Sylphe
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News travels fast atop petrified peaks and branches. So does the silence, and within her her disturbances. A flutter of a wing, a tap upon the wood. It is up to me to hear and sense the intrusions over the chitter of the city below the palace’s branch: to discern wings of kin from feathers, or the spread of flames from a loose lantern lost to that of magic wildfire.
Though focus flutters aside
And it should not falter such
To the buzz of the smaller folk from within the home tree’s trunk, to the many shining dots of stars deep in the root-crossed skies above the throne room. The air is crisp and quiet and rich with anticipation, waiting for the next suitor to step over the threshold, challenge the velvet and blades waiting within.
Waiting for the next intruder, for the next war.
But this is neither of them, I think… the steps are too nervous, too scattered for this to be another of the fang-feathered kin. A soldier would long since be dispatched, would it not? A challenger, then, never should carry this much tremble in their step.
“Control, poise, dear little thing.”
So is the click-clack of my voice as I step outside the throne, white petals and silken connections of a cocoon parting. The many layers of a robe in their golds and reds and chiming beads trail behind every step to make it so ceremonial, yet this little servant needs not be afraid. But such she is, small roach garbed in the grays and silvers, black eyes and antenna dipping deep as I speak, though really she should not – she is near as old as I can remember.
“What news have you? Is anyone on the way on this beautiful evening, Chulti?”
Of whom, of little old me? The claws and pincers and finest of poisons never once have harmed a commoner and yet there is quiet where there should be revelry and joy when they approach the gold-painted halls. This silence, it’s… suffocating, where it should not be.
It is safe.
“No suitors tonight, Princess, I’m afraid. No one dangerous is approaching the tree that we’ve seen.”
Safe, kin protected, yet it has gotten quieter here with each day the throne room remains pristine, with each day blades do not ring.
“And of the common folk, no messages? No rumors?”
The chittering laugh bounces with an eerie ghost, and Chulti should not hang her head this low. It does not suit her. Her voice thus is just a whisper as my claw traces the silver-painted face.
“Ah– um.”
Her voice fades and my anticipation and excitement grow.
Perhaps they had spotted someone, as the old tales tell? Knights and princes arising from the common folk, the warriors that know the touch of dry grass and sun unimpeded by a dusty tree-crown. Or perhaps, a lone servant lady seeking to poison the princess, to usurp, to seek more power?
My claw taps against the side of her face. Could it be her?
“The townsfolk think that perhaps you’ve ridden us of every brave knight there is, your majesty.”
And then, comes the gold-tinted laughter, but it hangs in the open throne room as cold wind between branches does.
The Court knows the fight and so do their stories – for as long as the Tree had granted wood to paint on with golds and reds and blacks always had there been brave knights seeking the hands of their beloved, dangerous quests to save them from Lindwurms and drakes to prove their prowess and ability to protect, to guard, to ravenously fight. But there were older ones, spoken in taverns and hushed lights, under the trunks of cities. Burnt at the roots where old farming folk reside, patterns only they can read. Of a sacred place from whence all of the Court’s hometrees came, all its warlust, all its beauty. Where the greatest warriors come to fulfill wishes, to gain blessings for their folk. It's old, the tale of Jogral who wished for the power to slay a dragon, of Nivéna who came to ask the stars and night itself to end a never-ending drought.
This wish, though, is not one, not truly. The creators of old wish for champions. If a prince strong enough to rule does not come to me, then I will come for them.
My call comes quietly one morning, and dances across the palace’s still-green leaves to the ashen branch-streets below. That I depart – that if no champions are here to challenge me, then I will bring one to my lands.
And then at once all that silence ends, and there is revelry. Lanterns hang on silken threads, colourful and accompanied with the songs of trumpets and woodwinds, I don’t think I feel this path towards victory and new fights as clearly as I should. There are whispers, shifting glances amidst the colourful shine among white and red cloth. Silken is the thread and paper are the lanterns, loved craftwork of the wasps, painted with the dusts of elytras and worms and bark. Their songs bring up wyrms and wars and bright-red banners, even with futures unsure.
It’s a folk that deserves more than mere safety. It deserves strength. Certainty.
It takes a whole entourage to follow royalty such as I on such a path. I could not be happier to have them, though I know some of them are doubtful. But they ride their moths into the sky along with mine, and clear my air so I can pursue the patterns that guide the path. They sing and they cook and they carry the red carpets of the Court, the trumpets. It is protocol to not step outside the red silk, but the sandy rocks so far beyond my domain I can still touch from the back of a mount. Here, where the endless expanse begins, I must do without the trumpets, the jesters and their songs, their little chitin chimes.
They rush with the red silk and I stop them, with my hand raised. I breathe and the sand rushes past me, dirtying robes meant to be pristine for all but blood.
“Thank you, my dearest.”
I watch one of my servants as his limbs near break after so long of travel. He is a weakling, this one, a bee meant to be more stately than this.
No warrior, mere standard-bearer for my court. And yet he watched over the open black dark expanse the birds and humans call the ocean, with the same awe. And this one? With his wife and many children, they will hear of the ‘sea’, too.
The weight swells over me. It is a different silence than theirs, perhaps painted with longing. But I had not finished the words. My hands brush through the black fur between interlocking armor, and the old rat mount’s eyes twinkle with wisdom as he understands. He turns in the same direction as I, at the coastal path leading to a fabled, expanse-bound cavern, black vines hanging off its maw, white limestone batted at by the waves.
“... From here on out, it has to be me. Fear not, and let the others know that I will soon return.”
Though about the truth of this, I had never been so unsure.
Where else for a Crimson Court to meet her destiny than under the blood-red moon?
The white marble of too-thin trunks and shifting pathways of pitch black branches opens up to harsher ground. It’s a light whose call could be felt miles before the destination. I had followed their dancing lights between the leaves, the scent of blood, the miles long noise of a river’s rush. I had expected a kind of beauty, for such a sacred place of war. And yet, nothing could have prepared –
For the way the fog rolls over the banks, for the sparks of moonlight and dancing shadows, for the rivers bright with anticipation. For the gates taller than the hometrees that span the sky, for the moon larger than any moth had ever seen or dared dance about in legend.
It’s… the sight is beautiful.
– I am always prepared. As any warrior should. It is distracting.
I stalk forward. Three opponents still breathe, each standing behind their cross of rushing river, as if divinities wished to tell them of the danger they are about to face, as if divinities wished to show their favor by giving each an equal ground. It shall not matter. The divinities speak with a language I had never heard, entwined voices of patterns painting entire lands seen from wingback, of words singed into stones. They speak words I had not heard, yet they instill their meanings regardless - this good, and this evil – new, in their presentation.
Always there has only been the path of the knife to heart, lives saved by such a motion, and technique improved. A chuckle rings through the red-basked chitin, perhaps heretical – they show worthiness not just to their gods, but to me.
Appetite, though. Indulgence. Those are clearer, those ring in the blades I count with practiced motions. They ring to the eyes and the hunger seeking behind the moonlight, to the flutter of wings hidden within silk.
By the wing-crossed skies, there are three of them.
Then that requires tactics. Step after step, I feel their own footfalls rush and saunter through the ground. The smears move. In being brave enough to face me, they gain forms. One hand rises from my chest, then another. A moment the hallowed naginata rests to the side as I call out, voice carrying over the rivers.
“Champions of old tales! Best me, and win yourself half the kingdom of Crimson Court…”
Then the one paw rests on the chest as my voice lowers, yet still easily heard:
“And my hand!”
It is a request, it is an honor, more so it is a declaration. My footfalls speed to the rush the others undoubtedly feel, and my eyes flicker about each in anticipation of their voices, of their colours, of their battle styles, the pain only they can inflict. And the mind races.
Taking in the beauty, the tales in their cries. This one’s voice is heroic, wise like the tree-root patterns this princess wears. She speaks of balance, of the vortexes and circles – Oh to dance with her, under the blood-red sky, under the moonlight, to know where such devotion comes from, who constructed that haunting, colourful chime–
–I see a battledancer, with a chime behind every step and a lightplay that feeds my third eye with displays of shadows. Perhaps a cleric of some god I do not serve, fervent in her words.
A princess of crimson red cloth and strange half-claws on her feet…? She moves with such elegance even with her wild call for revelry and joy, even with the heaviness of her weapons.
Reds to reds and wildness to wildness, doubtless the type to not shy from spilled blood and the inner fire of a blow well struck. To battle this one, to gift her the touch of my knives, to give her the same joy of trying to land a strike –
– This one is a brute, to be certain, slow moving and hefty with that Cestus. If I had been taught anything it is that tall courage befit of madness knows many tricks.
And then – the final one remains silent. His is the gaze and aided vision of one that sits atop scripts and weaves plans, perhaps even spells… like glowworm silk seeking to entrap. I wonder, what have you seen? Why had you bowed to the river so? What magic could you show me, what stories does that blade you ready tell, silent prince…?
No one wears a tunic to a fight to the death, to the fight of the ages, unless he has more than that blade to his side. With the glasses and a reluctance to draw attention, he’s alike the mages I’d fought. Certainly to be dealt with with caution, with a testing of waters.
Two hands slip off the polearm’s home-tree wood. My grip upon her adjusts. The dance in my mind grows clear as the winds pick up and grant sharpness and silver to my steel.
Miroslav, once beloved. Let your end allow me to test their mettle.
First comes the dance that seeks hearts and ends fights before they begin. Free hands weave into silken sleeves as a footfall drops. My eyes focus first on the silent prince’s heart, guiding a throwing blade’s strike – and then swiftly a second comes, barely a breath after the first. Another of my legs hits the ground in tune. This one is a gift for the cestus-wielding princess.
Surely you will not scorn me for painting your dress with even more crimson, wild heart? Eager as you are with that flame-bearing machine of yours?
Her cheer calls a joyful chuckle and mirth out of me. It is one I should temper, and I should temper it oh-so-especially here, where I cannot let up on the onslaught. And yet, it calls me to fly like her, like the dancer.
And I leap, claw kicking against the blood-touched bank in a practiced motion. And I soar, with the regalia of my court flowing in the wind. The test is simple, the vision in my eyes clear. To get rid of all opponents as soon as the curtain opens, as soon as the fight begins. The final strike, then, comes as the four come to a head, a single heartbeat before the frenzy. This I gift to the dancer, close as she draws to the reveler. Hers then becomes the downward sweep of my naginata, an opener to twine her battle-steps with mine. Simple, but durable steel. A feint, for the silver winds have not ended their decree. The last strike to slay serpents and dragons seems to have lost its spark. But the winds have not rested their warning, enchantment still folded atop steel, waiting for the command for their last strike to be imbued.
I do not see her face as clear as she sees her kin, not even this close, but the shadows flutter and chimes sound as she moves. Though it is not the protocol, I perhaps must call to her. What if it’s the last time she hears anything?
“Your rattle! It makes the most precious of sounds!”
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