Heavy Burden

Alfred straightens back up and steps over to the desk, he looks to the stack of records on it. It’s the same stack he’s always piling onto. The third book down, yes, that’s the one. The Chronicle of the Heroes, Volume One.

Naturally, more volumes and editions had to be written as more heroes were summoned, but this record is by far the most accurate account of the lives and times of the first four heroes. Alfred may have to excavate the other three volumes from the stacks.

Alfred carefully slid the tired old book out and settled it onto the desk. He took his seat on the cold wooden chair and leaned over the tome. He opened it, and it crackled quietly. Flipping past the first few pages, his primary focus was the summonings.

The first hero, whose name was long forgotten by the time this record was made, had few details written on his summoning. He arrived from nowhere and taught the people of the time how to perform the summoning rite in the first place. They called it the Rite of Nimdok.

Frustratingly, who “They” are isn’t clear, nor is where the name of the rite came from. This wasn’t helpful to Alfred’s search. He skipped ahead quite a few chapters to the second hero.

The second hero was called Theodora. She was the first to be summoned by the Rite of Nimdok. The records Describe how she lashed out at the summoners, but there is no more of her condition to suggest she was unwell otherwise. He skipped ahead further.

The third hero went by the name Beni. Within minutes of being summoned, this hero was out the door with sword in hand. Such vigorous response to being summoned, surely the hero was in good condition. Alfred skipped on to the last hero of the volume.

The fourth hero was exceedingly cautious, suspicious of his summoners. He gave the name Adam, but it is believed that was only an alias. Other than being difficult to direct, there is no mention of poor health.

As Alfred suspected, there’s nothing in this volume.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair. He would need to search through the other four volumes, and potentially get a look at the fifth. Unfortunately, Alfred didn’t have the time to search for the other books, and the fifth will be under heavy watch on account of Isaac’s arrival. Only the Hero’s Scribe would have access to that book with the hero in play.

Having been the priest in charge of Isaac’s summoning, Alfred should still have access to the Rite of Nimdok documentation. If there was something wrong with the rite itself, if there were something that they had done wrong… that he had done wrong… Alfred needs to be certain that Isaac’s condition isn’t his doing.

Mother Connor was right, though, forsaking his own health wouldn’t solve Isaac’s condition, and Alfred has other responsibilities. He would have to entrust the search to an archivist.

That would be a task for the morning. Alfred pushes himself from the chair, leaving it plenty warm enough for the next poor sod that needs to comb through this chaos. As he ducks and weaves his way back out, he pities the position that the archivist will be in when he subjects them to this mess.

As Alfred ponders these things, King Harlan paces the halls of the castle. His nerves were a wreck. What was Ellen thinking? There were plenty of healers in the Conference, and Mistral had the best healers in the world, why would she need to throw herself to the front lines like that? He was proud of her for taking such initiative, but this was far too reckless.

And inviting the hero into her chambers, unthinkable! He should have objected, he should be objecting! He should be storming in there right now to make certain that the hero wasn’t taking advantage of his daughter!

Oh, who is he kidding, that boy is in no condition to make such advances. Still, he had to commend the bravery of the new hero, willing to take on the Abyss in his condition.

Still, willingness and ability are two different matters. If that boy had a chance at surviving, he might make for a decent suitor. Far better of a suitor than the blowhard Gorse. If it weren’t for the Gorrister dynasty’s position in the Conference, Mistral would have no need for Gorse.

As brave as the new hero might be, he came with a nurse, one that was a golem, and one that coddled him like a newborn babe. There is no chance that such a boy was combat capable. He would need to be trained.

Normally, Harlan would find an instructor for such a thing… but with Ellen insisting on being the boy’s personal healer, he felt there was little choice but to train the boy himself. What kind of a king and father would Harlan be if he didn’t?

Harlan finds himself walking along the corridor adjacent to the decorative armors. They hold ceremonial great swords. He glowers up at the sword. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken himself. It had been some years since Harlan had last taken up a blade. It would be as much training for him as it would be for the boy.

Harlan chuckles to himself and wonders if his old sword still held an edge.

He walks his way to the Royal armory. As he does, thoughts of that sword fill his mind. The Mistral Dyanstic Sword was passed from father to son for generations, and the weight of it symbolized the heavy burden of rule. Mistral Kings were trained from the day they became men to wield it, to be worthy of their station.

Harlan had no sons, only Ellen. As strong-willed as she was, the sword equaled her in weight. He could not ask her to bear such weight, nor could he trust that weight to the fool from Gorse. For that matter, the boy would likely be crushed by the blade.

The prospects of passing the blade on seemed slim.

He arrived at the armory and stepped inside

The sword stood as tall as Harlan himself. He ran his hand along the flat of it, feeling the cold metal. Forged from steel and pure Bixite, with a core of unicorn bone, and blessed by the first Oracle, this weapon was made to carve through the abyss.

Harlan frowns. Was he even worthy of its weight anymore?

He recoils as he knicks his finger on the edge. A Ruby droplet swells on the cut. He looks at it for a minute.

He smiles and chuckles to himself. It was as if the Mistral Blade was admonishing him. Now is not the time for doubts, not when the abyss was blooming once more. He nods and reaches up to take hold of it, to take hold of generations of leadership once more. He pulls it down. Harlan grips the handle with both hands, it still fits like a glove.

He takes a deep breath.

The armory was a bit close quarters for practice swings, but accounting for that had always been part of the training. He steadies his footing. From around his left shoulder, he unwinds the ceremonial cord, loops it through the ring at the pommel, and ties a quick one-handed knot. He gives the cord one, two, three loops around his forearm.

He remembers his training days. His father taught him the steps by a waltz. One, two, three, one, two, three, step, turn, sweep, up, aside, push. Traditional weapons are an extension of yourself. That still very much applies to weapons such as this, but given the weight you are putting out, the Mistral Blade is more of a dance partner than an extension. Hence was this art called the Mistral Sword Dance.

He recalls when he was taught the dance. He remembers the pride shared between father and son. He remembers his first dance with a partner other than a sword… he remembers her laugh, her smile… he remembers the dance they had when they were wed. He remembers… that some things cut deeper than blades… He remembers when he first taught the dance to Ellen. He remembers that she has her mother’s laugh… her mother’s smile.

Harlan stops. Tears stream down his face.

The sword is a greater burden than he remembered.