RP:Prince of the Blood, Prince of Guilt

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: Lionel submits to the Queen. In the aftermath of the Battle for the Bridge, Hildegarde measures justice and demotes him from Knight-Commander -- with more than a hint given that he has the chance to redeem himself in her eyes. Raphaline, also present and very much injured from the conflict, dares to defend him.

Frostmaw: Frozen Throne

Lionel cannot stop picturing Briar’s death. Every other fallen Frostmawian flickers through his troubled, tired mind like a tapestry but Briar’s fall is an imprint. All through the long march, all through the night, well into morning, the Knight-Commander has not been spared a moment’s respite from that horrifying image of her tears. “We beat them,” Nyctal had assured him. ‘We didn’t,’ is what Lionel might have said. They absolutely did not beat the Larketians. They damaged Macon’s war machine. They brought half a bridge down and limited his terrifying siege weaponry. They slew soldiers Lionel is adamantly convinced would have slain Frostmawian citizens in the streets if he had not acted. But they did not beat them. Frostmaw bled; Frostmaw withdrew. And now the usurper-king still has strength enough to march, if slowly and without the flourish he’d formerly possessed. “We fought bravely,” is what Lionel -actually- told Nyctal. And he had left it at that. Through Northern Sage, Kelay, Xalious, allies had approached him and offered their condolences. It was a fine stalwart thing -- a symbol of the decency and resilience of heart native to Frostmaw. These men and women were grieving loved ones lost, themselves, and yet they still made time to tell someone they were sorry that Briar Ku Risu was dead. Would she be avenged? Is vengeance now a path Frostmaw can even take? Is vengeance even something Lionel ever wanted? For Stroud, for Briar, for all the rest of them? Vaguely, he recalls in bitter irony the thoughts he’d had just before Macon’s armada was espied. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to open war. That irony festers into a boiling remorse as Lionel O’Connor, with Raphaline right behind him, steps through a forlorn fort. All eyes are on him. He doesn’t even register it, let alone feel it. He can’t. Briar’s death keeps playing out again and again and again. With whatever remains of his strength, the Catalian summons the courage to appear graceful as he steps past the Queensguard and bows, deeply. Her face is doubtless fury unrelenting, he reckons, and any second now he will feel it in full. Will he be banished? Merely demoted? Maybe someone will want to strike him down where he stands. If that be her providence, he’s not even sure he’ll beg. But he -will- do his best to explain. “My queen,” he says, plainly but meaningfully. He wouldn’t dare speak further just yet.

Raphaline follows close behind Lionel with nary a word to speak at the moment. She had seen the death of familiar, but what ached within the bard the most was abandoning someone she held very dearly. His gaze, her own, as they met across the field as she departed had torn a hole in her heart. She would never choose her own desires above the safety of others, so she had followed the army, casting spells to protect them as they all retreated. She never spoke a word of her own sadness, but instead chose to smother it with concern for others. One of which she looks upon now, only imaging what it is he could be feeling. She speaks no such words as she places a hand a top his shoulder as they enter the hall way of the fort of Frostmaw. Her pants are ice cold from where the water from the river had clung to them, her arms are bleeding beneath the vambrace and leather sleeves and her body begins to ache from all the magic she had channeled earlier. Quietly, she follows in step, her emerald gaze taking in the looks upon all the guards’ faces. Each wore one that announced the shock, anger, and sadness that comes with eminent war. But now, as she enters the throne room beside the commander, she hopes that maybe not all loss shall come to pass this day. Afraid she might not be able to get up off the floor, she bows at the waist in respect to Hildegarde, but leaves Lionel to speak first.

Hildegarde sits upon the icy throne in apparent eerie calmness. Lionel’s respectful introduction is met only with silence, her sole eye affixed upon him with utter discontent. Her anger is visible and such is rare for the knight: a woman who liked to keep her anger out of her affairs as best she could, a woman who wanted to conduct herself well at all times. But not this time. No, this time her anger is plain to see, she has a face like thunder; her body is tense like the lightning ready to strike from behind that thundercloud. Even Raphaline’s respectful bow is endured, when typically it would not be. Typically, Hildegarde would usher these formalities away and tell them all that they need not bother or she would smile kindly upon them. But not this day. Her fingers flex around the shaft of her halberd as she gazes upon Lionel. “Leave us,” she announces to the room, waiting for the Queensguard – all but Lisbeth of course – to file out of the room and leave the Queen to her visitors. The Warrior Queen shifted slightly in her throne when the doors slammed shut behind her warriors, a long breath drawn in. She will wait.

Lionel can feel the air shift as the Queensguard leaves the room -- but not for their motions. The air is stagnant. It feels choking, much like the crush of Larketians he and Briar had very nearly suffocated underneath. It occurs to him as the door slams and the three are left alone that he has not felt air without a measure of decay from that point forward. Then, in rising pressure, it occurs to him as well that Hildegarde has no intention of talking until he does. Lifting himself with visible struggle, his azure gaze comes to her lone livid eye. Lionel is not sure he has ever seen her like this. Even prepared, he still feels shaken. Words catch in his throat but he knows he must convey. “I ordered your army to action without your consent. I made a choice and I ordered your army to action… without your consent.” He repeats it. His voice is chipped. There is a tiny cut near his throat. “I would never ask forgiveness where I know it is not deserved. Before I begin, I want you to know I -do- respect you. Immensely. I came here shattered. You helped restore me. You helped me to remember what it means to want freedom for all of Lithrydel. And of Frostmaw in particular, I have come to love your people and I would give my life for you or anyone else who serves you. In a heartbeat.” Briar’s death flashes. “The usurper-king marched unquestionably toward Frostmaw. At his course, at his speed, and with his ballistae at the ready, our main force would not have staved off civilian bloodshed. Ambush was likely. I gave the command. I went in, against regulation, and I moved to break Macon before he could attempt to break us. We fought. They bled. We bled. We couldn’t break them. We retreated. His ballistae are half in ruins, his army is not what it once was. And neither is ours.” If there were a word to describe a man whose countenance is guilt and compassion incarnate, that word might currently be ‘Lionel.’

Raphaline has not seen anger like this on Hildegarde’s face in sometime, probably long before she had been queen. It pulls at the heartstring’s of the bard as she looks from the silver dragon to the warrior beside her who stumbles through his words. When he begins to struggle, the bard takes a step closer and putting only a breath between them in case he would need her help. The longer she stands, the more she can feel the ache setting in, and the blood sliding across her arms as she crosses them over her chest, waiting for the right moment to speak. For now, she allows the commander to describe the moment, the weapons and the march that in full had proceeded and she knew in her heart that no show of power like that was just that—a show. Still, she waits.

Hildegarde would not interrupt Lionel. She wanted – needed – to hear what sort of explanation he could offer her as to what had happened under her nose. Finally, the Silver rose from her seat with a small grunt. Raphaline and Lionel were not the only wounded in this room. “You commanded my army, my people, to advance without my consent. You acted without consulting me. You acted swiftly, in the hope to prevent loss,” but he had simply caused it. Words she does not say for she cannot bring herself to be quite so cruel but these unsaid words hang in the air regardless. “You acted without *considering* what I would do. What I had in mind. I was in the middle of writing a letter to sue for peace, only to hear that you have commanded *my* army to march,” never does she raise her voice. Never does she allow herself to scream, shout, roar or cry out the words. Instead, the circular room that held only four people at present lifted her voice for her. Echoing throughout the room, her voice held a power to it. “You call me your Queen, yet you acted as if Frostmaw was yours to command. Is Kingship the responsibility you seek?” she asked him, though she already knew his answer. “A prince of the blood you may once have been,” she had done her research, having read that tome he had once given her so long ago, “but you are no prince of the north. I trusted you with the command and instruction of my army, yet you have done this. It is a direct… it is a defiling of my trust,” her voice wavered for only a moment. Raphaline has earned a few concerned glances, but it is evident that Hildegarde is doing her best to steel her gaze. She needs to remain angry.

Lionel hears the clacking of Raphaline’s steps toward him but tenses as he detects the extent of her injury. He offers her a brief regretful glance but does not ask her to leave. The desire is strong in him to do so; she needs medical attention. But she wanted this. He will respect it. Perhaps he can yet do -something- right. Hildegarde advances. At the conclusion of the first of her rebuttals, the words left hanging over the loss he himself has created are jabbed deftly into Lionel’s soul. He hears them all too well. Each and every point Hildegarde makes seems to spiral darkly around the throne room and bounce back into him like a drum. It is torture most unique. Yet for all his aches, nothing seems to slice him quite like mention of Catal. His eyes do not mist until Catal. His failed attempt at steadfast is not breached until Catal. Lionel’s lips twist ever so slightly into a grimace. Perhaps without even realizing it, she has just struck him more harshly than he could possibly have predicted. Passion still lingers in his gaze. “I have no desire for the throne, my queen.” He really, truly doesn’t. His head spins and it is as if Hildegarde’s reference to a letter being written is only now hitting him as hard as it should. Amid the flurry of all the rest of it, this needed processing. “There is one thing I -did- consider,” he continues, but his voice seems even looser now. “I -did- consider how much you care about this country. I didn’t want battle in Larket. I sure didn’t want battle here in Frostmaw. I didn’t want anyone dying but I sure didn’t want anyone dying who wasn’t military. I measured…” He stammers, then continues. “I measured the odds and I believed it was the only way I could promise no civilians would be harmed.” The briefest of pauses. “I still erred. I did not consult you. I did not think we had the time. In truth, we probably didn’t. I would have died if the scout I sent reached you before speaking with the army itself.” He knows he would have. He remembers the crush. “But it would still have been the wiser course. Maybe it could have been stopped right then and right there. Maybe no Frostmawians would have fallen.” The mist in his eyes turns to tears. “Maybe Briar would still be alive.”

Raphaline cannot just stand by now. She can feel the tremor in the commander’s form at the mention of Catal and the bard will no longer allow him to stand before the queen alone. So she presses her luck and moves closer, placing a bare hand against his left shoulder with a comforting gesture before turning her fierce, emerald gaze upon Hildegarde. She has no official ties to Frostmaw and yet still she chooses to side with them rather than remain neutral. “Hildegarde.” Her voice carries the usual musical tone but it is strong and steady in its manner. “What he speaks is the truth. The entirety of the calvary was marching with battalion weapons ready over the bridge. An army of that size, dressed in all its glory and so readily prepared for battle could not have been for just show.” She glances to Lionel for a moment before looking back up to the queen, her brows furrowing. “In hindsight, maybe peace may have happened but I suspect that this “king” who is known for his rage would never settle for peace; it leaves him no room to seek glory and power.” As she goes to lift her left arm from her side she spots a bit of blood dripping down and circling over her fingers. Earlier, a projectile had hit her in the shoulder while she had torn apart the land beneath the large weapons. “Things of this nature are never black and white. Neither are the decisions about them made with so much room for decision. Those are rarities. War was upon us the moment that army decided to leave the city.” The bard grimaces and falters, feeling her legs begin to give under her as her mind races towards those she had left in the city. She wants to close her eyes, she wants to fall to the floor, but she forces herself to hold her ground and stand strong.

Hildegarde listened to all of Lionel’s reasons as to why he led her own army against Larket without her express consent. She sympathised, she did. He had lost people, she too had lost people. But she could not allow this to go by without reprimand; who knows what would happen if she did? Who would disobey next? What would happen next? Before she knows it, Lisbeth is annexing Chartsend or the people forget the rule of law and pillage Xalious. Although Raphaline’s words do strike a chord, Hildegarde cannot abide this. “It would have taken Larket long enough to reach us. They could not have passed the mountain, they could not have besieged our city for long,” she says, though it is clear she is unhappy at that prospect. “I left this fort every night,” she said after a long pause. “I have been learning about our enemy. I have been studying everything about our enemy, about this snake of a king! I have been learning so I need not sacrifice more Frostmawian blood in the quest for peace and justice. But my studies were, clearly, not quick enough.” Not quick enough to prevent this, at least. Silence falls over the room. Hildegarde stares at the pair long and hard, as if deciding what to do with them; as if the scales of justice are busy weighing up the options in her mind. “Lionel O’Connor,” she announces, “I strip you of your rank and title. From this day forth, you are no more than a landed knight. Your home is your own, but you will hold no title, no command and no power within my lands until such honour is restored unto you. Do you understand?” she asks him, not to be cruel, but simply to make sure her words have sunk in.

Lionel places a hand over Raphaline’s own when she touches his shoulder; he is not going to stand here and refuse to support a woman who by all rights should be elsewhere and yet insists on defending him. Upon Raphaline’s brief lull, and the look she offers him, he’ll offer back genuine surprise. Why is she doing this for him? He should have been wiser. Recollection dawns on him now. She’d been there at Síocháin; she’d heard the Catalian dwarves tell tale of that realm. She’s familiar, and now she’s here, familiar with the Battle for the Bridge, protectively. Lionel is a warrior. He senses Raphaline’s legs buckling and he will not allow it. Silently, he wraps an arm around her to be the bedrock which will hold her upright. “You should be resting,” he chides her, but he cannot hide his admiration toward the woman for choosing elsewise. Then comes the queen’s decree. Everything sinks in simultaneously -- Hildegarde’s studies, Hildegarde’s recognitions, Hildegarde’s condolences... Hildegarde’s justice. Lionel stands. Stoically. There isn’t even a hint of further sadness by her judgment; no loss of rank or title, no vanquishing of perceived power, can compare to the loss he feels over Briar and their kin. One might almost begin to wonder if he -does- understand. But he does. Oh, he does. “Unequivocally, my queen,” he replies, and his voice is soft, yet strong, with honor’s tone. Then, epiphany. She has stripped him of rank, yes, but even in that very sentence, she has given him the means to reclaim his place by her side. Understanding washes over him and for a few heartbeats the man looks relieved. No matter his punishment, no matter the horror he feels over all those dead bodies -- not just Briar, not just Frostmaw, but even Larket, who knows not what magic surely compels Macon. No matter it all, Lionel wants only to be here, helping the only home he has left. Bringing the realmwide peace he continues to believe she can promise. He bows his head in subservience.

Raphaline isn’t so stubborn that she won’t accept help. Relieving some of the weight off herself, she leans into that arm that is now helping to sustain her stance. Once Hildegarde has made her decree, she turns her emerald eyes towards Lionel once more, studying him for a reaction. She cannot argue against the decision, for it hasn’t left the warrior without somewhere to rise up from, and she has a feeling he will rise to this challenge Hildegarde has set out before him. There is hope though still residing in the room, and for such the bard cannot help but at least wear the faintest of smiles. The hand on his left shoulder never leaves its place as she answers the chide from earlier with a, “I’m pretty sure you won’t be the only person who tells me that today.” She grimaces again, her left shoulder beginning to throb even more fiercely now that she has allowed herself to relax even the slightest but she continues not to say anything about it. Instead, she crosses her left arm over her chest and takes a hold of a handful of her tunic as she tries to prevent the blood from dripping onto the floor.

Hildegarde grunted at his remark of understanding. “I order you both to remain in the fort while medical attention is brought to you,” she muttered at them both, as if trying to be stern but unable to conceal the care she felt for the pair. Turning slightly, she moved as if to return to the icy throne where she might ponder the next move thoughtfully.

Lionel tries a smirk at Raphaline’s retort but it doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. Instead, it’s a ghost of a smile. Hildegarde’s final order is given further bow-of-head even as she speaks it; only once she’s finished her sentence does Lionel recognize that she is issuing demand that they be well. One last tear seems to swell up, then hits his lower lash but sticks there without falling. As he escorts Raphaline, tenderly with care, all the way down to the doors and out toward the medical ward, one thing is plainly evident: Catal’s last prince is grateful. Damaged, aye. Demoted, aye. Haunted -- always. But grateful.