:::Heart of Darkness:::

Balthier spun the sword in his hands. Sweat from the noon sun beat down upon bronzed skin, and ran in rivulets down across his muscles torso and his stomach as he stood in the practice yard of the keep, naked to the waist, and bared at foot. Again the sword swung in his hands as he circled with his opponent, a habit of idle hands, his wrists making a quick circle,, brandishing the blade of the practice sword, almost tauntingly towards the other. Captain General Malquith, a rather large, dark skinned man with a hard demeanor and a harder reputation sneered at the movement, the arrogance that was prince and future King, and yet as the two men circled, the seasoned war vet searching the man’s defense for some weakness, and failing to find one, he grinned. The boy learned well Both men were winded, breathing heavily. Both bore red, mad whelps on their skin, from contact with the wooden practice swords they both carried, although if one were to examine close enough, one would see that Balthier bore a few more than his opponent, however, Malquith’s all seemed gathered around more vital areas in the torso. Precision was Balthier’s mistress.

“Come on old man,” Balthier spoke, chiding, attempting to bait the Captain General into the first move, as he shuffled his feet quickly in the tight circle in which they danced. He could smell the sweat from his own body, that coming from the body of Malquith. He could feel the heat running from them like waves, dancing through the dust kicked up by shuffling feet. Both men were covered with it, as mingling dust formed mud in the creases of their bodies, in the folds of muscles, adding dark edges that only served to make them more pronounced. The sword twisted again, and in that moment Balthier saw what he was waiting for. Malquith’s right foot caught in the shuffle, as toe bit painfully into the ground.

Like a predator, Balthier sprung forward, striking out with the wooden long sword at the quickly raising sword of the Captain General, attempting to hammer the wooden sword free of the man’s iron grip. The sword struck with a slap as wood struck wood, and the jarring force of the impact made scream aching muscle in Balthier’s arms. The blow counter, but Balthier quickly moved to press his advantage, dancing a step forward quickly, bringing the sword around to attack the far side of his opponent’s body from the first strike, a second glancing blow forced away by the strength of the Lord Captain General.

But Balthier persisted, this time ramming a shoulder firmly into his opponent so quickly that Malquith had no time to react. He hit the man hard, throwing him back a few steps with the force of impact, and as the man staggered, Balthier’s sword struck out. Twice he contacted the man’s ribs, both left and right side. As Malquith regained his balance, Balthier spun quickly around the man, slapping at the back of his knees with the sword, to blow them out from underneath him, driving the man quickly to his left knee, before stopping, and gently placing the point of his practice sword at the base of the man’s neck: where death would be instant and painless.

Balthier was breathless, laughing as he felt the point of a steel blade touch between the halves of his trapezius. He heard a clapping coming from the edge of the practice grounds, and as he dropped the wooden sword, felt the blade removed, he turned to see his father standing with a dagger in his fists, and his little sister Anoria, clapping at the gates. His father was casually dressed, without robe of office or crown, so Balthier took the meeting to be between father and son, not King and subject. He smiled, turned and drug Malquith to his feet. “You cheat father, attacking a man from behind is not honorable,” Balthier spoke, not in accusation, but in excuse for having been bested, “and you entered a contest that was not yours.”

Lord Aaemon von Malkus was in his middle ages, a man of fifty-seven, with as much gray to his broad head as he had black. He was still a very imposing figure, with broad shoulders and a broad chest, with arms like tree trunks, and legs as big around as Balthier’s. The Duke of Cyfarwydd was, even at his current age, knight and trusted ally of the King, a charge that he didn’t take to lightly, as he strove to maintain physical prowess in order to properly perform those duties, inspite of age that should have robbed him of his strength years ago. His voice was deep, serious, like a professor who had just lectured on the meaning of life, and wished to drive home the lesson with tone of voice. “Ah, but you practice an art that is meant for war, not honorable duels between men. War is not honorable, and the fights not fair, nor personal. While you were victorious with one enemy, it’s the one you didn’t perceive who stole your life my son,” Lord Malkus spoke, sheathing his dagger back into his belt. “But enough of this. You’ve been out here since breakfast, and it is nearly lunch. The Countess de’Arthia, and her daughter are coming to discuss the upcoming ceremony, and you smell like a pig farmer.”

“Of course father,” Balthier spoke, picking up the practice sword from the dust covered floor, and returned it to the waiting hand of the Captain General, who turned away after muttering a respectful, “your graces”. Balthier, without such ceremony, walked to a waiting basin of water nearest the front of the practice yard, by which his sister stood.

“I thought it was quite unfair of father to kill you in such a fashion,” Antonia spoke, as Balthier stopped, drawing a pitcher of water up from the awaiting bucket. She was a pretty thing, with the bluest of eyes colored after the evening sky, deep and dark, with rivets of perfect silver running through the irises, like cirrus clouds swimming through the azure skies. Her hair was dark, like the rest of his family, and she possess such a noble beauty that it was a no wonder the world waited for her to turn 16… to turn the age of marriage. Balthier simply smiled at the comment, holding the pitcher of water between his two hands.

“Yes well, I don’t suppose it matters much in the manner father decides to kill me,” Balthier responded with some humor, as he poured the pitcher of water over himself, to wash away the dust and mud that caked to his body. “He is Duke, and lord father after all. I’d wager I should be honored he chose to do it himself.”

“Yes well,” Antonia spoke, wrinkling her nose in distaste for the retort, “I shall not speak with him again until he apologizes for wrong. At least he could have killed you to your face Attacking a man’s back. Its criminal.”

“And you attack his heart,” Balthier retorted, “Cut from his chest with a knife of silence. Careful, lest he marries you off to a man who would dull your knife with laughter and sonnets this fall, dear sister.”

Antonia laughed, a joyful, haughty sound that Balthasar has heard throughout his life, a laugh he’s grown accustomed to. She always seemed to make what was on the horizon seem somehow the more bearable. He told he r once that she could laugh about anything, and he still believed it to be true, for her had a happy spirit and a gentle soul that Balthier valued as one of Canterbury’s most prized treasures. She faked a curtsey, spreading her plain brown skirts, in a regal fashion as she bent at the knees, a harmonious light to her eyes, with laughter behind them. “Tis a better fortune than yours, dear brother. The Countess de’Arthia…”

“Will be here in a little while sparrow,” Balthier spoke, pouring yet another jar of water over his head, to wash away what hadn’t the first attempt, “and I’ll not have your light dimmed by ill words spoke in confidence hours before she arrived. The walls have ears here, and a servant’s tongue is very loose.”

Balthier put the pitcher back in the barrel, and stepped back, picking up his shirt from the steps leading down into the practice field, and pulling it quickly back over his shoulders. The cloth stuck to his wet skin as he pulled it down over his stomach, and as he ran his fingers through his short, cropped brown hair, drops of water fell onto his broad back, browning the white fabric.

“To nest, little sparrow,” He spoke, turning to smile at his sister, “I’ve to get ready for the Countess and her daughter, while you.. I do believe you’ve not been keeping up with your books.”

“How…” Antonia spoke, but was silenced by Balthier’s finger against her lips.

“Shh,” he spoke, “ the walls have ears…” He laughed as he turned, and walked back into the keep, to properly bathe and ready himself.

And of course they were right. The walls did have ears, and those ears belonged to the young knight-in-training, Celia Cornell.

Curious hazel eyes watched the Countess from behind a pillar. The woman looked like she attracted many suitors in her younger years, and her daughter was even more beautiful. The squire watched in wonder, crouched down in a position where she could see what was happening, or who was approaching, without being seen herself. Her face was still bruised, and her hair was now hacked to a short length, falling into an uneven pattern down to her ears.

She couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but she did hear one specific word: Marriage. In Celia's opinion, marriage was a futile thing, something for girls whom wore dresses, and whom would gaze in horror at just the thought of getting their faces bruised. This made her chuckle, even as she was trying to stay quiet. Marriage. How boring. None of those noble women would get to enjoy the feeling of victory after winning a battle. None would get to laugh loud and hard, standing over an enemy that they had just hacked down to pieces. They didn't have that privelige; not like Celia did.

And Celia did understand the feeling of victory. Why, she'd even been victorious earlier--well, before she'd gotten bashed in the face, that is. She was standing over another squire with her boot to his throat, after winning the short battle between them. He was absolutely furious, and it was absolutely delightful to see him so angry. Sadly, her happiness was short-lived, and the knight called the match over. The moment she removed her foot from his throat, though, he was up onto his feet and swinging his fist directly into her face. It hurt, but she figured what hurt most was the poor boy's pride.

The resultant from that was an all out brawl between the four squires, and then all of the squires fleeing, when they realized that they would be punished soon afterward. Which, in the end, led Celia Cornell here, hiding behind a pillar, watching the Countess and her daughter being welcomed to the castle. She turned her back to the pillar, landing on her bottom with an oof!Exhausted, cheerful, and a little frightened from the punishment she knew she wouldn't be able to avoid, the squire settled in for some rest here.

It was hours before Balthier was dressed, much to his irritation. He had been involved in matters of state before, and always cringed when the maids gathered around to make sure the prince looked properly dressed and attired for his appearance. It wasn’t that the tasks was all that painful, unlike the complaints he often heard from his sister, but the idea of privacy seemed a little hazed when it came to state affairs. Balthier had just finished standing in the middle of his bed chambers, as naked as the day he was born, with a group of women swarming around him with swatches of cloth, clothes, sponges, rags, brushes… seeing to ever crevice of his body in such detail that often times he found himself blushing at a cold touch, or a ill timed, spoken word.

There were a number of assorted tunics brought about, red with golden trim, blue with a deep sea green trim, black on white, black on red… the colors began to flash as eh tunics were pressed up against his muscled chest in such succession that he couldn’t keep them straight. The colors were dizzying, like a swirling mist, only counteracted by the feel of a comb being ran through his hair, or the pressure of a sponge traveling up and down his legs. He exhaled, reminding himself to address this with his father… but the last time he had, his father had simply laughed, told him to enjoy the attention while he had it. Something about young maids and old age, that, a few years ago didn’t make as much sense as it had now. But alas, he stood in silence, arms outstretched, feet shoulder width apart, while the tailors measured him out, and the fabric began to wrap his body.

Two hours later, he was allowed to leave, garbed in a earth green tunic, a pair of black pants, and a sea green sash across his waist, upon which he had fastened a thin bladed rapier upon a brown belt. The women had been almost beside themselves when he pulled the weapon from the bed and started to don it, but he had managed to stifle the lot of them with an insistence that he had allowed them their input, but he was a man capable of dressing himself. He thanked each in turn as he left, his brown boots echoing hard on the tiles of the floor as he steps from his bed chamber, and starts towards the entry hallway, readying to meet the Countess and her daughter.

When he came to the entry hall, he saw his father, standing there with his sister Antonia. His father was dressed in the same red and green tunic the old man wore to affairs such as this, while Antonia wore a beautiful powder blue dress that seemed to brighten her eyes and her head of dark hair. They were talking between themselves, the Duke smiling, and Antonia laughing at what was said between them, obviously both in high spirits. Behind a band of minstrels were gathered, one with a harp, one with a flute, and another with a stringed instrument that Balthasar hadn’t ever really paid much attention to. Together they began to create a melody that wafted through the entry hall like the smells of roasted board and deer coming from the kitchen.

“You’re preparations are a bit much, don’t you think father,” Balthier spoke, coming into the safety of the immediate area around him and Antonia before speaking. He grinned as he spoke, looking into his father’s eyes to let the man know the truth of his words: only jest, “do you invite a wife for me, or one for youself? I hear the Countess de’Arthia was, at once, quite a handsome woman,” Balthier spoke, watching his father’s face pale at the thought. Since the death of the lady von Malkus, the Duke had little interest in remarrying. He said that the bounds of marriage were to release him at death, however, the bonds of love created between the two of them were eternal, and though they were separated, it would be as much a sin to find another now as it would have been when she was alive. It was a position his father had been very adamant about all these nine years.

“You should be so fortunate to find what still binds me my son,” the duke spoke, all joviality fading from his vice as he did so, “God bless it be so, for the both of you.”

And yet we allow politics to create families, and bound souls.

Balthier spoke, moving to stand beside his father as he heard the carriage pull up outside, saw the big doors to the hall begin to swing open and servants readied for the guests arrival. Balthier felt his palms sweating, felt as nervous today as he had done on the battle fields with the thieves in the southern fields nearly a month ago; as though he could lose his life just as easily here, as he could have then. The carriage door opened. The Harold sounded their names as first lady de’Arthia stepped out, and then her daughter. Balthier smiled in greeting, remained still, starkly still..

So not to attract the attention of the enemy

~ ~ ~ ~
Tranquility fled with the passing of the night, and Balthasar’s patience with it. Dinner was an affair of hostile silence and stiff conversation as Balthasar made it clear that his actions would be guided by etiquette and tradition, and that he wouldn’t break from what was prescribed in order to learn something new. It showed a marked disinterest in the affairs, and though technically he couldn’t be found at fault for his actions, nor could his house or his father, it was obvious that he had no intention of bending to their will. He engaged his sister more than his supposed fiancé, laughing and carrying on with her under his breath in the harsh silence between comments made by his father or the Countess. The lady opposite him, though he felt pity for her, did little more than bury her face in her meal and dared not look up unless directly spoken to.

Needless to say dinner didn’t last, and Balthier was early to his rounds. Patrol was a chore , and his head pounded because of the effort at conversation, the lack of interest in the moment, in the pair of ladies brought into home by his father, cloistered as potentials for his consumption, which he quickly cast away like some spoiled, gluttonous fool. But the truth was far more proper in such situations than faining interest only to later dismiss it as a whim. So he walked from the front door, pausing in step as his eyes spy the woman in her hiding place. A curious look upon his features as he stepped past, motioning for her to come out of her hiding spot, to join him. Though he was nobility, and though this was his father’s home, Balthier found as much interest in ‘common’ matters as he did in those deemed by the crown to be more regal. She seemed to have had better days, by first glance. He would know the story.

“Why do you lurk the shadows of my father’s house?” the question came, Balthier’s eyes, so not to add extra weight to his words, move from the alert woman, this apparent warrior, to the path before him, as he stops, parallel to her, staring towards the setting sun.

It had been hours, yet Sir Gareth still had not come found her. Celia's back was aching from sitting in this position, and she wondered if it would be acceptable to take a dash back to the squire's quarters, so she could get in a short nap before she was punished. But then she would probably have to see that squire from earlier, and he'd want to fight again. Celia was not one to back down from any fights, so she would fight him and probably end up deeper in trouble than before.

Sir Gareth should have found her by now; it wasn't that hard to find a girl with this ugly of a bruise on her face, was it? She looked like an ogre! It was a surprise that one of the servants hadn't yet seen her then immediately run away to retrieve him. He hadn't even come to check here. It was as if he wasn't looking for her at all. Celia felt down for a moment, but then concluded that he was probably spending these hours finding and punishing the boys. They were bigger and more ignorant than her, so it wouldn't be very hard for him to find the little tormentors. She could imagine their sobbing pleas, right before the smack of a paddle to their behind. She wished she could watch; it would've been the highlight of her day. It would've been even better if she didn't know that she would be lined up next.

Her eyes watched the distant river, listening to others of the home chatting, laughing, flirting. It was entertaining at first, then became an annoyance. They were servants, right? Shouldn't they have work to do? And the knights, had they become less alert? Shaking her head, she wondered what would the king do if he saw them like this, slacking off and having shameless fun. Was he busy? Her mind went back to earlier, with the countess. It sounded as if whatever was going on, it was very important. Not everyone got the Countess and her daughter visit them.

The marriage. It was probably the countess's daughter being wed, seeming the countess was a little too old to be trying to settle down now. The daughter though--her name had escaped Celia's mind--was very young and beautiful, so a marriage with one of the nobles living here was to be expected. They would probably be a very handsome couple. People would watch and stare in awe at the two. They'd probably wave and smile at their subjects, laughing easily. Then they would create a child. A little girl, or a little boy. And the child would be just as beautiful as they were. If it was a girl, she'd become the perfect wife, and if it was a boy, he'd become the perfect man. Everything was so perfect; it was sickening.

Her mind wandered back to the past. She thought about what would've happen if her parents hadn't managed to sell her off to Sir Gareth. She would probably be still living in their small hut, ignorant to the rest of the world. Still frolicking through the forests, not able to feel the pleasure of battle. Even if she missed them (of which she didn't) she would never go back. It wasn't much, she wasn't a princess or even someone with minor nobility, but here at the castle she had an opportunity to become something. Celia would not go back to being extremely poor as she was when she was a child, and now that she thought about it, she likely wouldn't be able to bear to leave Gareth. He had raised her, taught her everything she knew, he had more part in forming the person she was now, than her parents.

Suddenly, Celia could feel her eyes drooping. Images of the open fields of which she used to escape to, entered her vision, mixing reality with dream. She had suddenly turned smaller, and was running into the fields, kicking up dandelions with her bare feet, smelling rain in the air. She felt both free and abandoned, wanting to just lay down on the soft earth and watch everything disappear. She couldn't tell how long this strange merge of reality and dream lasted, but before she could fully doze off, a voice stabbed through its existance, jolting her completely awake. “Why do you lurk the shadows of my father’s house?”

Celia blinked, trying to reduce the weight of her eyelids. It took a short while for her brain to assess the situation. Accepting the fact that she had been caught, she stretched while yawning loudly, feeling her back crack. "Well," she began, thinking up something clever to say. From the way this man was dressed, he must've been one of the nobles. In fact, he looked pretty familiar, but Celia had always had a hard time remembering names. She could remember looks though, and as he stood beside her, Celia took in his height, his stance, the way his hair was cut, the color of his eyes. She mentally absorbed everything from the size of his hands to the shape of his jaw. "Oh, what would a kind, brave, nobleman such as yourself, would want from such an beastly troublesome girl such as myself, I ask of you." Celia cried dramatically. She pretended to be in distress, if only for entertainment purposes. "For I have been waiting all day for a man to just sweep me off my feet, yet no one has come upon me! Has a witch cast a dirty spell on me? Yet you managed to sniff me out this easily. Quite the dog you are, sire." She smiled wickedly and laid her head on her knees.