Interlude - Leonis

The Academy was a vertiginous maze of hallways, galleries, balconies, and stairways. There were entire sections that saw little foot traffic, wings whose rooms stood empty and abandoned by the centuries. Leonis had found himself drawn to these disparate floors, these forgotten corners, and had made it a habit to walk them during the long evenings before Scorio’s return, when Lianshi would lose herself in her journals or disappear into the library, and he found himself alone.

Now, overwhelmed by the rush of events, needing some time alone, he returned to his favorite haunt. A small storage chamber high on the fourth floor, long abandoned and ignored. Slipping inside, he smiled ruefully at his own faded footsteps in the dust, and followed them to the sole window which let in the light of Second Bronze.

Errant exploration brings its own rewards. One was discovering that this window could be removed entirely from its ancient casement, and that with the aid of a chair, he could climb out onto a ledge that ran the breadth of the western dome’s base.

It took some effort to squeeze his frame through the window, but then he was out, on the broad stone ledge, all of Bastion laid out before him, the sun-wire so close he felt he could reach up and twang it like the string of an oud. Crimson salamanders startled and scattered, and he chuckled apologetically.

They’d never grown used to his interloping on their domain.

Arms outstretched, he walked the length of the ledge to the far corner, and there sat at last, one leg dangling on either side, to lean back against one of the stubby buttresses and gaze out over the city.

Only here did he feel truly alone, and in that solitude capable of drawing forth his problems and examining them with his full consideration.

A flock of birds flew below him, their forms reduced to crimson flecks by the brassy light. The air was still, heavy, humid; the ragged walls of steam had yet to truly coalesce and burn off beneath the sun-wire, but without a breeze to stir the muggy air, Leonis felt his robes already beginning to stick to his skin.

Interlacing his fingers behind his head, he stared out at nothing, allowing Bastion to blur into a jumble of curving geometric shapes, and drew forth a memory to study.

One that never failed to make his heart pound, his breath to catch.

His mother.

She’d taken up only a few minutes of his Emberling trial. Tall, elegant, stoic, she’d stared down at the sands of the arena with cold calculation.

And he up at her, taking solace in her strength, waiting for some indication as to what he should do.

Her gaze had slid down to consider him, her bearing, her regal posture never changing. “Uphold our family’s honor,” she’d said at last, when his uncle’s challenge was made clear. “You are young, but your father led his first army when he was only two years older than you. Do what must be done, Leonis. You are the Golden King now. Never forget it.”

How the words had thrilled him, terrified him, overwhelmed him all at once.

And then his mother had gazed back down at the spectacle taking place on the sands below, utterly confident in his response.

Leonis frowned, shifted his weight, then brought his hands down to his lap. Studied them in the ruddy light. The Golden King. She’d said that title with such reverence. But in his trial, he’d a sense of his former self: the boy before that moment of truth. A child filled with joy, brimming with good humor and affection for all. Memories of the castle kitchen, the hunting dogs, the simple tricks he would play on everyone who caught his eye, how he relished nothing so much as riding with his father and then watching him feast later that night on the prey they had killed.

The Golden King.

He’d put aside that good humor, his teasing, jovial nature, and gone down to the arena sands. Done what his mother commanded.

And now? What would she say if she were here, in Bastion?

Extending his hand, he summoned Nezzar from the depths of his soul, and the great hexagonal club manifested in his palm. He raised it, a storm of emotions roiling his heart. Such terrible deeds had been done with this weapon. But also acts of liberation, of justice. It was a verdict, an indictment, a promise, and a threat.

The Golden King. Wielder of Nezzar.

Was that who he was?

Or was he Scorio’s lackey, his willing accomplice, the lieutenant to the other Great Soul’s generalship?

What would his mother say, if she could see him now? Would she approve of the love he gave the other man, the unwavering support?

Or would she frown as she’d done as she’d stared down at the sands, and demanded he do better?

Live up to his heritage, be the figure of legend who’d been worthy of having his soul tied to the Archspire, to cease with his light raillery, his foolish jests, and become the leader that his kingdom had so desperately needed?

Leonis the Grim.

With a sigh, he allowed Nezzar to dissipate, and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun-wire on his face. Who was he? Whom did he wish to be? How had he fallen so deeply into Scorio’s journey, and how badly was he neglecting his own?

If in the Gauntlet the choice came down to his own advancement or that of his friend, which should he choose?

Would he be remembered after this life as Leonis the Golden King in truth, or simply as one of Scorio’s loyal friends?

The moment stretched out, and no easy answers presented themselves. He couldn’t deny his affection and fierce loyalty to his friend. But nor could he forget his mother’s stern voice, nor how he’d leaped to obey her, to be worthy of his heritage, his ancestors, his great weapon, and the throne.

Perhaps he’d not have to choose. Perhaps fate would be kind, and he could assist Scorio with an honest and open heart, and have no cause for regrets.

Rising to his feet, he frowned at the curved expanse of Bastion. Fate was never so kind.

Turning back to the open window, he shook his head dolefully. He could only pray that if that moment came, he’d make a decision that he could live with for the rest of his life.