned in antiquated silver armor.

  Formerly the Queen's protector, a man of eminence, until Guinevere.

  Avowing distrust for all within the castle.

  Unceremoniously supplanted him with the Cradle-Guards.

  Olewain processes onto the sands, his cloak sweeping the gore-besmirched earth.

  He directs a gauntleted digit towards the royal dais.

  Even after his displacement he was not enlisted unto the king's personal bodyguards.

  A profound yearning consumed him.

  An ardent desire to augment the ranks of his esteemed knighthood.

  "I was discarded for a mere widow!

  A woman feigning clemency!

  Possessing no stomach for a true knight's obligations!

  I invoke my right to a duel of honour to reacquire my station!"

  Guinevere rises, her tone cutting and laced with umbrage.

  "Sir Olewain!

  Pray, recall your station!

  Freyja hath but now vanquished a veritable mountain in human guise.

  She is bruised, her hauberk marred, and her mettle proven tenfold this day.

  I shall not permit such!

  The Captain hath earned her respite!"

  A collective murmur of acquiescence ripples through the assembly.

  Yet King Arwen discerns a final and resplendent prospect.

  He pivots from the exits.

  His gaze radiating a cruel and glacial luminescence.

  For he desires to witness Freyja's spirit shattered.

  Her ambitions thwarted before the very eyes of her beloved.

  "Her Majesty is...Shall we say, exceedingly protective."

  Arwen declared, his tone a veneer of composure.

  "Yet, a knight's honor forms the very essence of Verdesainte!

  Nonetheless, Guinevere speaks truth!

  Freyja is far too enervated for further such rustic engagements."

  He regards Olewain, then Freyja.

  "We shall resolve this matter by way of the Joust!

  It demands no undignified grappling, merely a steadfast hand and a courageous spirit.

  A just trial, would you not concur?"

  The assembly cheers, but the nobility knows the truth.

  The joust is far from fair.

  Sir Olewain was a champion of the tilt for twelve summers.

  Now finds it his sole possession.

  Arwen desires not fatality, but humiliation for the lady.

  A fall from grace to isolate Guinevere.

  Though death would be a grateful gift.

  Freyja observes the Queen, noting the dread in her eyes and a silent entreaty to yield.

  The King, however, wears a smile for it was his first of the day.

  Freyja is aware of the considerable peril.

  She lacks plate armour, the royal armoury having withheld formal military ware to the Cradle-Guard.

  Their gear originates from the Queen's own treasury.

  Whereas Sir Olewain is fully ensconced in steel.

  Though Freyja possesses enough strength to puncture steel with wood.

  This was not a deathmatch.

  Freyja inclines her head regally.

  "Prepare my steed forthwith," she commands, her voice a silken rasp.

  "If the king desires to witness my defeat, he shall observe it whilst I am mounted."

  As the esquires hasten forth with colossal destriers and twelve-foot lances.

  The ambiance transforms from a mere fracas into a stately dispatch.

  Duke Gruffyd observes with rapt interest.

  Duke Gurloeun, his hand firm upon his sword's hilt.

  He observes Freyja suppress a grimace as her squires cinch her damaged chainmail.

  An atmosphere of palpable anticipation pervades the arena, the steeds now guided to opposite ends of the tilt.

  The sun's fierce reflection upon Sir Olewain's burnished silver casts him in the heroic mould of a legendary knight.

  While Freyja, astride her imposing crimson mare bearing the marks of prior conflict.

  Her chainmail rent, bloodied, and besmirched.

  As the herald unfurls the starting standard, the crowd's clamour diminishes to a distant murmur for Freyja.

  A throbbing ache persists where Alaric's fist bruised her ribs, yet her thoughts retreat back to the cool, sun-dappled glades of the forest, mere weeks ago.

  She recalls the scent of verdant moss and the sensation of Guinevere's breath near her lips.

  That singular moment they verged upon transcending the boundary of protector and lovers.

  Her recollection serves as a fortifying elixir.

  Her struggle transcends mere rank.

  It is for the privilege of remaining at the side of the woman who regarded her with such tender affection.

  The standards drop.

  The two chargers advance with the resounding cadence of a drum.

  Sir Olewain assumes the ideal composition.

  His lance aligned with the grace only decades of expertise can provide.

  He aims for Freyja's center mass.

  The most reliable method to unseat a compromised opponent.

  Yet Freyja recalls Guinevere's strategic counsel:

  "Freyja! The portside pivot, post-haste! Observe, his deltoid betrays an excess of commitment!"

  In the pivotal instant preceding the collision.

  Freyja executes a feat that belies her size.

  Rather than fortifying for impact.

  She inclines starboard precariously.

  She adjusted her centre of gravity such that her body is almost parallel to the horse's flank.

  Sir Olewain's lance doth graze her pauldron, sparks igniting as it deflects off her.

  Leveraging the impetus of her poise, Freyja impales her lance skyward not for Olewain's chest.

  But the lower perimeter of his helm's visor.

  The wood of her lance explodes into a thousand splinters.

  The force of the blow has indeed snapped young Olewain's head back with a most unsettling jerk.

  He is nearly lifted from his saddle.

  His stirrups have given way, and he now flails about.

  His person dangling precariously as his steed gallops past the mark.

  With veteran instinct alone, he secured his grasp around the stallion's neck.

  He elevated himself back to an upright posture as the steed decelerated.

  He persevered, though his argent helm was askew and bloody fluid trickled from beneath his visor.

  The stadium observed a moment of hushed reverence before all hell broke loose.

  Freyja had not merely survived.

  She had outmaneuvered the master, a feat accomplished with balletic finesse and titanic fortitude.

  The knight champion for twelve summers could no longer afford a thirteenth.

  King Arwen ascended with such velocity as to unseat his wine.

  The crimson hue fades from his countenance, replaced by a pallid, unsettling white.

  He observes Lady Guinevere, her hands clasped delicately to her lips.

  Her eyes gleaming with an intimacy that is, to say the least, disconcerting.

  Duke Gruffyd, his gaze narrowing.

  For he is already formulating a revised estimation.

  "She possesses a more formidable nature than initially surmised, Sire." he murmurs.

  Duke Ieuan is, in a most unseemly fashion, agitating, his considerable jowls oscillating.

  "A second engagement!

  I insist upon a doubled wager!

  She comports herself with the audaciousness of a demon!

  Albeit in human form!"

  Duke Gurlouen, observing from the umbrage permitting a faint and mirthless smile to grace his lips.

  He understands this triumph serves merely to exacerbate the King's desperation for her demise.

  As the sun descends behind the temple's spires.

  It casted an elongated and sanguine shadow across the arena.

  King Arwen, his countenance a study in frigid malevolence.

  He disregards both the crowd's exclamations and the combatants' lamentable condition.

  "Sir Olewain's honor remains unvindicated!"

  Arwen's voice booms, cutting through the murmurs.

  "One pass is a fluke!

  A second pass shall be the truth!

  Lances at the ready!"

  Freyja's vision doth swim.

  The initial adrenaline wanes, yielding to a throbbing torment in her ribs.

  Her left arm is nigh insensible.

  Facing her, Olewain, helmet corrected, eyes ablaze with mortified ire.

  For he had lost his streak of twelve summers.

  He discerns his tactical inferiority and resolves to simply ride her down.

  The standard drops. The horses charge.

  In this instance, Freyja's mare falters.

  For a fleeting lapse in stamina disrupting her calculated rhythm.

  Olewain's lance was unwavering and by cruel serendipity.

  It finds purchase onto her mail.

  The resulting resonance echoes with the cataclysmic force of a thunderclap.

  By Providence, the lance is rent asunder and precluding its impalement of her person.

  Yet a splintered shard, three foot in measure.

  It cleaves forth and pierces Freyja's abdominal mail.

  The force unseats her most unceremoniously.

  A dreadful thud announces her rude encounter with the sands.

  The splintered wood yet embedded in her side.

  For a suspended moment, the world stands still.

  Anon, the silence is shattered by a keen and piercing scream.

  It emanates not from the common crowd, but from the royal dais.

  "FREYJA!"

  Queen Guinevere deigns not to glance at her Lord Husband.

  Nor yet at the assembled Dukes.

  Instead, she clambers forthwith over the railing.

  Her exquisite silks rent asunder by the rails and precipitates herself six feet into the arena's dust.

  She stumbles about the sands but regains her footing.

  She throws herself toward the fallen combatant.

  The Queen succumbs to the sands cradling Freyja's helm within her lap.

  Her hands instantly slick with the blood of Freyja's very life essence.

  "Physicians!

  Attend to this grave matter with utmost haste!"

  Lady Guinevere implores, her crown cast aside in distress.

  Her countenance nigh upon Freyja's wounded sides.

  "I command you, preserve her!"

  An undeniable affection was laid bare for all to witness.

  A palpable buzz emanates from the assembled multitude.

  As their queen ran with a widow's desperation to embrace a humble warrior.

  Freyja's breath, a ragged tone of symphony.

  It was accompanying her trembling gauntlet as it finds Guinvere's wrist.

  It drew her near and their foreheads met in solemn communion.

  "Guinevere..." Freyja murmurs, her voice a mere spectral echo of its prior vitality.

  "The assembly...

  They observe us.

  I implore you, for the love of the gods...

  Preserve yourself.

  Do not afford them...

  The pretext to incarcerate you."

  Even as her vital essence ebbs into the sands, the Captain remains a bulwark.

  She endeavors to repel the Queen.

  To establish separation and yet Guinevere merely clutches her more firmly.

  Her tears abluting the grime from Freyja's battle-worn markings.

  The arena floor transmutes from a spectacle of sport into a macabre theater of surgical intervention.

  The atmosphere, once redolent with the bouquet of festival blossoms.

  Now reeks acridly of cauterized flesh and ozone.

  The Royal Physicians descend into the pit like agitated corvids.

  They were denied the tranquility of a secluded infirmary.

  One physician, his hands trembling, extracts a glowing cautery iron from a portable brazier.

  "Hold her down!" he barks at the squires with a firm tone.

  As the incandescent metal makes contact with the lacerated borders of Freyja's abdominal injury.

  A plume of vapor ascends.

  It was accompanied by the repugnant aroma of singed flesh.

  Freyja's spine contorts in anguish.

  Her cry subdued by the bloody fluid obstructing her gullet.

  Yet, she staunchly resists succumbing to unconsciousness.

  Amidst the tormenting waves of cauterization.

  The apothecaries labor with scrupulous exactitude.

  They saturate the vicinity with a dark, acrid iodine to forestall putrefaction.

  Elongated and arcuate needles pierce the musculature.

  They meticulously closed the lesser lacunae where the wooden detritus failed to fully obliterate the tissue.

  Three bitter, calcareous antibiotic boluses are forcibly administered.

  A scarce, costly panacea reserved solely for the esteemed nobility.

  As the physicians labor.

  The King dispatched his personal cloister of knights.

  Their leader, Sir Morganough, son of Sir Gurloen.

  Whom previously had been bested by Freyja, took hold of Guinevere by her upper arms.

  "Your Majesty is requested to attend the King in the royal box.

  This venue is hardly befitting a Queen."

  He conveyed, devoid of any discernible empathy.

  Albeit not without a certain satisfaction at the lady Freyja's present circumstances.

  A subtle recompense for the humiliation endured in the courtyard.

  Guinevere, freed herself from the knight's grasp.

  She thrusts him away. The force exerted such dominance that Morganough was thrown onto the blood-stained sands.

  Her golden and ruby-tinged hair is now sullied with Freyja's lifeblood.

  "Leave me! forthwith!" she vociferates.

  "She languishes! You consign her to demise!"

  A glance is cast by Her Majesty.

  Freyja, pallid as a phantom and drenched in perspiration.

  She compels her weary eyes to remain ajar.

  Though no words are uttered.

  For, indubitably, it is the King's intent to apprehend or perhaps execute her.

  As sufficient evidence for prosecution doth now exist.

  The King's knights began to surround Guinevere.

  But a phalanx of steel obstructs their path.

  Duke Gurlouen's personal guards, arrayed in steel armor and emblazoned with a Marble Goby, adopt a defensive posture with their pikes.

  Gurlouen himself steps forward, his single eye fixed on the King's men.

  Sir Morganough was besieged by utter astonishment and predicament.

  "Pray tell, Father?!

  Would you truly hazard a civil discord over a pair of love-stricken simpletons?!

  Their indiscretions sully the honor of the Crown?"

  Sir Morganough exclaimed, his blade brandished in one hand.

  "Her Majesty remains precisely where she deigns to be!"

  Gurloeun replied, his hand never straying far from the pommel of his blade.

  "Pray! Yield, Father!" Sir Morganough declared. "By order of His Royal Majesty!"

  "And I, Your duke! Step down boy!" Gurloeun declared, blade unsheathed.

  "The King languishes, ensnared by deception!" He gestured towards the expiring Freyja.

  "This woman saved my life from Gruffyd's depravity!

  My obligations remain unfulfilled.

  Should you desire the Queen.

  You shall first traverse a score of Glywndr's finest!

  This transcends mere 'scandal' young man!

  The integrity of our House is at stake!"

  Gurlouen declared, the statement confusing Sir Morganough for he is not privy to the politics at court.

  The arena stills as both prestigious houses meet.

  From the royal box, King Arwen observes.

  His hand poised over the signal, prepared to summon the army.

  Duke Gruffyd reclines, relishing the chaos of a spectacle surpassing any mere duel.

  Civil war is brewing in the dirt of the tournament.

  The tensions of the court have finally imploded.

  Freyja's breathing is shallow.

  The physicians' sewing kits are slick with red.

  The Queen is ensnared betwixt a Duke's aegis and a King's ire.

  This impasse is a veritable tinderbox.

  The King's knights and Glyndwr's household guards stand in close confrontation.

  The rasp of steel upon leather shatters the stillness.

  High above, King Arwen's hand is aloft, poised to decree a wholesale slaughter with but a single gesture.

  Then, a sound burst from the sands.

  It was not a scream but a voice.

  It was hollow and rattling like stones in a jar.

  Freyja, undeterred by the attending physicians.

  She swept them aside.

  Her visage ashen and tunic stained red.

  Yet her eyes blazed with a final and desperate lucidity.

  Extending a hand, she seized the edge of a physician's shoulder and hoisted herself upright.

  The movement unleashes a fresh torrent of blood to saturate the fresh dressings.

  A matter dismissed with utter disregard.

  "Your Majesty!" Freyja shouted, the exertion testing the integrity of her carefully mended abdomen.

  His Majesty is taken aback.

  The archers above hold their readiness.

  "The Queen! I assure you!

  Is beyond reproach in this matter!" Freyja declared, her voice resonating through the hushed arena.

  Her gaze fixed upon Guinevere, beseeching her silence and cooperation.

  "It was I who bewitched her...

  Arts of witchcraft, native to my homeland of Feidelm.

  To... shall we say, clouded Her Majesty's mind.

  Thus, relieving the Queen of any culpability!

  I bear the full weight of this transgression upon my own shoulders!"

  Freyja then turns to Gurlouen with a hushed tone.

  "Duke Gurloeun, I acknowledge the honorable discharge of your debt.

  However, I implore you...

  Do not consign your esteemed House to ruin over me.

  Stand down, I beseech you.

  For if you act now, Gruffyd shall prevail.

  The kingdom shall suffer grievously and the children of this realm shall be left to lament in orphans.

  The mothers wailing at the graves."

  Gurloeun's single eye narrows.

  His gaze sweeps across Gruffyd's self-satisfied countenance.

  Then returns to the bleeding Freyja.

  Comprehension dawns.

  She is relinquishing her esteem to safeguard the realm from the intricate strife Gruffyd has so meticulously conducted.

  With a deliberate and profound exhalation.

  Gurloeun motions to his cohort.

  They abate their pikes.

  Freyja, in a return of her gaze to Arwen, intones.

  "Your Majesty, I defer to your esteemed judgment.

  The Queen, however, was but a casualty of my...

  Obsession.

  I implore you, spare her.

  Let the laws of Verdesainte be appeased solely by my forfeit."

  Arwen's hand descends with languid grace.

  He is no simpleton.

  He could perceive the peasantry's gazes.

  It was a mixture of trepidation and censure.

  He cannot execute the Queen at this juncture without appearing a ruthless tyrant punishing a woman deemed 'bewitched'.

  Yet, neither could he grant her unconditional release.

  "The Captain's declaration is duly noted." Arwen intoned, his voice sharp as glacial ice.

  "However!

  The Queen's esteem is, regrettably, diminished by this liaison.

  Until such time as the esteemed Temple of Providence may administer a rite of absolution..."

  He gestures towards Guinevere.

  "Queen Guinevere shall be confined to the High Tower.

  Under strict house arrest.

  No visitations, attended only by my knights.

  As for the Captain…"

  He regards Freyja with mingled disdain and reluctant admiration.

  "She shall be conveyed to the dungeons.

  Should she endure until the morrow, her trial shall commence at dawn."

  Sir Morganough seizes Guinevere.

  A final glance she casts towards Freyja, tears upon her countenance.

  Her mouth agape in a silent protest she dare not utter.

  Lest it spell doom for them both.

  As Her Majesty is escorted hence.

  The physicians convey Freyja's limp body onto a stretcher to be carried to the dungeons.

  Duke Gruffyd suppresses a vexed grimace.

  The flames of civil discord, alas, remain unlit.

  For the token of this tragic affair was rendered null by Freyja's noble sacrifice.

  Whilst Duke Gurlouen formulates his strategy.

  King Arwen finds himself, alas, bereft of his Queen's counsel and Freyja's sword.

  Thus, vulnerable to the machinations Gruffyd shall weave.

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