Patient Zero

Chapter 15: 'Warrior' (4325 words)

We've always warred. First against the horizon, then humanity, and now the Dwurkn. The Aælfir have always fought. The thought of all that conflict unsettled Vievel. He knew that an heir of the Ulmadr - strong, capable, and persevering - should be able to shake off his misgivings and make his people proud.

But as he stood in front of his father, listening to speak of glory and battles yet to come, battles that Vievel would fight in alongside him, all Vievel could feel was fear.

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The grand doors of the glass court were smaller than he remembered. Granted the last time he'd visited these halls, the only time, he had been a child, but he remembered both as being astonishingly tall. The first of the two, the fair and crystal twin, towered over him now, but a great deal less so than he recalled.

Though it was a remarkable construction, a marvel of artisanry and glasswork with winding intricate patterns cut and gilded directly into the interior of the glass itself, it was only three meters taller than him, shyer than the almost-mythical regard his memories had held it in. The second of the grand doors, a thick and shrouded glass one meter behind the first, was no taller.

Soldiers stood at either side in silence, each with a bolt-rifle already drawn and in-hand. Unlike most members of the military, neither soldier had greeted him on his arrival. Neither acknowledged him even now, not even as he paced back and forth in front of them.

The summons had taken him by surprise. Though his house's courtiers, and the military, had always treated him with deference and by title, as 'Lord Ulmadr', to most, he was still Vievel, the son of the patriarch and a noble in name only; that he was heir apparent had always had very little impact on his life. He didn't attend court or conduct himself as a member of the nobility, and his father had never exercised his right to officially call upon him, but today the attendant had been very clear; the Patriarch summons Lord Vievel Ulmadr to court this evening.

Lord Ulmadr. Though in reality, they shared it, in Vievel's mind the title belonged to his uncle, Vostoth, and him alone. It was a pomp and circumstance he would've rather done without, but there was a part of him that knew, had always known, he couldn't avoid this part of his life forever. His father clearly had designs on introducing him to court life and educating him on his responsibilities as heir apparent.

The glass court was crowded on his arrival, but many of the attendees had now left. This was especially true of the lesser nobles and courtiers who watched from the overhanging balconies - they had filed down in droves until Vievel was convinced that there couldn't be anyone still in attendance up above. He'd been watching the thin and well-polished staircase, one of two that stood in the respective corners of the entrance, when a timid voice from behind him drew his attention.

"My lord". A page had descended from the left-most staircase, bowing deferentially as Vievel turned towards him. The page wasn't more than five long-cycles older, in his early twenties, yet he didn't behave as though he was speaking with a peer; whilst he spoke to Vievel he kept his eyes cast downward, as though he was addressing a member of the ship brass or nobility.

I guess I am dressed the part, Vievel thought ruefully, glancing down at the flared sleeves of his silvery blue dress-tunic.

The page meekly bowed to Vievel, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. The top half of his uniform, a light-blue puffed vest worn over a tight silver undershirt, caught the fixture light from above; the reflected light caused his arms to glimmer with a scintillating swell of colours.

"Hey," Vievel murmured, trying to spur the page on more than anything.

"The Patriarch is ready for you, my lord. I can announce you whenever you're ready," the page spoke hastily to cover his nervousness. Vievel nodded, feeling his own anxieties rising up in his chest.