Royal Blood

I spent entirely too much time on this, and suffered several setbacks - from a file format problem to a power outage. But, it's finally as done as I can make it, and I'm fairly pleased with the result - I know I need more practice with my paintings and colored pieces. Anyhow, I debated about adding the little story behind this painting. I declined to post it on the lineart, but I've had a number of people encouraging me to include the story. So here goes, be forewarned, it's a bit of a read. I attempted to keep it as short and sweet as possible, not to mention I am horribly out of practice when it comes to writing, and pressed for time besides. I mostly think in terms of artwork these days - but I still enjoy writing, I just have no illusions about being good at it, ha!

All talking aside, this takes place shortly after the "Prelude" story I posted a while back, and it involved just Ardwen being who and what he is without Elerus around to check his worst tendencies. Errors aside, it is what it is, and I hope I can finally move on to other projects now. Ardwen always frustrates me, and he's provided ample evidence he can do it with both the visual and written arts. To those who wanted to know a little more about my characters, thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

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Echoes carried down the hallway, the crisp retort of boots clicking against varnished stone. Shleana was alone now; she knew it. Moments earlier the corridors outside had roared with the sound of combat, the harsh ringing of metal against metal, the screams of the wounded – cut short. Manuel had entered, informed her that Ardwen had arrived, that he was making his move to usurp her throne, just as he and Masan had cautioned. The Mayor of Colome had placated her with assurances that the situation could be handled, that this had all been foreseen and anticipated.

She had not seen Manuel again.

The young queen took another gulp of wine, swirling it around in her mouth before letting it down her throat. An excellent vintage, a gift from Masan, he said it was an import. She was certain Masan was dead. She knew enough of Ardwen to know that he would not let him live. She knew enough of Ardwen to know that the pair of boots stomping outside the door to the throne room belonged to him.

It had all been too good to be true, Shleana reflected. Her family had been murdered by the barons and margraves to the north, and what few loyal forces remained to her had retreated to a fort that was more a pile of rubble and ruins to the far south. The only thing that spared them was the onset of winter. Snow fell in blinding sheets of white while a bitter wind that cut through flesh and chilled bones howled from the north. She had imagined at the time that it was the northern army somehow bringing their foul weather with them. It was as if nature herself had turned against them, sending the most severe winter that could be recalled in decades to herald the triumph of the Northmen. Supplies dwindled; people succumbed to starvation and the skeletal fingers on the hungering cold.

Then he had appeared.

At first, Shleana had thought him nothing more than another tempest-tossed refuge, a straggling supporter who had braved the winter to come die beside the would-be queen. That illusion had been swiftly shattered as the man had barged into her impromptu court, her guards tossed aside with all the ease and callous disregard of a man throwing a ragdoll. Ardwen had not kneeled, he offered no deference, instead he offered terms. He had wanted land and money, wealth and station. In return, he promised to reclaim the city of Colome for them. As proof that he could carry out his claims, they would find the Brigadier General commanding the blockade around their position had been killed recently. That had been the extent of the warrior’s offer, he had disappeared then, and their search around camp turned up nothing. The only proof of his visit was the broken bones and bruises her personal guard had to nurse. Then news trickled in, the northerners were in disarray, their leader’s banner had been taken down, whispers whirled that he was dead.

Afterwards, there was no question of hiring the man who would come in time to spearhead the push back against the northern forces. Always the situation was the same, Ardwen would arrive, list demands and expected payment, and only afterwards would his assignment be completed. The warrior’s lack of propriety and obsequiousness infuriated her closest supporters, but the situation was dire, and Ardwen looked to be their one way out. Gradually, Shleana came to respect, if not condone, the Dar’s efficiency and calculating manner. She began to construct schemes and ideas to keep him close, and after the successful conclusion of the summer campaign which saw her capital restored to her, she decided to ennoble Ardwen, raising him to the highest levels of the peerage in the hopes that it would instill a sense of belonging and duty.

It had not worked. Ardwen’s earlier demands had forced her to raise vast sums of money, and Masan had convinced her the only way to do this was to raise taxes on those living in Colome. Her first official act as queen had been to further drain her demoralized people. The city had been gutted in the evacuation. Her army had controlled the ground, but they lacked a navy; the Emperor in the north had sent a fleet to cover his withdraw and ferry plunder and loot out. It had been a pyrrhic victory. In light of the situation, Ardwen relented on his earlier demands. Amazingly, the Dar swordsman had seemingly wanted nothing more to do with the conflict after gaining a homestead. Instead, he began providing for a young child with a bizarre appearance, a little boy who was preternatural, against nature. It had set Shleana on edge, and brought to the fore that she had placed her survival, and her people’s wellbeing, in the hands of something that ultimately was far beyond anything they understood as human.

Masan and Manuel had both worked in tandem to convince her that Ardwen had to be removed. She had listened to their reasoning, their evidence, and in counterbalance all she had from the warrior who had helped her win her throne was distance and silence – as if he had achieved his aims and everything else was infinitely beneath his notice. Now, she could not help but wonder if her two closest advisors’ stories had all been lies, their evidence composed of nothing more than fabrication and coincidence. Of course, it was far too late to wonder this now, because the Dar now stood before her throne.

Ardwen tugged at the glove on his left hand, pulling it off, finger by finger. “I-I . . .” Shleana began, trying to think of something, anything, her tongue felt swollen, her throat dry, her mouth tasted of ash. She had signed the orders; her signature was on the writ for his and Elerus’s death. What could she say? “You don’t, you can’t understand. Ardwen. My mom and dad, they were killed when they took the city, my-“

“Your father was a coward,” Ardwen cut in, “your mother was a whore. And you? You are a fool.” Shleana tried to respond, wanted to scream in outrage, wanted to claw this monster’s eyes out. Ardwen tossed his glove to the floor, clamped his hand around her mouth. She could feel his hideous strength from that alone, the tension in his fingers, the steel of his arm. “Masan and Manuel are dead.” He moved his face in close, forcing her to look into his eyes. The swordsman’s features had always been schooled and controlled, but no longer. His eyes were deep pools of shadow, his mouth a constant sneer. The façade of control had slipped; the emotionless mask had been stripped away. “No more words, girl. This night, you will die for your stupidity.” He jerked her face closer, wrenching her neck, his palm dug into her skin, pressure against her skull, the heat from his breath poured over her. Blood leaked from her nose and mouth, dripping down onto his hand. “I want to feel you die.”

The Dar warrior placed his other hand on the side of his former queen’s head; he moved his other to the opposite side. She tried to sputter something, but her words were forever lost. The last noise the ruler of Colome made was a sharp crack as Ardwen twisted her neck in one swift motion, severing her spine. Her body went limp, and as he released her body her head hung at an unnatural angle. He pulled the body from the throne, tossing it to the ground. Turning, the warrior closed his eyes, the blood on his hand still warm.