Cristomir Stormwell

The Outer-wall Stables, Elderstone, Jorden

    CRISTOMIR KEPT A BRAVE FACE as he helped his newly-wed wife into her carriage, ready to depart for however long, only the Gods knew. They were just outside the walls of the city of Elderstone, surrounded by stables, stablehands, horses, and hay. It was a bright sunny afternoon, though it was cloudy and rainy in Cristomir's soul. As Jenna took her seat in the plush and comfy carriage, her hand seemed hesitant to slip away for a moment, but it fell into her lap all the same. A hardly noticeable frown settled on her face, and Cristomir could see her eyes were beginning to gloss. His eyes felt the same.

Jenna's uncle, Lyndon, was barking orders at his guardsmen, hurrying them along, quick to get their journey underway. They were riding to Lions Bay to set sail for Arnland, as Lyndon had told them only last night. The protests from Jenna were expected, but they were stifled just as quickly as they came. Her uncle would have none of it, and Cristomir didn't say much in her defense. He wanted her gone as quickly as possible, and far away from the dangers and perils that plagued the city of Elderstone. He was to meet with Henry tonight at the docks, and with Jenna on her way to Arnland, safe in the comfort of a faraway land surrounded by her family, he could go into the meeting with a clear and focused mind.

"I'll write to you as soon as we arrive in the Rosewood," said Jenna with a collected and poised voice. Cristomir always admired that about her. Even in the midst of emotional turmoil, her demeanor was always that of a noble and well-mannered woman.

Cristomir smiled, and squeezed her hand. He then rested his palm on her belly, where his child was growing, strong, and healthy. "I already can't wait to see you again. Please travel safely, my love."

Jenna smiled. "You should make that request to the Gods for that, not to me."

"I would ask it from both of you, as I'm sure you're equal in power," Cristomir said.

Jenna frowned. "If that were true, I would not be leaving this day."

The retort felt like a strong fist had struck Cristomir in the stomach. Every inch of his heart begged him to pull her from the carriage and take her home, but every inch of his mind knew that this was the best option, and for both of them. "It won't be for long, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Jenna said.

Before Cristomir could say anything else, Lyndon approached the two. "Sir Bellerdyn has finished seeing to the horses and carriage. Are you ready to go, my dear?"

Jenna nodded. "Yes, Uncle. I am ready."

Lyndon nodded. "Good." He turned to Cristomir. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir Stormwell. I'll make sure we arrive in Arnland safely, and that Jenabelle is well taken care of."

Cristomir smiled bravely. "Thank you, Lord Thornshield."

Lyndon nodded and climbed into the carriage. The door swung shut, and the coachmen snapped the reigns, sending the six horses at the front into a trot. Cristomir watched as the carriage took off down the road, and felt a piece of his heart fracture and run after them. He shook his head at the notion and reformed his heart. He would see her again, and by the Gods, he would see her again soon. They would live their days out happily together, with children, dogs, and a modest manor.

But first, he had to remove Aldrien Freemane from that pretty picture.

*****

"You're late, Sir Stormwell," said Henry quietly as Cristomir approached him at the end of the dock. The moon glowed softly above in a swath of darkness, and cast upon them only the faintest shimmer of silver light. Henry carried a small lantern, the flame concealed with metal slat that slid over the glass that housed the fire.

"Forgive me," Cristomir said in a quiet voice as he came closer. "I've had a difficult day."

Henry nodded sympathetically. "Well, you're here now, I suppose that's what matters." Henry looked off into the distance, to where Cristomir had just emerged from, the stone city of Elderstone looming large like an ominous beast. "You weren't followed were you?"

Cristomir shook his head. "I wasn't, I'm sure. And besides, I took the scenic route getting here. It's a trail hard to follow." Cristomir was near-certain that there wasn't another living soul in this city that knew the streets and alleyways as well as he did. He and Danticus had been adventurous youths and had always found plenty of stories and trouble in the deep, untraveled canals of the great stone city. Seems some things never change...

"Good enough for me then," Henry said. He looked around at the bay, eyeing the waves as they gently splashed and lapped up against the wooden docks. "It's almost time, my friend," Henry said with his eyes still cast out to the sea. Perhaps the ocean waves would swallow his words, and it'd be as if he'd never spoken them.

It's almost time, Cristomir heard repeat in his mind. That sent shivers down his spine. It was a time he knew would come, but despite his best efforts to prepare himself, he still felt unsure about the whole ordeal.

No, he thought to himself. They must be avenged...I swore an oath...

"Almost time," Cristomir said offhandedly. He looked to Henry with resolved eyes. "What's to happen? What are we to do?"

Henry took his time answering. It dawned on Cristomir that the guardsman was likely undergoing the same crisis and doubts that he was. They were concocting something unprecedented in Jordein history, and if they were to fail, it wouldn't just be them who would face a fate worse than death.

All of Elderstone would suffer at the hands of Aldrien Freemane.

Finally, Henry answered Cristomir's question. "The Prince's betrothal to Adelyn Granmund is to be announced tomorrow, and the marriage will take place only a week after. It's going to be a spectacle, and there will be a lot of guests there. We should have no problem going unnoticed."

Cristomir wasn't sure about that. "Won't Aldrien recognize you? You're a guardsmen for the Royal Keep, I'm sure your face isn't exactly unfamiliar."

Henry shook his head. "The prince pays no mind to the guards. Even his closest and most trusted guardsmen wear helms in his presence. I suppose it's easier for the prince to order them to do horrific things without having to look them in the eyes."

Cristomir nodded. Made enough sense to him, he supposed. "And the poison?"

Henry reached into a pouch tied to his belt. He withdrew from it a small vial filled with purple liquid. Its edges had a red hue to them as it glowed in the firelight from Cristomir's lantern. "I have three more at the barracks, and I intend to give one of them to Sir Baronstone. I will meet with him tomorrow night to relay the same information. I figured it'd be best to begin meeting separately with each other, to minimize the amount of time we're seen with each other."

"The goal of these secret meetings is to not be seen, I thought," Cristomir said sarcastically.

"Regardless, you never know who's eyes are prying, ranger. Here." He placed the vial in Cristomir's hand, and the ranger held it fearfully. This was the poison they were to use to kill the Prince.

To save the Kingdom.

"Why do you have so many vials? Isn't that just more evidence?"

Henry shook his head. "What if we misplace one? What if a vial shatters?

"I would hope you're more careful with poison than that, guardsman."

Henry shook his head. "I'm just saying, contingencies should be in place just in case there's a misstep."

"We can't afford a misstep," Cristomir hissed. "Not when it comes to this."

Henry nodded. "You're right. I'll be as careful as possible. I would ask the same of you."

"Of course, guardsman."

Cristomir eyed the vial again. "Are you sure this is enough poison?"

Henry nodded. "I was very thorough in my notes and calculations. One vial will be enough to cause death."

"Your notes?" Cristomir asked.

Henry nodded. "I've been keeping notes on our plan, to ensure we've plotted everything correctly and precisely."

Cristomir felt laughter build in his chest, though he refused to dispel it. It was laughter born of pure absurdity, rather than genuine, good old-fashioned humor. "You're keeping notes on our plot to murder the Regent of Jorden? Are you fucking stupid?"

Henry didn't waver in his expression. "They're cryptic, Sir Stormwell. No one outside of the three of us who obtained them would be able to make sense of them. Trust me, they're necessary. I assure you, they in no way compromise your or Sir Baronstone's identity. Please, trust me on this."

Cristomir sighed. "Alright...what's the plan?"

"At the feast," Henry continued. "I'll be the one to poison the Prince's cup. I'll need you to keep an eye out and carry the reserve vials in case something happens to me. We'll have Sir Baronstone outside the feast hall, ensuring our method of escape is secure."

"Smart," Cristomir said. "The Prince has little love for Tytus. It will be best if we keep him out of sight."

"That, and I doubt the man will be getting an invitation."

That raised a question for the ranger. "Will I be receiving an invitation?"

Henry nodded. "I would figure as much. You are the acting Arch-Ranger of the Ranger Order. The position alone warrants you to make at least some sort of appearance."

Cristomir nodded. He wished Tytus were there with them. The Black Baron had a far more strategic mind than he possessed, and his counsel was sorely missed. "We should abstain from making any further plans without Tytus' input."

"I told you I'm to meet with him tomorrow, and we'll-"

"No," Cristomir cut off the guardsman. "We need to plot this together. We can't afford a miscommunication or possible oversight. We're in this together, and we have to plan this together."

Henry chewed on that for a moment and then nodded. "Fine, you're right. Meet me tomorrow night in the same location at the same time. We can all discuss it tomorrow. That's all I have for you tonight. I'll be taking my leave."

With that, the guardsmen swept down the docks with a quick pace, eager to leave the discussions of treason. Cristomir watched him leave until he was swallowed up by the shadows, returned to the belly of the city. Cristomir was left standing there alone, the waves rippling beneath him, and the flame in his lantern flickering about like a vengeful spirit. He opened his hand and took a look at the vial of poison lying flat against his palm. In the faint light of his lantern, the purple liquid emitted a faint purple hue against his palm, and it seemed to spread and seep into him. Cristomir closed his fist quickly and tightened his grip around the vial. At times, his thoughts could be just as poisonous. He shook his head, and sighed.

We better not fuck this up...

*****

Nearly half an hour passed when Henry made it back to the barracks. The halls were quiet and dark, much to his unease. He'd prefer the nights when the other guardsmen of the Order of Defense would drink and play cards in the common area. Evenings like that made his late-night excursions hard to notice, and mitigated suspicion.

He rounded a corner, and his room was just at the end of the hall. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the room to his door was open, and a shadowy figure jutted out along the floor. His heart sank, and panic swelled in his chest. He crept to the door, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a dagger that was strapped to the back of his belt. All his planning, his safeguarding, the meticulous method in which he hid his notes, suddenly compromised. Had the Prince caught wind of his actions? Did an assassin await him in his quarters? All he knew is that he wouldn't go quietly.

As he came closer to his room, he heard a humming come from within. It was a familiar tune, and an even familiar voice. He peeked through the narrow cavern between the door and its frame, and found a familiar man in his quarters. It was his friend, and fellow guardsmen, Nathyn. He was sitting there in one of Henry's chairs, feet propped up on his small dining table as he dropped grapes into his mouth. Henry gently pushed the door open, and Nathyn's head turned towards him, a sudden expression on his face. "Ah, Henry! I was wondering when you'd show up."

    Henry kept a calm and cool voice, though it was difficult to force down the panic in the back of his throat. "Nathyn, what are you doing here? It's late?"

    Nathyn withdrew his boots from the table and planted them on the floor. "Well, I wanted to see if you wanted to get a drink. It's been too long since we'd last had one together. You've been off lately, Henry. Is everything okay?"

    Henry entered his room and began unlacing his boots. "Yes Nathyn, everything is fine. I'm afraid I'll have to turn down a drink tonight. My stomach is unwell, and I'd doubt ale is the cure."

    "Nonsense!" Nathyn exclaimed. "Ale is the cure for everything."

    Henry felt a soft smile tug at his lips. Perhaps his friend was right. Maybe he needed a good stiff drink. It's been some time since he'd done something other than plot treason, or anything that made him feel human. But ale made for loose tongues, and loose tongues often led to disaster. He would take his friend up on his invitation for a drink, but it would be some time from now. He had more important things to focus on.

    "Perhaps another time, old friend. I'm exhausted, and a good night's sleep sounds far more comforting than a mug of mead."

    Nathyn frowned. "There used to be a time that old Henry Braxton was said to have had an iron liver."

    Henry shrugged. "I'm afraid it's rusted. I'll see you tomorrow, Nathyn."

    "Fine...fair enough." Nathyn stood from his chair reluctantly and went to the door. He looked back at Henry as the guardsmen finally shook free his unlaced boots. "Take care of yourself, Henry. I wish you the best of luck." With that said, he left.

    Henry sighed. He wished he could go have a drink with his friend. He wished he could do many things, like sleep soundly at night, not jump at shadows, or walk around freely without the feeling of being watched. He wished things were the way they were, before the elves arrived, when Joras Freemane sat upon the throne and peace presided over the Kingdom of Jorden.

    Now, the man was dead, and someone far more sinister had taken his place, someone who would send Jorden into war. It was noble what he was doing, Henry convinced himself. It was noble to avenge a man murdered in cold blood, and to save those falsely accused of carrying out the heinous act. He'd go down as an unsung hero in the chapters of history, but a hero no less. He hoped the two rangers felt the same way. Sir Stormwell seems only half committed, and Sir Baronstone would rather shove a blade into the Prince's gullet rather than continue down the discrete path Henry had forged. Regardless, his way was the safest, that he was sure of.

    He went to his bed, ready to fall asleep, and wrap himself up in his warm blanket. Before he did that, however, he had to chronicle the meeting he had with Sir Stormwell today. Perhaps the ranger was right; keeping notes and documenting their plot could be foolish, but Henry was smart about it. He needed to ensure every detail had been accounted for. They couldn't afford to leave anything to chance or memory. He opened the bottom door of his nightstand where he kept his notes.

    His eyes widened and he drew a sharp breath when he found nothing in the drawer. His notes weren't there. They were gone. His stomach twisted into intricate knots as he felt around the drawer with frantic fingers, desperate to find them. He checked the other drawers, underneath his bed, under his pillow. They weren't there. His notes were gone. Someone had stolen them.

    He went to his closet next, and pulled out his pair of spare boots, where he kept the vials of poison. If they had only found his notes, whoever it was, there was hope that they would be nonsensical. If they found the notes and the poison...

He reached inside the boots and felt along the soles for the vials, desperately wishing his fingers would feel the cool touch of cold glass. The vials weren't there either.

"Fuck!" Henry shouted as he threw the boot across the room. It landed with a thud against his window. This couldn't be happening. How was this happening?

    Suddenly, Henry looked toward the door, his breath caught in his throat. Take care of yourself, Henry, he heard Nathyn say in his mind. I wish you the best of luck.

    "No..." Henry said quietly. It couldn't have been him. He felt as if a knife were twisting together the nerves and bones in his back. He had never felt so sick in his life. Fear and bile churned in his gut, and he felt his fingers begin to tremble.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, a sobering knock that made Henry's heart jump into his throat. He sat there, eyes on the door as another knock came, this one a little more aggressive. He was frozen, unable to move, paralyzed with fear. This was a bad dream, that's all it was. Another knock came, and reminded him it wasn't.

He stumbled to his feet, and took small and slow steps as he inched to the door. His shaking hand found the handle, he opened the door slowly. There stood the Prince, Nathyn, Sir Caulder, and two members of the Kingsguard. The Prince was eyeing a vial of poison between his fingers. Then his eyes met Henry's.

"Sir Henry Braxton," Aldrien said with a cold and firm tone. "You are arrested on the charges of plotting murder and high treason against the crown." The Prince looked to his guardsmen there with him. "Take him."

    "Sorry friend," said Nathyn.

    That was the last thing Henry heard before the butt of a spear sent rendered him unconscious.