The King of Nyrthlond

Silence hung in the dim throneroom of Nharati, nearly all the candles snuffed for the night. The advisors and councilors and attendants had all retired along with the royalty. In the center stood a single figure, clad in clothing so white it seemed to throw off its own light. A mere illusion of darkness and colour, though one that pleased the wearer. Hands hung loose at the figure's side, a spill of blond hair cascading to touch narrow shoulders.

The Nyrthlond party had arrived as court was halting for the day, intending to be settled before the reception proper the following night, but the King had been unable to sleep despite the long journey. Icy eyes perused the room swathed in the blues and blacks of the Valenti line, finally settling on the large throne in the middle. Alliances were made and broken on that ebony seat, and tomorrow King Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen would face the King of Nyrthlond from it. Would glaciers clash because of it? Would mountains crumble and the dead speak? Or, for most small folk, would it go as unnoticed as most decisions from such seats of powers?

The meeting was one of duty, an introduction to this new King, where little of import was intended to be decided, and yet, it seemed to the King that much hinged on this series of meetings with important leaders. It was meant to be a display of who ruled Nyrthlond now, a land taken not in simple succession, but one where the strongest ruled, the ones who survived when the ice fields ran red with blood. This time, however, the ice fields had been relieved of their duties, but the race for the throne had not been bloodless. No, this time it had been the white marble halls of Eisengaard that had been spattered crimson with Kergard blood, the blood of the Raaskia and the Raaskia's men...and the Raaskia's wife and child. The Ilves' claws tore the life from all of them, the crafty lynx destroying the lumbering bear. And that simply, it was over, and the new King had a crown and a throne.

In the twilight room, the Ilves paced with a smooth rippling gait that would have left an observer in the mind of nothing so much as a caged animal testing the limits of its confinement, the white figure ever in motion. Even the sword at its hip gleamed white and glacier blue, an ancient blade though with an edge so honed that blood spilt with the lightest touch. Slim fingers stroked the stone walls, ran over the backs of the thrones, the hafts of the axes on the walls, the figure even stooping to touch the marble floor. All of it was warm to one of such an ice life, warm and strange, much like the inhabitants of this place. Longing for home grew the more the journey stretched on, but this stop could not be avoided. Secrets must be revealed and alliances tested... and the whereabouts of a certain white horse determined. Lips quirked at the thought.

As if summoned by that thought, arms slunk around the white figure, and its head arched back to rest on the shoulder of its twin, gleaming and pale too with the dim candlelight dancing off the blond hair. Lips found lips for a silent embrace, and together, moving as one they departed the dim room.

Ulrika sat astride her stallion, the beast as regal and settled as she was for the moment, neither betraying the urge to be back upon the road while Cyrus looked bored beside her. The visit had displeased him, despite the retrieval of his horse. Icy eyes regarded the King of Nharati and his small party that offered farewells. Of the Royal Family, only the King and Princess Synaria remained, and it was hard not to wonder if the young woman's fears were founded.

Words of security and good will fell from the lips of both Kings, but it was without the pagentry of her arrival. While they had reached some accord, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen was no doubt glad to see the back of her, and Ulrika likewise to leave. It took no great skill of observation to see the tensions seething here, backed dangerously by fear. Given the nature of the Nharatese, Ulrika knew they would turn on the Nyrthlonders given the right amount of pressure: they were foreign with an Other in their company and the King, a woman, and her consort profane in their eyes.

Pressure, that right this moment was likely riding toward the castle. If the gossip was correct, the Crown Prince was even less a friend to foreigners and strangeness than his father, and that combined with the hatred she was certain his Leugeilean wife felt toward her, created too much volatility. Suppose they convinced the populace that she was a threat? True, she had a decent escort, but backed against the might of Nharati at its heart, with a large contingent returning with the Prince, they could overwhelm her. Stupidly, of course, for Nyrthlond would retaliate .. but fear was never rational.

Time to leave .. past time to leave.

She clapped her fist to her chest and extended it to the King in salute, her men following her lead. "May you and yours be well until we meet again, King Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen!" Her voice rang out clearly above ambiant noise, her eyes locking on the King for a long moment. The particular Nyrthlond phrasing translated oddly, amusing Ulrika with the thought that it was only until they met once more. Synaria, so alone, drew her gaze, and she met the Princess's bright blue eyes. A crack. Lips curved in an understanding smile as her head dipped in a nod toward the young woman.

And then the moment was gone, the Nharati King commanding the portcullis raised, and the Nyrthlond King swiveling on her horse, giving the orders for her men to fall out. A clatter of hooves and armour filled the courtyard, and before long, Ulrika's party was on the road again, the King riding proudly at the center.