#⚔︎ unsungblade

[quartzhearted]

[ CARRY ]: sender, having been carried by the receiver for other reasons, winds up sitting in their lap once they sit down. (au)

He doesn’t remember passing out.

Regardless, when Kris stirs it’s to the distinct lack of ground beneath him, suspended by something hooked around his back and under his knees respectively. Cool metal presses into one side of his face, which is odd because Grandfather never wears armor anymore unless it’s to show him what goes where, how to put it on and take it off again. He stopped for good once he started having him go through the motions from memory. Yet it isn’t like there’s anyone else it can be, right? It’s always Grandfather carrying him back inside when he pushes too far past his limits and crumples.

...But Grandfather died years ago, so–

“–!” Red hair. Built like the biggest bear he’s ever seen. Kris probably weighs no more than a feather to him, because: “King Morion?!”

morion subscribes to plenty of rules be it for pride's sake or so that he can do his job. wake up at a decent time, no blackout drinking on weeknights, things he stays committed to for discipline's sake and to make himself a stronger person. among these rules is one that is quite controversial; it's guaranteed to piss his sons off as well as anyone else who begs morion to be kinder to himself: do as i say, not as i do.

to put it succinctly, morion runs himself into the ground most days. he trains, he leads battalions, he spearheads patrols and facilitates meetings with brodian nobility and other royals. there is a lot he has to do and only so long to do it. he's danced this dance for so long that, at this point, he's got a system going. and you can bet your butt that it doesn't take away from his family time.

what morion dislikes more than anything, however, is when he sees other people doing the same---especially if they report to him. the king works hard so that others don't have to. isn't that literally what his whole job is about?

kris is a promising young swordfighter whose battle prowess has caught morion's eye the world over. it isn't uncommon to see strong fighters in a country built on war, but there's just something about him that Intrigues. as such, morion has personally seen to giving him work, be it as a mercenary hire or as a stand-in when one of his knights isn't able to report in. he hasn't quite figured out kris' place here yet, but not for a lack of talent; if anything, he's got more qualification in his pinky finger than some of his guards do in their whole bodies.

the problem, be it due to expectation or some other equally pressuring thing, is that kris does the exact thing that morion hates: overworking himself. it is precisely that habit that brings him to now, carrying an unconscious kris in his arms---the boy had exerted himself too hard during training and just dropped to the ground.

morion sighs. it's always the ones with the most potential that try to wring it out too quickly. he sets kris' head against his breastplate, taking care not to disturb him too much with his footsteps until he wakes. he takes him back to camp, takes a seat ( and drops kris right in his lap ), grabs some water, and then...

aha. he's up. and shocked to see morion, too. " yeah, it's me, " he gruffs, using one of his hands to support kris as he sits up. " how many times have i told ya about workin' yourself 'til you keel over? i don't like repeatin' myself, boy. "

he offers the small flask of water to kris. " drink and listen t'me. if you keep burnin' yerself like you do, i don't think i can trust you out on the field. i can do it 'cuz i'm a king and twice yer age. you need to keep your body in shape so you don't eat shit in the middle of battle---get what i'm sayin'? "

but he can't really stay mad at the kid. he's a hard worker, and morion respects that. he pats a large hand on kris' head and roughly musses his hair, unable to fight off a huge smile. " just be a little nicer to yerself. king's orders. "

[quartzhearted]

✦ tarrion: an odd interval of blankness felt after something big happens to you but before you feel the resulting emotional reaction.

the funeral is held on a clear, sunny winter afternoon.

it takes place in the great chapel within the castle, filled so tightly that thousands of people pour out of the doors into the castle halls and down the great staircase. brodia natives, firenese, the occasional solmic. madam ève of firene, sat at the front and dressed in black, tulle pulled over her expression, clutching a bouquet of lentil flowers and lillies in her hands. his mother and father, aging, devoid of all their posture and their positivity, mother hunched over sobbing into her hands, father with a hand on her back and another covering his eyes.

and then there is morion, seated across from the open casket that holds his deceased brother. he doesn't move.

he remembers how he'd found him. elusia had come on strong, archers lining their ranks to counter all of the footsoldiers in their ranks. morion was a general and his brother the leader, and what a leader that man was! his word was gospel to the infantry---a call to action was all it took to send the sea towards the snow. morion himself ran like a beast, brushing off arrows like it was nothing and cleaving elusian nuisances with no problem. it was such a familiar motion, getting into these border skirmishes with his brother at the helm.

but when morion had turned around, ready to take his next order from his brother the king-to-be,

the man was on the ground, arrows rising from his back.

morion can't say he remembers much; all he knows is the warmth of his brother's blood on his shoulder and the horrible weight of him, fading, on his back.

even now, he doesn't feel anything. no rage, no despair---only quiet. the healers had him patched up, he thinks offhandedly, examining his brother's chest. probably wouldn't have made for a nice open casket if he still had holes in him.

he knows that emotion is frowned upon. his father is trying to rein in his emotions at his son's funeral, for godssake. so does that make him a good person or a bad one that he feels nothing?

morion stares at anything but his brother's pallid face. lillies line the casket and spill to the floor; the sun shines through the stained glass down to his brother like an invitation; the guy playing the ceremonial organ definitely knows what he's doing; they cleaned and buffed his brother's sword just for the occasion.

tonight, he will not sleep---overcome with massive, descending waves of grief, he will trash his room in furious tears. he will scream, he will cry, he will spit raging insults at the elusians that dared to take his brother away from him. he will injure himself on the flying shrapnel of tables and glassware and he will bleed; he will step out of brodia and into a world where nothing is just and everything is aflame with spite. he will become the worst version of himself.

but for now, the tides have recessed. morion sits and watches, waiting for the procession to be over, waiting for them to close the casket so he doesn't risk acknowledging the truth,

that his brother is really and truly gone

and he failed his duty as younger to protect him.

[quartzhearted]

[SHOULDER] - sender lays a hand on receiver's shoulder. (REVERSE)

In another life, he is a son of Brodia instead. Not much changes, all things considered.

He’s still riding the high of that last match after exiting the arena, of finally breaking through his opponent’s ironclad defense to wrench the lance from their grasp and send it clattering to the ground. Weapon disadvantage? Heavy armor? Those were just extra hurdles to overcome. Lacking the means to easily counter them merely meant he had to fight harder if he wanted to win, and he did. The tournament was as good a chance as he’d get to make an impression after spending nearly his entire life chasing knighthood.

The unexpected hand seemingly trying to smack his arm right out of its socket jolts Kris back to reality then, stiffening under the contact before whirling around to face none other than—

“!?!?!?!”

—the king himself.

there's always one in the bunch that morion finds more fascinating than others. of course, he gives all of the contestants an equal amount of attention---they are fighting to be among his ranks, after all. a king must judge each participant fairly and without bias or prejudice.

he just really likes the look in that one's eye.

he fights like a demon, that one with blue hair, and uses whatever he's got as part of his arsenal. not only does he adapt to the situation, he forces it to obey him---somehow, with only a sword against a general with a lance, that boy was able to smash right through and take his victory with unshakable resolve. morion must admit that he nearly shook the walls with how loud he cheered. he's a bit of a sucker for underdogs.

after the match's end, morion made it a personal mission to hunt this kid down himself. it doesn't take much looking before he finds his quarry and slaps a big hand on his shoulder to stop him.

" hey there, son, " he greets, grin inviting and eyes still holding some adrenalized excitement. " i've been watchin' your battles with a hell of a lot of interest---you sure know how to keep a crowd interested.

" i still can't believe how you crushed that general with nothin' but your sword---now that's someone with a warrior's heart! " he laughs, but his grip squeezes a little tighter. morion straightens, then gives this promising character a harder look.

" i've got my eye on you. keep it up and you'll be seein' me very soon. "