???????? Chapter vii : Duty and Passion ????????

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  Gruffyd was stationed upon the balcony of the Verdesainte castle.

  He cast his gaze upon the firmament.

  It was not, however, the starry night skies that commanded his attention.

  But rather the red hue in the distance that challenged the vast blue expanse in the skies.

  Turmoil is brewing in the realm.

  The Cadagonians emerged triumphant against the House of Arslan upon the sea of grain.

  Amidst the fires engulfing the fields, Duke Cryderii has fallen into Cadagonian hands. His pleading and lamentations, though fervent, hold scant value to the Cadagonians. Upon their standard, they subjected him to crucifixion.

  They ensured his continued existence. For a fate of unspeakable horror awaited him in the engagements to come.

  The forest brigands that coincided near the woods of the capital have coalesced into a confederacy. Presumptuously named The Wrath of Carydog.

  Many of these outlaws are exiled soldiery from House Arundell. Who rose in defiance when Carydog ceded the crown to Urwyll. Subsequent to their trial by combat.

  Though generations have past, their objective lives on. Upon facing a dual-pronged assault, the denizens of Verdesainte commenced to murmur of a conspiracy afoot. For a coincidence was too convenient for them.

  Especially with the pronouncement of Guinevere's confinement and the esteemed Freyja relegated to the dungeon's depths.

  Accounts surfaced of Freyja's feats at Saint Solstice and the contest with Alaric. Succeeded by the joust against Sir Olewain. Whose lance had not failed him in twelve summers. Tales of Freyja commenced their circulation amongst taverns and campfires.

  Akin to a hero of legend. Outlandish myths did emerged. Some suggesting Freyja is secretly the offspring of the goddess Morea or a reincarnated Ragnvald. Others, the Queen's lover, concealed from view.

  Whatever the circumstance, Freyja found herself upon the dungeon's cobbled floor. Her wounds finally ceased bleeding thanks to the physician's efforts.

  Sir Morganough, positioned behind aged iron bars. He maintained a severe aspect, his hand resolutely clasped upon the hilt of his sword. His other hand, conversely, maintained a firm grasp upon a crumpled letter.

  "Pray tell...

  You've favored me with a gaze of such...

  Conflicting emotions for the better part of an hourglass.

  What, precisely, is it that you require?" Freyja remarked with a touch of suspicion.

  "Hark! By order of the king!

  Your life is forfeit!

  Yet, mine honour doth preclude me from enacting such a decree!

  I am no mere executioner, but a Knight of the esteemed House Glywndr!"

  Sir Morganough proclaimed with evident shame.

  Though he doth protest thus, it serves merely as a veil for his distrust of Duke Gruffyd.

  Perchance his sire was correct in his assessment.

  Duke Gruffyd may be poisoning the King's ear.

  Upon receiving the letter from Gruffyd, a most sinister expression did cross his face.

  Akin a chessboard at the inevitable checkmate.

  "Your words betray your face and stature, Sir Morganough.

  You know it deep in the heart!

  Duke Gruffyd spins a tangled web about us all.

  He merely bides his time to seize the advantage once we are vanquished."

  Freyja observes, discerning Sir Morganough's evident hesitation.

  "Pray tell." Sir Morganough inquired, seeking assurance of shared sentiment.

  "at what juncture did this suspicion first take root in your mind?"

  "Ever since the Saint Solstice Hunt.

  Duke Gruffyd, if you will, stood aloof upon the hill while His Majesty's life hung in the balance.

  Initially, I harbored naught but suspicion.

  However, your esteemed father, Duke Gurlouen.

  He enlightened me upon our departure from the western pass...

  He avowed this was not his initial endeavor.

  That certain other dukes have been victims of his machinations..."

  Freyja conveyed, endeavoring to enlist Sir Morganough to her cause, to rise against Duke Gruffyd.

  "And the king?" queried Morganough, seeking further clarity.

  "He remains captivated by Gruffyd's words.

  Though assuredly, he possesses every justification to wish me dead.

  I confess to having cherished Guinevere, and she, in turn, has favored me with her affections.

  Yet, I avow before the gods.

  We have not transgressed the bonds of marriage.

  We have exercised the utmost restraint, thereby safeguarding the king's crown and the prince's legitimacy." Freyja declared.

  Thereupon, from the dungeon's nethermost recesses did Duke Gruffyd emerge.

  His arrival was heralded by a hearty chuckle and the gentle stroking of his auburn beard.

  "Behold, Morganough!

  I have imparted to you the suppressed treasons lurking within her very bosom and, alas, the Queen's!"

  Gruffyd voiced with a mirthless chuckle as he bestowed a pat upon Sir Morganough's pauldron.

  Freyja, aghast, fixed a gaze of utter disdain upon Morganough.

  For he had not merely betrayed her trust but also sullied the knightly vows of truth and justice.

  Sir Morganough, humbled, cast his eyes downward.

  Aware that he had demeaned himself to a mere pawn in Duke Gruffyd's web.

  "Now we may execute both the queen and her little red lovebird!

  I daresay, the King holds little regard...

  Knights! Kill her now!"

  Gruffyd commanded, a triumphant smile gracing his face.

  The knights, loyal to Gruffyd, advanced with blades drawn.

  Whilst another saw fit to grant passage by opening the gate.

  Freyja rises in protest, though bereft of weaponry.

  Her strength avails her naught against such a host of silvered knights.

  Regardless with all the rage she mustered within her.

  She delivered a blow of such force to the knight's helm that it buckled inward, piercing his very skull.

  The knight fell to his knees, lifeless.

  She stomped upon the knight's blade, sending it flailing to her waiting grasp.

  Began ready at a sword stance.

  Gruffyd, discerning the potential peril within these confines.

  He withdrew to summon reinforcements should Freyja prove triumphant.

  Freyja, once more consumed by the familiar fury of Prycilla Forest and the engagements at Black Ridge.

  She wielded her blade with blinding speed.

  In a blur of steel spilling blood left and right painting it across the cobbled dungeon walls.

  Like a canvas.

  As one of the knights makes haste towards Freyja, a most unwelcome pair of hands encircles his throat from behind.

  With a swift heave, he is cast upon the unforgiving cobblestones.

  whereupon a clean sweep separates his head from his shoulders.

  Sir Morganough has betrayed both the Crown and Gruffyd.

  Freyja then surveys her surroundings and realizes in her fit of rage. She had slain the rest.

  "May Providence be my shield...

  Henceforth, the denizens of this realm shall brand me an oathbreaker...

  I entreat the King for the continued honor of knighthood.

  Due to your Cradle-Guards' intrusion...

  And now, I find myself casting blades in his direction..."

  Sir Morganough lamented.

  He followed his guts but he wasn't sure if his guts could offer him forward.

  "Steel thyself, Morganough!

  The night is long and the fires are far from dimming!

  Soon, Gruffyd's men shall test our mettle!"

  Freyja urged Morganough to get his act together.

  Freyja, casting her gaze over the field of ruination, commenced to disrobe the departed.

  So that she might be suitably armored like the knights.

  "Morganough, Gruffyd and the king need not know of your betrayal.

  I need your aid in convincing the king.

  Gruffyd intends to usurp the throne."

  Freyja intoned as she hastily equip herself.

  "Pray tell, how might such a thing be rendered possible?"

  Morganough inquired, his brow furrowed in perplexed contemplation.

  "Doubtless, Gruffyd harbours evidence of his machinations within his private chambers...

  It is imperative that you infiltrate them whilst the others are engaged in a frantic search for me.

  Gruffyd, of course, will accompany his men.

  He strikes me as the sort who prefers self-verification."

  Freyja explained, punctuating her counsel with a metallic elbow delivered abruptly to Morganough's face.

  "That shall stand as ample evidence of your dastardly attempt upon my life."

  Freyja assured as she wipes the blood off her cheeks.

  "Y-y-yyou damn scarred giantess!

  A bit of forewarning would've been appreciated!

  Wouldn't you agree!?"

  Morganough exclaimed with his hands on his face and knees buckled to the floor.

  "I rest it squarely upon thine shoulders, Morganough...

  Godspeed to you!"

  Freyja remarked with a subtle smirk, before departing the dungeon with considerable haste, intent on reaching Guinevere before Gruffyd could.

  Ere long, Gruffyd and his men stormed in.

  Only to discover Sir Morganough, humbled upon bended knee, His face dripping with blood.

  "The miscreant escaped! I was shown mercy...

  Professing a debt to my father from the arena."

  A fabrication by Sir Morganough. He now pledges his allegiance to Freyja and House Glyndwr.

  Gruffyd, with a subtle gesture, directed his men to promptly advance towards the High Tower.

  Where the queen resides.

  "Accursed she red..." Gruffyd growls in a low murmur.

  That night, before all the commotion in the dungeon.

  King Arwen ascends, each deliberate footfall echoing his mounting ire.

  He breaches the threshold, his face a study in frigid fury.

  The letters mention you wish to run away with your Freyja? To some countryside of a land far away?"

  Arwen instigated.

  "Verily, Arwen, I have transgressed our sacred vows, yet never betrayed our Crown.

  Duke Gruffyd doth exploit my sin to brand me a traitor, that he might usurp thy throne!"

  Guinevere declared, endeavoring to quell this vexing matter that seems to escalate at every turn.

  Though there is a clear difference of perspective between Guinevere and Freyja about their relationship.

  Freyja sees that, thus far they have respected the vows but Guinevere sees it as them having transgressed it.

  You confess to this filth!

  Yet you dare expect my trust regarding Gruffyd?

  He is my own kin! We share the house of Taliesion!

  You have bartered a King for a bereaved widow and now you expect the King to save you from the Duke?!"

  Arwen bellowed, his fury kindled by Guinevere's words.

  To him it was an audacity, to Guinevere a final plea for a calmer resolution.

  "I assure you, I speak with utmost truth that you might discern the machinations at play!"

  Guinevere countered, adding.

  "Gruffyd holds no concern for the object of my love affair!

  His sole objective is your own destruction!"

  "Enough!" Arwen shouted with all his might even the knights at the door were taken aback.

  "Adultery is a grave offense against the Crown!

  You shall remain confined until your trial.

  And Freyja... she, too, shall face judgment.

  Should she survive that is...

  Before Gruffyd will extract the truth and see to her execution before dawn..."

  Arwen declared, punctuating his words with a forceful slam of the door.

  She commenced to ruminate upon the recent events set in motion of late.

  Guinevere, finding herself in need of a respite following the verbal exchange, sought the tranquility of the balcony air.

  A sunken feeling weighed upon her heart.

  A stark contrast to her days of commanding armies across the kingdom's vast expanse and bestowing aid upon settlements ravaged by deluge and wildfires.

  Behold now, confined within the High Tower, subjected to diminished esteem.

  Verily, she held affection for Freyja, yet she could not deny Freyja's role as the instigator of her decline.

  As her thoughts alighted upon Freyja, her heart was as a whirlwind.

  Does she fault Freyja for being in love?

  Does she blame herself for a lack of restraint?

  Or was it the King who magnified the commotion beyond measure?

  Nay, Guinevere concluded. It was her own wrongdoings.

  She possessed the means to dismiss Freyja at any juncture for inspiring such infatuation.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She could have exercised restraint and directed Freyja to depart.

  But Guinevere, however, elected passion over her obligations and station.

  The culmination of her thoughts plunged her into a melancholic reverie.

  The realization of her dishonorable conduct as queen brought forth a solitary tear, tracing a path upon her cheek.

  Her wailing was immediately halted with a hiss emanating from the balcony rafters.

  Guinevere taken by suprise caught upwards.

  She cast her gaze skyward as the moon's gentle light graced her presence.

  The moonlight clouded the figure that hissed at her.

  A woman of considerable size, easily thrice that of mortal men, with tresses that flew about the air like spilling blood.

  A scar on her face.

  It was Freyja.

  "Pray, Your Majesty, cease this lamentation...

  A smile doth befit a queen.

  I shall endeavor to restore that smile, by any means necessary."

  Freyja spoke, a touch of melancholy in her gaze.

  Her affection was profound, yet circumstances had inexorably entwined them in a position of perilous consequence.

  It felt like the whole world was against their love.

  "Freyja, I told him.

  I told him about us.

  My expectation was that it might encourage a more sensible perspective...

  Regarding the matter of Gruffyd.

  But alas to no avail..." Guinevere remarked, wiping the tears off her face.

  Freyja, poised atop the rafter, like a goddess of the moon, her silver plate bathed in ethereal moonlight.

  "Then he is lost, I daresay...

  The choice, dear Queen, rests with thee.

  We have aggrieved him...

  Verily, he possesses every justification on us...

  Yet, for your embrace, I'd burn the whole world and traverse unto the earth's furthest reaches.

  I shall attend you.

  Should it be thy wish.

  Whate'er thou decidest, I shall abide.

  Even unto my departure from this land, so that thou mayest faithfully resume thine royal duties."

  Freyja vowed her duty to the Queen.

  Her Majesty's decree shall define the path Freyja shall tread.

  Such is the depth of her devotion to the Queen.

  Guinevere, from the balcony, extends a hand towards Freyja.

  A gesture akin to lovers yearning for a tender coalescence.

  Freyja reciprocates from the rafters, reaching in kind.

  As their hands verge upon meeting, it evokes the solemnity of a marital vow.

  Each having chosen the other above all earthly considerations.

  Guinevere would hug Freyja's back tightly, as Freyja carefully descended down the tower.

  Bearing the iron pickaxes she had procured.

  Had it not been for a youth spent amidst the mountainous terrains near the World's Edge Mountains.

  She might have lacked the natural aptitude required for such a taxing climb.

  They, at long last, descended to the nethermost balcony of the tower.

  They could see a protest brewing in the city below.

  The rabble were in a state of panic, petitioning King Arwen for the release of Queen Guinevere.

  So that she may lead the armies across the realm, quelling the brewing chaos.

  Indeed, in prior crises, it had ever been Guinevere who led the armies to the fore.

  As Arwen lacked the martial fortitude required for warfare.

  Within lower floors of the tower, the stone passage bore the heavy musk of moist moss.

  Juxtaposed against the distant, metallic whisper of the unrest unfolding in the city outside.

  Briefly, the world encompassing politics, perfidy, and the presence of Duke Gruffyd's influence dissolved into naught.

  Upon reaching a heavy rusted iron gate with tapestry at the sides, they led to the sewers, Guinevere paused.

  The flickering torchlight ensnared the moisture upon her cheeks.

  Transforming each teardrop into a glistening gem.

  She bore less the guise of a Queen scorned and more that of an ancient goddess, lamenting a world bereft of affection.

  Freyja experienced a most unwelcome sting in her chest.

  She'd long played the hardened warrior, a bulwark twixt Guinevere and the world.

  Burying desires beneath duty's armor, so that the vows twixt King and Queen might endure.

  Yet, with the veil of restraint may now be cast aside, their affections exposed, vulnerable, and their passion laid bare to witness eachother.

  The Queen. Her beloved Guinevere, in such a broken state, proved more than she could bear.

  Freyja relieved herself of her weighty gauntlets.

  Their metallic resonance barely audible upon the stone, and drew Guinevere into her embrace.

  The Queen yielded, finding solace against Freyja.

  Her fingers seeking purchase on the leather of Freyja's gambeson.

  When their lips met, it wasn't the tentative kiss of hesitation.

  But a fervent, impassioned repossession.

  It taste of brine, yearning, and the defiance of two women aware that the morrow's light may elude them.

  Within the hallway's arched confines, shielded from the prying eyes of Gruffyd's men running across the halls in desperate search of Freyja.

  By a sumptuous aubergine tapestry, the lurking peril did but amplify the intensity of their passionate connection.

  A thrilling sensation was brewing.

  Guinevere's delicate yet insistent hands traced the lines of each scar upon Freyja's chiseled physique.

  She moved with a desperate grace, releasing the straps of the warrior's breastplate until it fell away with a soft clatter.

  Guinevere explored Freyja's herculean body like a map hidden with treasures.

  Her lips traced the route her hands had previously explored.

  She pressed feverish kisses upon the jugulars of Freyja's neck, venturing downwards across the scarred, brawny expanse of her chest.

  As Gwinyvere's lips graced the sculpted terrain of Freyja's hardy abdomen.

  The indomitable warrior emitted a soft, tremulous exhalation. A tremor of passion traversing her very being.

  For one so accustomed to the art of combat, such unguarded vulnerability represented the most profound submission.

  For those precious hours, the unyielding stone assumed the delicate texture of silk.

  The distant clamor of the plebeians was but a muted pulse, and the chilling humidity of the corridors was vanquished by the fevering passion of their flesh.

  They have finally transgressed their roles as Queen and Bodyguard, lovers deep in lust.

  Finding solace where the reach of Gruffyd and Arwen could not intrude.

  In the embrace of one another.

  As the ardent flames of their shared fervor subsided into a resolute and fiery determination.

  Freyja assisted Guinevere with her silken girdle.

  Her actions now possess a fierce protectiveness.

  As Freyja adorns Guinevere, she inclines for one more tender, but oh so ever so gentle kiss.

  Guinevere's eyes lit bright with a new fire in her.

  As if the burdens that had wearied her were, for a fleeting moment, exquisitely banished.

  The shift from the tapestry's stifling warmth to the undercity's frigid and dank, serves as a rude awakening.

  Duke Gruffyd strides into the wing, his men in tow.

  They anticipated a tearful Queen, ripe for conveyance to the King's justice.

  Instead, he discovers a vacant chamber, save for a discarded pile of leather straps and a breastplate at the lower floors.

  He ventures to the secluded alcove, concealed behind the tapestry.

  The air remains subtly perfumed with Guinevere's roses, coupled with the musk of shared passion.

  Gruffyd, with a gloved hand, gently touches a stray silk ribbon upon the stone.

  He refrains from outcry, favouring instead laughter, a parched and resonant exhalation instead.

  "She did not take flight in fear." he muses, with Sir Morganough blood still trickling down his nose.

  "The lovebirds made love around us, while we rushed to their room and frantically run from hall to hall.

  Looks like we have underestimated their love for eachother."

  Gruffyd apprehends that a living Guinevere presents future complications.

  Whereas a 'missing' one becomes an uncontrollable.

  And Gruffyd despises what he cannot wrestle control of.

  He then addresses Sir Morganough.

  "Convey to the assembled populace that the King has already seen to her execution, disposing of her remains in the river.

  Should they believe her deceased, their ire will turn to the king.

  And should they discover her otherwise... they shall perceive a demon dispatched to torment us."

  "Preposterous!

  That's treason!

  You would lie to the king?!"

  Sir Morganough shouts with hand ready at his sword hilt.

  Then swords began to be drawn around them.

  There began to be a clear division within the castle. Some loyal to the king and some loyal to Gruffyd.

  "Well, then?

  What are you chaps waiting for?

  Kill him." Gruffyd commanded coldly without a single remorse emanating from his soul.

  And a ballad of blood and steel splashed across the hall.

  Gruffyd would step away silently as the men hack at each other.

  He then requested reinforcements, but only those loyal to his cause.

  He further instructed that all survivors of the prior engagement, regardless of allegiance, be expunged.

  He doth chronicle the carnage wrought by Guinevere and Freyja ere their departure.

  Gruffyd has successfully erased all men in the castle but those who are sworn to him.

  Now...Like a game of chess, he moves in on the defenceless king.

  The weight of a crown, considerable though it may be, pales in comparison to the burden upon a mother's heart.

  Guinevere, poised at the sewer's edge, casts a rueful glance towards the castle walls.

  Where her son, the heir of the throne, remains confined within a gilded cradle.

  Amidst the venture amidst humid abyss.

  Guinevere doth remove a petite, argent signet ring from her delicate fingers.

  Not that of Her Majesty but the one bequeathed by Arwen upon their betrothal.

  With haste and lament, she doth scribble a note.

  She wrote upon a fragment of parchment with but the light of a flickering torch.

  "Arwen, should a flicker of affection remain for the woman I once was, before I broke my vows, observe closely your court.

  Mark well the machinations Gruffyd has wrought around you.

  I depart, for only our blood, mine and Freyja's, would appease you.

  Yet I implore you, safeguard our son.

  Permit not Gruffyd to ensnare him with his deceitful fabrications.

  My fealty to the crown endures.

  Should the hour arrive when my assistance is vital to preserve the realm,

  I shall heed the summons."

  She entrusts it to a young street urchin who frequents treasure hunts within these sewers.

  Whom Guinevere rescued during the Aridian raids.

  "Deliver this to the King himself.

  Avoid Gruffyd's gaze at all costs.

  His keen perception is not easily deceived by subtleties."

  Guinevere instructed.

  Freyja remains ever vigilant, casting a cautious eye behind.

  She is well aware that Gruffyd commands a pack of hounds both the canine variety and men of similar disposition.

  "We must press on, Guinevere. This mire threatens to betray our passage if the heavens do not soon open."

  Guinevere falters, her exquisite silk slippers sullied by the sylvan floor.

  She casts a glance back at the distant, incandescent glow of the castle.

  "He possesses my son, Freyja.

  Each stride I take from those ramparts feels as though I am flaying my very skin."

  She utters near to a wail.

  Freyja halts, her resolute hands seizing Guinevere's shoulders with purpose.

  She drew her near, the lingering memory of their shared warmth in the hallway the sole comfort against the chill.

  "To safeguard the Prince, a change of venue is required for our strategy.

  Should you tarry, Gruffyd and the King would execute on the spot without delay.

  If you flee, there are those still in debt to House Goldmane. Therefore, flee we must."

  ?????????????? ? ﹏??﹏??﹏? ? ?? ?*:???? ?? ?? ?? ??? ?*:???? ???????????? ???? ?? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ?? ???.???????????ˋ ?? ?ˊ?·????????·??.?? ???? ? ?☆??????????????? ?*:???? ?? ?? ?? ??? ?*:????????????????????