Métimafoa stood outside of the tent, looking at the walls of the castle in the distance. Looking at the walls of his home, he knelt down and picked up a rock, lobbing it as far as he could, but it landed over a hundred units away. Far more than a stone's throw, he mused, kicking another rock gently. "This is foolishness," he muttered to himself. "I don't even know what the inside of those walls look like, and here I am, risking my life for a treasure I've never seen."

But I have never known freedom, he mused further, pulling out his rapier and looking at it. The chrome-vanadium alloy was polished and sparkled in the noonday sun, and he tilted the blade so the flair caught off of the two ribs bones that formed the hand-guard of the sword. I carry you with me, Oroneminya. I always have, and I always will. He gave the sword a few practice swings, but his mind was far from the diagnostics he should have been running. "I've never duelled someone who actually wanted me dead. I've fought against Oroneminya and Nolgaion, but neither of them would have killed me. Gyges? He would, without a second thought, if it meant the crown was his forever." Bastard.

Sheathing the long. Slender blade in his frog, he saw Percival approaching with a package, and it was far larger than just a vest. "I thought we agreed to only a vest, Percival."

Percival sighed visibly, even from this distance, and, once he had closed said distance, he said "I wanted you to have a little more protection, and Rainëwen did as well." The Prince grimaced and said, "If you won't wear it for me, wear it for your fiance. You're of no use to any of us dead."

Métimafoa took the armour and pulled it on. As he tightened the straps, he asked "Where is she?"

"She's already at the fighting pit." Metiafoa raised an eyebrow, so he explained: "We convinced Gygax to move the duel into one of the old Trial buildings, on account of the snow."

Metimafoa looked around. No snow fell, but there were several inches on the ground. "Isn't it usually a bad idea to go to war in winter?" he teased, causing Percival to take on a hurt look. "Oh come on, let a boy have a joke before going to fight to the death with the man who raped his sister."

Percival's face grew lighter and he drew a bit closer. "Are you going to be alright?"

"I hope so," Métimafoa stated, "The kingdom and our lives depend on it."

. . .

The stone walls of the fighting pit gave some level of insulation, but even their thick, earthy layers of restraint could not keep out the occasional chill. Métimafoa and Gygax stood next to each other, both of them looking at their negotiated parties of three that they had been allowed to bring. Percival, Rainewen and Sevod stood across from Gygax's generals, none of whom Celst recognised.

Turning to face Gyges, he said, "Nice armour, Gary."

"Please don't call me that," The Usurper said, straightening up slightly under the weight of his gold plated armour. "I'm more preferential to Gyges or Your Majesty." He looked at Celst's armour. "I could have a set of armour brought up if you would like."

Celst shook his head, "I didn't even want this much. You can thank my fiance and brother for the fact that my movement is impaired."

"Fiance?" Gyges said, raising an eyebrow, and looking over the three. "The blonde?" Celst nodded, and Gyges held out a hand. "Congratulations, Celst. I'd wish you the best, but..." he tapped the hilt of his sword in explanation as he trailed off.

"Fair enough. You know, I've heard a lot about you." Celst stated.

Gyges smiled in spite of himself, and said "Only good I hope."

Celst ignored that comment, and assumed fencing stance. "Shall we begin?"

"As you will it," Gyges confirmed, drawing his steel shortsword.

Gyges swung in from the side, his armour reflecting the morning sun as he did so, but Celst side stepped beyond his attack and went in for a sideways thrust that Gyges countered with ease. The Prince thrusted again, but Gyges swung to the side and knocked the chrome blade, following through with a thrust. Celst spun to avoid the blow, with it scrapping off of his armour, and swung his sword. Unfortunately, Rapiers are not designed for slashing, so it was deflected off of the gold-chestplate and left little more than a scratch. Gyges disengaged and turned to face the prince, sweat dripping down his brow.

He went for a full-speed thrust, but Celst deflected it, sending the king clad in gold flying past him. The prince turned and thrust again with his sword, but his aim was off of the moving target, and he barely scraped off the gold surface. He pulled back his rapier, and continued stepping back to dodge three rapid slashes Gyges made. The king drew back after the third to catch a breath, but Celst pressed on his offensive, pushing toward the center of the ring with a variety of quick slashes and thrusts. Gyges deflected a blow of the chrome rapier, and followed through with a quick thrust.

Celst went to sidestep as he had before, but he couldn't move fast enough in the leather armour he was wearing. The blade pierced it and his gut on his right side, and he stumbled back slightly, but Gyges stepped with him as to force the blade in further until the reddened tip shone through the other side.

Celst fell backwards, the blade Gyges had thrust into him sliding out of him. Percival's voice rang out clearly, but it was Rainewen's shriek that broke his heart. His head lulled to the side, and he saw his rapier resting where he had dropped it; a mere hand's length from him.

He had failed them, and looking beyond the blade, he saw a tear flowing down the usually expressionless face of Faramaurea. His failure, by the rules of the duel, had cost her everything.

No more. Never again. He took up his rapier, and with the last surge of energy, a final action surge, if you will, he thrust his blade up under Gyges's rib cage, the chrome blade of his rapier easily piercing the golden armour the king was wearing. "They are not yours, you regicidal rapist of a half-breed."

He pushed the blade in further, knocking Gyges over. "With my death," he paused, spitting put a glob of blood, "I not only buy their freedom, but I avenge the lives that you so savagely took from me." The rage in his heart was causing the blood to flow quickly, but he still took the time, to remind the fading Gyges, of the names of each and every member of his family, except Kiackoro, until the end.

"While you were not the leader of the force that struck down my sister, she would still be here, if we did not need to flee your power-hungry, vile grasp. Her death, like all of the others, is why I..." His voice broke off, as the blood loss became too much, and he collapsed to the ground, leaving his rapier in Gyges's heart. He gurgled through the blood that had filled his mouth "To Mandos, and Le Wiapilin. To the arms of my mother, and father, I now go." With that, he slowly faded, his actual body disappearing from the clothing he wore, and he was gone.

Gyges lay on the ground as Percival approached, but he uttered no speech and gave no ill will. Instead, his eyes locked with the shocked eyes of Sevod, and he said, with no coherency left: "Goodbye, Hunawen, my love. I await your arms." Then he died, but there was no fading out as there had been with Celst. Instead, his head lulled, and he had gone where none could follow.

Percival walked right past the Usurper's corpse, and fell to his knees beside his brother's clothes. No, he whispered in his mind's eye, but no words came as tears fell onto the prince's leather armour. "No," he said again, picking up the sword that had rent his brother's armour. "No, no no no, no," He turned and threw Gyges' sword with such force that the blade shattered off of the sandstone walls surrounding. His siblings and the three general's all ducked for cover as the two halves of the sword scattered.

The noise of the impact reverberated throughout the underground room, and not one person moved or made a noise, save for Percival's heavy breathing. As the noise faded, one of the generals walked up and took up both halves of the sword. "The line of the King is ended, and the old one forged anew. Let us reforge the Sword of the King, to symbolise the rebirth of the line of Estelondo."

"No," Percival said, walking over and pulling his brother's rapier out of Gyges' belly with a squelching sound. "There is but one Sword of the King, and that lies interred with my Grandfather, never to be drawn forth anew." He wiped the rapier off on the hem of Gyges' robe, and held it aloft. "Until the dawning of the end of time, this sword shall be the Sword of the Line of Estelondo, and it shall be the right of ascension to whoever it is bestowed upon."

"I don't think it's that simple, my lord," one of the other generals said. "As they both died, technically no one won, but Gyges struck the killing blow first. By that reasoning, he won the duel."

"What is your name, General?" Percival asked, his eyes never leaving the blade of the sword.

"My name is Yirreb Sar of Esteltumbo," he answered with a slight bow.

Percival said, "Do you understand what would happen if that was known to the public, Yirreb Sar?"

"The land would erupt into a civil war." the general said, "but we can't just lie to them."

Percival heard his sister and sister-in-law shuffling behind him and sighed. "Give me a moment, sir. I have bigger things to deal with." He went to turn toward his family, but the general grabbed his shoulder.

"Begging your pardon, My Lord, but you do not have better or bigger things to attend to. What comes next will shape the history of the world. Nothing is more impor---"

Within seconds, Percival held the man against the wall by his throat. "Listen here you dighted whelp," he spat, his voice low and terse. "And listen carefully. Nothing, and I repeat nothing is more important to me than my sisters." Using his other hand, he pointed back at the Usurper's corpse. "That arrogant, power-hungry, vengeful quim just took my brother from me. He had already taken everything else from me." He released the man, who fell to the ground gasping for breath. "The land and its people be damned. I will help them first," he stated, his voice dripping rage like a dam moments before breaking, as he pointed to the girls who held each other in silent, weeping, embrace, "because the people of this land did not accept our help last time. No," he said, sheathing his brother's rapier in his own frog, "they asked my grieving father, who had done his best to deal with the situation he had been left, whilst already mourning my mother, to give up his head for a finite supply of food, brought in by a man who's intentions were anything but benevolent." He listed off every single relative his departed brother had listed earlier and added in the loss of those he and his sister had encountered. "He," Percival said venomously, "killed them all and left my siblings and I to flee in fear for our lives. And the people followed him. They followed the man who slayed my loved ones." He stared the general in the eyes and wailed, "I am alone, save for those two. My younger sister, and my brother's wife, and they need me now. So yes," he spat, "they, by far take priority over the people who abandoned me and mine to death," he concluded, his voice growing softer as his eyes fell on his brother's armour and clothes, "and loneliness."

He turned toward his weeping sisters, and walked over, trying to wrap them in an embrace, but his sister pulled away from his touch, shying away like a cornered animal. Her breathes didn't start to relax until she stared at the King's corpse as if scared it would rise up again. Percival understood. "You two," he said the Yirreb Sar's compatriots."Remove the corpse."

"Where do you want us to put it?"

"Feed it to the dogs for all I care."

"No," a voice said, and he turned toward his sister who had spoken. "He was a king, Percival. He goes in the Crypts of the Kings."

Percival locked eyes with Sevod. "You of all people should know that he doesn't deserve that."

Between them, a silent contest of wills was waged, until Sevod spoke. "The Burial of Kings has been a rite of honour for millennia, since the day Balchdor's firstborn was laid to rest. It is not the right of the line of Estolsten to break that rite."

"No," Percival said, "it is your right though. After all he did to you, surely you don't want him buried amoung our family?"

"Even if I did not want it," she countered, "I will not defy the rules in this."

Percival threw his hands in the air. "You have never followed the rules before. If anything, you have shown open disregard in the face of them. Why the sudden change?"

"You know what some other rules our parents taught us were, Percival? 'Never act out of vengeance.' That worked out quite well for our aunts and uncles. 'Always protect your constituents.' Our family failed to do that when the famine struck." The fire in her eyes intensified, shining through their teary veil that had yet to fall. "'Never enter the bedchamber of a member of the opposite sex without a witness.' I disobeyed that, and everything that has led to us being here hinged on that moment. This is just as much my fault as it is his," she said, as the veil broke. She said, "If he is not to be buried there, then I shouldn't be when I die."

At a time when any other would have collapsed in tears, Sevod Estolsten stood resolute, and the resolution through the tears of pain and hardship in her eyes were what caused Percival's anger to fade. And when his anger had dissipated, he was left only with loss and relief, and he fell to his knees, weeping under the strain of all they had gone through together.

. . .

Gyges had been buried in the Crypt of the Kings and the Generals had approached the pit only to see Percival speaking to Canoelloestel. It was not until they drew much closer, though, that he noticed them. "Good evening, Generals. We'll talk out here; as the others are asleep." He shuffled slightly in the cool evening wind."I take it everything was prepared properly?" Yirreb nodded, and Percival said, "Very well. I would like you to meet the New Commander of The Armed Forces of Meneltarma."

"Er," Canoelloestel murred, before clearing throat. "Actually, Your Majesty, I would decline that if I could." Percival gave him a look of surprise, so he explained, "I was retired, Percival, before I was drawn back into it by an obligation I owed to your mother. I do not wish to take up the mantle of general again."

"What else would you do?" Percival said, somewhat shocked and confused by this development.

"I would sail north, across the rolling Nurhos sea until I find what lies beyond." His eyes seemed distant, but they drew back as he concluded, "This land has been in three major wars in my lifetime. Someday, there will be a fourth, and I do not want to be around to see it."

"Our world is finite, Canoelloestel," Percival ventured. "What if you do not find anything?"

"Then I will keep sailing until I do."

Percival nodded, and seemed to be taking account of his thoughts. "General Yirreb, would you please send a messenger to bring our army right before the city walls in one hour? I have a message to deliver to them, assuming you've changed your mind since our earlier conversation."

"I haven't changed my mind, Your Majesty, but I will acknowledge you as king. If it comes to serving under you, or a long, bloody, and arduous civil war, I would serve you without a doubt. But I will not serve in your army." With that, Yirreb Sar pulled off the lapels on his jacket and handed them to Percival, who stood there again in shock. "These belong to the State of Meneltarma, but I'm keeping the coat." He turned to walk away but paused halfway through the manoeuvre. "You executed Luinëcalima for his part to play in your Grandparents' demise, which I can't hold you accountable for. But you killed the man I loved, and I can never serve the man who did that."

"For what little it's worth," Percival said, "I am truly sorry about that. Luinëcalima served my Grandfathers well, in the Second Great War. I was hasty then and I shall bear that burden as long as I live."

"Good," Yirreb stated, "Every leader needs a driving force, something to halter their ambitions, yet something that makes them say 'no one shall ever feel as I feel,' and drives them to act." Tears were in the general's eyes as he said, "Make my beloved's death mean something as you go forth into the Age of Estelondo."

"The Crown has passed from many heads," Percival said quietly. "It's passing onto my own is hardly the marker of a new age."

"Perhaps not, Your Majesty. But you may want to consider it," The man said, turning his eyes upward as the cold, wet snow of early winter drifted down. "Many things have changed since the start of this age. This age started ten millenia ago as The Age of The Fey, marking the Succession of the Symovoulites and the Fall of Balchdor." Yirreb held out his hand so that snow flakes could fall into his palm and melt there. "Back then, Elves and LeShay were dwindling in numbers, the Changelings were all but gone, save for their sanctuary city granted to them by the Council, and your grandfather hadn't even been born. The Clock of Meneltarma still ran on the Tower, and the Dragonborns lived in Helkaluksor." The general put his hand in his pocket and sighed. "All of that is changed now. The Elves are the most populous race in the land, barely eking out the race of Man, and the LeShay are all but extinct. The Wizard Tower fell, and wars have waged leaving these once exquisite sandstone walls marred with burns and chips. Even the Dragonborns have moved on from their past, leaving their ancestral home in hopes that they would escape its poison air. All things that are good must end, and in time, be replaced with things that are fair. That is the fate of the World of Men, and so their age begins."

"I'm not sure things have progressed that far, Yirreb," Canoelloestel stated, "But the Age of the Fey is over. Those of us who fought under Julia and Herulepilin have grown old. We are not the men we used to be. The Fey Communal tribes are gone, replaced by walls and titles that only separate our people from each other, and the wars that are fought only seek to hold those walls. We no longer care about people; only borders."

"You don't think we can care about both?" Percival asked, his brows going up at Canoelloestel's words.

"No," both generals said, exchanging a quick glance, before look back at their king. "Listen, Percival," Canoelloestel said, "and listen well. There will come a point in your rule when you will have to choose between borders and people, and like every ruler since the dawning of the Fairiës, you will choose borders." He placed a conciliatory hand of Percival's shoulder. "I follow you and yours faithfully all of these years because I know it will be a decision you will lose sleep over. Just like your father did."

"And my mother?'

The older man laughed, and it was strangely musical to Percival, like a sound he hadn't heard in a long time rising up from the unquiet grave. "Your mother didn't know how to sleep. She would just talk to the trees and plants and animals that dwelled within the land. I remember a time when she snuck out of her tent while I went to investigate a noise, and when I returned she was gone. I sent out a search party, and they found her thirteen miles away talking to an ancient sycamore on the banks of Marellocoilë."

Percival smiled, remembering her own antics that he himself had witnessed. Then he came to a slow and deliberate conclusion, and said "It's over as it began." The generals looked at him in concern, so he explained, "This entire conflict started because of the famine caused by my mother's death, in bringing forth Celst. He was bought with her final breath, and with his own, he bought safety for my sister and I." He frowned slightly, his eyes welling with tears. "Do you think she knew where all of this would lead?"

"Not a chance in all of Mordelisk's halls, Percival. You mother loved you, and she would have argued with Mordelisk until she was blue in the face or drawing breath again if she thought she could protect you from it." He smiled softly. "Your mother was a powerful druid, but she didn't know everything."

Percival cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse me, sirs, I am going to need a moment to think before I speak to the revolutionary forces." With that, he walked away, and went to sit on the walls of his youth, as he had so often before.