• Reign of False Kings
    Chapter Nine: Confrontation



    It felt good to be outside. The wind had ceased, taking with it the harsh chill and piercing snow. Aran's eyes shone and his breath fogged in the air. He had become excited about learning the arcane. He had been half tempted to rise the general who had still been asleep when he went to retrieve his sword. Thinking on it now, however, it would more then likely put her back in a sour mood. A few nights of rest might help her. Weeks in Lucian's hands and days against the elements; a few peaceful nights in bed would do wonders.

    'Then how long do you intend to stay?'

    Geraint's invading voice jerked the prince from his thoughts. The mage stood in the thick snow, his arms crossed over his chest with his narrow eyes placed on him.

    'I am not certain,' he returned, unsheathing his slender blade. He swung it a few times, savoring the feeling of his strong, dependable sword. 'I want to learn, but I must return to claim my kingdom.'

    'I thought as much. You'll know when it's time to leave, I'm predicting. It will be a shame to lose such a promising pupil.'

    Aran perked a brow at the unexpected praise. Unlike his court, the mage blatantly spoke when the young prince acted incorrectly. It only meant that much more now that he spoke in his favor. 'Thank you,' he shifted absently. 'What is the next lesson?' Geraint waved dismissivly.

    'Later. For now, we're going to duel and you're going to lose horribly.' He uncrossed his arms, pulling back his sleeves to pull at the bracers on his forearms. 'Just keep in mind that this is all part of your training.' Geraint seemed to laugh a little as he said this, making Aran lower his sword. He'd admit that he wasn't the most skilled with the blade, but being told up front that he was going to fail was beyond him. Even some of the militia soldiers considered him a challenge. The mage certainly wasn't old, but he didn't look in top condition either. 'You think to much,' Geraint interrupted. 'Strike me.'

    'You are unarmed.'

    'I said, strike me!'

    Aran complied, lifting his sword and charging his mentor. He was met with the 'c***k' of his blade meeting the mage's bracer and a disapproving look. Geraint shrugged the sword aside, the bracer not even marred by the strike.

    'If that's all the effort you're going to put in then give up now. Now, again!'

    The prince nodded raising his sword once more. He felt a little more confident now that Geraint could hold to his words. He still failed to see how he was going to 'lose horribly', but would give the mage the benefit of the doubt. Aran charged forward and the mage met every one of his blows with ease. Suddenly the man jumped back and an abrupt, strong wind tossed Aran back and almost off his feet. The prince's eyes widened and he dropped into a crouch to keep his balance. His fingertips touched the ground lightly, steadying him. His eyes narrow with a calculating glance. Geraint smirked.

    'Do you understand or do I have to demonstrate some more?' The prince grit his teeth, pulling a laugh from the mage. 'I see you're determined. Fine, come at me.'

    Aran didn't need the command, already clutching his blade with both hands as he ran at the mage again. He swung as hard as he could manage only to meet the acursed bracer once more. Electricity crackled between the two of them, coursing down through the sword and jolting the unsuspecting prince. He broke away with a shriek, smoking slightly. He moved to charge again but was knocked forward by another strong gust of wind, sending him face first into the snow.

    'You're welcome to give in at anytime,' Geraint smirked down at the panting boy glaring up at him.

    Aran pushed himself from the ground and gripped his sword tight in his right hand while the other flexed towards the ground. "One more time," he breathed.

    The mage perked a brow at the sudden change in Aran's eyes. They blazed while still holding that calculating look the young royal was fond of. What threw him the most was that he could no longer hear the boy's voiced thoughts. His mind was clouded and locked. Geraint took his stance motioning for the prince to strike. Aran bolted forward and swept his sword up at him. There was a blinding sheet of snow that separated them briefly before Aran's blade broke through. It caught the sleeve of the stunned mage who had barely dodged in time. The prince's momentum carried him past the elder man and before he could turn back he was knocked down with a bracer to the back of the neck.

    "I see you're getting the point." The mage stood behind his apprentice, looking down at him as the royal pushed himself up into a sitting position. "You used the snow to cloud my vision, but also risked yours. Interesting." Aran glanced up at him, the fire in his eyes gone.

    "I concede. I am to weak to defeat you."

    "Pick up your sword," Geraint ordered in a stern voice. "I told you that you were going to lose horribly, so why are you disappointed now? That's why we're going to train, understand? We learn from our mistakes, not sulk and apologize when we make them." Aran nodded meekly, his hand going to retrieve his fallen sword before rising to his feet. By the time he looked back to his mentor, the mage was staring off back towards his cabin.

    Luca was standing in the doorway, the omnipresent scowl upon her face. She was wearing her traveler's pants and several, long-sleeved tunics worn over one another.

    "Good Morning, Luca." Aran offered. The general merely looked at him for a moment as if pondering whether to answer him or not.

    "Mornin'," she muttered. "Could I talk to you for a second? Or would that 'disturb' anything?"

    Aran perked a think brow before looking back to his mentor. Geraint merely shrugged. "Certainly." He trudged through the snow and joined Luca in the hall just inside the small cabin. "Is something the matter?"

    "What exactly is it that you're doing?" She snapped.

    "Lessons," he replied with a twinge of hesitance. What had the hot headed girl worked up today? "Geraint's magics are extremely powerful and will be a great advantage in reclaiming Geese and defeating Daross. I apologize for the delay this causes, but it's invaluable to say the least."

    "Magics. You still believe the delusions of this hermit?" Luca huffed, clenching her fists. "How long are you going to make me wait?"

    "Delusions or not, I know what I have witnessed. You rant without knowing of what you speak."

    "What I want to to return to Mira! To my troops! And here you make me sit and watch you play in the snow!" Luca pushed against his chest, making the prince stumble back before catching his balance. Aran's eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into a fist before he had to force himself to loosen it. The general noticed, perhaps growing more irritated at the act. "What?" Luca chided him.

    "It is never acceptable to strike a woman..."

    The general fumed, her face flushed slightly as she leered at the raven-haired boy. "What is it that makes me so different from you? I've endured the same tortures, may even more, and fought alongside you and you still look at me as the damsel in need of a savior?" Aran looked at her a little awestruck. "I don't have time to sit idly by. I have troops in need of my lead and a demon to dethrone. I don't have the time to nanny a goody-goody prince who was too weak to stand up for himself when accused of a crime he did not commit!" Luca pushed him back again, this time knocking the stunned royal back into a wall and causing him to drop his sword.

    Aran pushed himself off the wall, leering at the red headed woman. "Why blame me for your delimas," he growled, fed up with the general's constant attacks on his shortcomings. Half of which were out of his control. "I will not be spoken to this way! Not by a bratty little child who is too full of undeserving pride to be civil to someone she even calls friend!" The general seemed taken aback, surprised by the out of character outburst. But Aran wasn't finished. "Maybe it is time you learned your place, woman. You may wield a blade, but you have not the intelligence for anything else."

    Luca jumped him, the both of them falling back out into the snow as they clawed at one another. The rolled about trading blows before finally the mage interfered, the snow rising between them and sending both feuding persons a ways back into the snow. Both looked to the hermit, panting while trading glares to one another.

    "If you intend to fight, I will ask you to leave." Geraint addressed them both with a stern voice.

    "I may very well," Luca spat, leering at the prince. "He doesn't know what he wants! I bet he has no intention of ever returning to the Mira capital!"

    Aran was standing now, leveling Luca's intimidating gaze. Fire burned in his stomach but no matter how it stung he couldn't bring himself to say a word. The royal turned heel, storming off towards the small stable. The general rose to follow but before she could reach him the prince was already bolting away atop his gray mare. She screamed for him to stop, but her words fell on deaf ears.

    The mare raced through the snowy forest, his warm breath creating small puffs of steam in the air. Aran let him run as he pleased, not keeping his mind on where they were going. His brow twitched in frustration and anger, his knuckles white from the near vice grip he had on the reigns. "Who is she to challenge me," he whispered angrily. The general couldn't possibly grasp the awesome responsibility on his shoulders. She was only a soldier; a pawn for his family to move as they saw fit. She had no right to speak to him in that way. No right to reveal truths that he himself refused to acknowledge. "Damn her!" Aran slammed his fists in his lap. The mare, alarmed by his master's outburst, neighed loudly and reared up on his hind legs. Aran fell and hit the ground with a thump. He lay there a moment, staring up at the gray sky between the tree tops. The concerned horse walked over cautiously and nudged the prince's cheek with her nose. Aran raised a hand to pet her, assuring that he was fine.

    "I am Aran Cynric," he spoke aloud. "exiled Prince of Geese. It is my mission to reclaim by kingdom. My own personal wants, needs and dilemmas are irrelevant. My life is not my own, it is my peoples'."

    The axiom was repeated time and time on end, forcing himself to remember his place and calm himself. He soon donned his mount, beginning his ride back.