Fantasy King of Everything ♔♚ The Amaurobius Effect

[Pine]

Lisha twirled around as she walked, willing her gown to fluff up like a princess' dress. The wind barely caught under her dress, but the little brunette girl didn't seem to mind. After all, she had been doing it almost nonstop since leaving her room that morning.

Salvator bent to collect the straw that had fallen out of her arms. The bundle she had left was about half its weight from when she had first picked it up.

Lisha was particularly excited about her new gown. Most of her clothing was a drab brown, but the temple had managed to trade in to get her one dyed red. She had been trying to wear it every day ever since. Her mother had finally caved in, it seemed, with her constantly begging to let her wear it even before it had been washed. It only delighted her so much because it was the color of blood, as she liked to remind everyone.

Just then, she stopped in her tracks, spun around, then lifted herself as high as her toes would take her to meet Salvator's face. "My dress is the best dress," she whistled through a missing tooth. "It's red like blood!"

She spun around and skipped ahead without even seeming to wait for a reaction. Salvator stooped down to pick up more of the hay that had fallen.

It had been less than a month since he had arrived at the Temple of Ditis. It was far East, a ways away from the central kingdom. The Temple had taken him in, gifting him wool tunics in exchange for clipping his hair follicles down to nubs. Salvator had thrown himself into the work there, adhering to faith on the temple's quiet farmland. But he knew he had to be close to Oshos. The soil he was born on was just in reach, and that made him restless.

When they reached the trough, they both dropped the hay in. The shaggy yak that had accompanied them along the trail stepped up. She puffed a few sniffs of the hay before flapping up her lips and taking her first bite.

"Good Milky," Lisha said, scratching the fur on her side. She knew the yak's name was not Milky. Lisha had asked so many times for her name, but it never stuck for some reason, and so she finally just named her herself.

Salvator shifted his tunic before dropping to one knee with a labored sigh. He waited for the yak's own legs to still before he wrapped his fingers around her teats and gave them a few squeezes. They resisted at first, shifting the milk around before he adjusted to what he remembered now was the correct grip, then squirted onto the dried grass.

"Lisha," he began, turning his chin towards her without actually looking at her. "Could you get me the stool?"

She nodded her head, skipped around the fence, then came back with the stool. "Here you go, Mister," she said and plopped it behind him. Evidently, it was not just the yak's name she had forgotten.

"Thank you," Salvator said. He backed onto it, sighing with relief from having taken the pressure off his knee. He slid the wooden pail he'd carried with him under the yak's udders, leaned forward, and resumed tugging the rubbery teats.

It was not long before he fell into a rhythm, silently milking his first yak of the morning.

 

[Jewel]

Chivalry. What is it? Was it as simple as a man on a horse, or was it a holy contract of good faith to be taken up by the strong and kind to defend the weak? Sir Dagwood had been contemplating the significance of a knight’s tendency to adapt a personalized religion, code of conduct, and to act independently from any royal sovereign. In his youth, Sir Dagwood had marveled, like any young boy, at the heroic feats of good god-fearing men, crusading in the name of justice, freedom, and love. And of course, good men adherent to the fantastical code of conduct reserved only for brave, courageous knights born from aristocracy and nobility doing their duty to serve and protect in the name of goodness.

But recently, Sir Dagwood had begun to have his doubts. He’d learned recently that the word “chivalry” was derived from term in another language that roughly translated to “horse man”. Or “man on horse”. Chivalry, the horse-man code for men on horses. Knighthood was written up to be an honor bestowed upon the most capable, the most loyal, the most popular. But after years and years of serving as a vassal to Lord Keuron, had Sir Dagwood lost sight of the aspirations of his youth? Every knight he knew served an elite to some capacity. Was this the natural state of man, to adopt the religion and methods of a more powerful man and to be loyal to another man for his birth?

Sir Dagwood suspected he could be hanged for such traitorous thoughts. But the wars he had played part in weighed on him and caused him great grief, seeing the horrors committed by his fellow knights. Violence seemed to be the key connective trait between knights. Sir Dagwood could not criticize this aspect of others while knowing what despicable things he himself had committed. But now, getting a little wiser having outlived the majority of his friends, Sir Dagwood was beginning to question the purpose of the oath of chivalry he had taken.

He’d found out a little later in life that all of the romantic stories he’d grown up hearing about noble knights and pretty ladies had not been written by knights—but by poets. There were no great acts of love for beautiful women justifying the violence of these knights. No, they were vicious because it was in their nature, and being a knight only gave them pardon to conduct themselves as morally correct while slaughtering “enemies to the crown”.

Upon his horse ambling down a straight path beneath a canopy of thick dark leaves, Sir Dagwood was beginning to wonder what life would’ve been like had he become a poet instead of a knight. He wondered if he would have murdered still. It was difficult to imagine living as a person who didn’t think violently. He’d been told once, by another knight, that there was a profound beauty in bloodshed. Sir Dagwood might’ve agreed, had he not been so nauseated by the effluvium of burning corpses.

Sir Dagwood still served Lord Keuron, though the man was growing old and participated less in military manners than he once had. He he’d been sent by Lord Keuron to tie up loose ends and to appease a council of rulers. Or so Sir Dagwood figured, not being told anything other than the objective of his mission. He had inferred that his mission was not a public matter, and that he should be discrete about conducting his killing. Sir Dagwood wondered why a secret assassin had not then been sent in his place. But he was in no position to not go. So here he was, going.

He knew the man he was sent to murder. He’d known him quite well, once. But in the eventful years of recent, his memory had become preoccupied with other things, and he had not thought frequently of his old friend. He hadn’t debated much whether it would be against his better judgement to kill the man in light of their former friendship. He hadn’t debated much at all, really. He had no plan either. Nor did he particularly know where he was headed.

He’d been traveling the countryside to investigate leads provided to him by whoever he happened to approach in the town he was in at that time. The baron he was hunting had been well-known since liked by the presiding royalty—until he had fallen hopelessly from their graces by an act of traitorous rebellion. If he asked a villager if he had seen a man fitting the description of the baron, the villager might give him a vague answer, and then wave him in another direction or point him to another villager. It wasn’t a very efficient means of tracking down a person, but the baron had vanished quite effectively.

He was nearing upon a farm shortly after dawn, having set out before the sun had risen. It was an unseasonably warm day in early April and there was a gentle breeze fluttering through the air. Sir Dagwood was in half-plate, with no helmet, leaning back in his saddle with a tranquil expression across his comely features. Save for a scar that rippled across his right cheek, just below his eye, he had a smooth, supple complexion and a ruddy glow to his cheeks. He was tanned, but the sunless winter had drained his color somewhat. Still, he was the epitome of health and youth, not yet pained by the aches of old age yet already plagued by the worries of a man all too aware of his ageing. He was in a good mood, warm morning sun glazing his cheeks.

He was coming up upon a farm out in a rural area. He was following another whim but expected no result. He wound his way up to the collection of buildings, lazily guiding his steed to have a lethargic viewing of the place. Seemed quaint.

He dismounted, thinking he might introduce himself to the landlords and perhaps ask for a meal. He tethered his horse to a fence and meandered a short while, looking for a person he might call out to. He spotted a figure near a shoddy barn, and he called out to them, raising a hand, “Good man, do you preside in this facility? Where might I find the owners?”

He had to call because he was still a modest distance away. He was struck by an uncanny feeling, but he had not immediately recognized the man he was calling to. “I am a knight of Lord Keuron’s court!”