A Sour Pact

Darin Hopskin was a man who only touched, and was touched, by three things. His daughter, Areena Hopskin, his sword, Lily, and the ground. So one might understand his reaction to being touched, king or no, by Duruk Warsater. Darin did not recoil, however, because for all his finesse and agility, he could not hope to match one of the kingsguard, and there were three of them. Each wore the traditional colors of his unique position: dark red plate touched with gold-dyed leather where the armor gave way at joints. Light red wyverns slept on their heads, carved of Toldorian steel, and their bony tails rolled down the knights' spines past their asses, where the tail ended in a semi-circle. The wings of the wyverns draped over the knights' cheeks, and clawed thumbs covered the noses of the kingsguard, so nothing of the face but the eyes, mouth, and chin could be seen. Drowned in a strong red those features looked fantastic and fearsome. It made Darin feel like an earthworm among butterflies, to walk the hall of the kingsthrone before such men, but he kept his head high and his shoulders squared.

Clad in his roughspun garments Darin reached the foot of the throne and stood before the usurper king. The earthworm raised his eyes, and met the mismatched blue and green of his unrightful king, sitting upon an ill-begotten throne. A profound silence ensued, and stretched through the minutes. Darin noted with a grim satisfaction that Duruk' eyes were paler and his cheeks more sagged. He wondered if that was his own doing, or if the usurper had uncovered others beholden to the slain king. The silence continued until Darin could stand it no longer, and spoke.

"Do what you will and be done with it, I do not care for your petty mind tricks."

Darin found himself spinning, a sudden pain in his stomach. He fell to one knee and coughed up blood, reddening the white marble ground. He struggled to his feet only to be met by a mailed gauntlet striking the side of his face. The steel was warm, but shredded his cheek and broke his teeth all the same. Darin swayed, but stayed on his feet.

"I ask for the honor of hanging this worm myself, Your Grace."

"Resume your duty and guard, Osmund, you punch a man many times your own strength," the king spoke in a resigned tone, but it was still that of a king's. That of a usurper.

The knight did as he was bid, and returned to Darin's peripherals. Darin coughed more blood to join the shallow pool at his feet, and then turned his gaze back to Duruk.

"A king who cannot control his subjects," Darin spat some blood out, along with a cracked tooth, "pathetic."

Duruk ignored that. "You will be hanged for your treason, Darin, Son of Aegon."

Darin managed to regain his feet, and, however reluctantly, brought his gaze back to Duruk's own. "No, I will be hanged for fulfilling my vows, for my loyalty, and you will, this year or the next, be brought down from the crown and made to taste the gallows like the insolent, disgusting pest you are."

"Perhaps, but it is not me tasting the gallows on this day, Darin." Duruk did not wait for a response before continuing, "I am permitting you your last words, as is proper for a man of your position. You are well-versed in language, and strong in spirit. I'm sure you will find winning the crowds to your side an easy task. But know this, Darin, Son of Aegon, that while you, glowering with triumph, stand beneath the headsmans' axe, and the people scream their passion, their hate towards a still, stoic king, as you no doubt put it, it was not me that killed your daughter: it was you."

As realization dawned upon Darin, he cursed, and even briefly considered throttling Duruk, rushing towards him and wringing that thin throat raw with his bare hands. Nothing would have made his heart flutter half as high. The still face of his daughter, however, halted that thought, and also his heart. He fell to his knees, and cried for his life, for his daughter's life, and for his new king.