Meet at boiler room,
Sven
Sven
Scribbled in thick handwriting with violently corrected rectangles, hiding initial mistakes and hastily rewritten; one could almost feel the annoyance oozing out of the note (if you could call it that). He slipped it under the King's door exactly fifteen minutes ago and was currently waiting in the underlined location. There was much he needed to talk to him about. Or rather, warn him about. Talking over people came as second nature, as did lecturing and giving stern-eyed premonitions for the future should anyone step out of line or presume too much. This was different. He'd known Artorias longer than he'd care to admit. Not longer than Leomaris, but he'd been there during the revolution and took part in the lengthy war with his stiflingly loyal companion, siding with the boy King even though he himself did not care for all of the politics. If he, too, believed that the boy-King could make some kind of difference, then there might have been some truth to it. Gwendolyn's father was no fool.
Things had only taken a turn when Gwendolyn lost her arm saving Artorias' life. An automaton gone haywire, and what had that girl gone and done? Jammed her ineffectual fist into its chest and effectively burnt it to a crisp. The pain must have been unimaginable, and for that, Sven could not forgive him, even if it had been her choice. It was a childish grudge to bear, but in Leomaris' place, he often bore things that made no sense. He had no children. She was not his to worry about, but when she'd returned—missing an arm, with a strained grin and a ready tale on her lips—his heart tightened, forming a fatherly fist that built walls around them. His familiar demeanor changed whenever he was around; crisp, frigid and certainly without any explanation. Unfortunately, trying to keep Gwendolyn from doing anything you told her was impossible, so piling on tasks and jobs usually kept her busy. He'd voiced his concerns to Leo once, but his response was only laughter and a knowing look, stating: you would have made a good father.
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did fathers allow their children to face all of these dangers? Crawling through ruins and evil jungles. Facing drooling monsters and only barely coming out alive. Running from militant automatons, raiders and false-kings while searching for something intangible. He was not her father. Strangely enough, Sven imagined that Leo would have allowed his daughter to do all these things because it would have made her a better person. A stronger woman capable of taking on the world. He would have said that she could do these things simply because she could. Worrying would only grant him more gray hairs, after all. It was stupid. Still, the Lieutenant crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the copper pipes that entangled like great serpents, occasionally hissing and trilling with running water.
His forearms wheezed and creaked, finally puffing jets of steam out of the vents. He had to uncross his arms and shake them out in front of him to prevent the metal from overheating and burning his chest. They'd been slightly tweaked by Gwendolyn and Mordecai both (rather, the curious automaton was used as a model) so that they'd behave a lot better under duress. Prosthetic fusion was dangerous, especially in their early stages. There was no guarantee how long the tweaks would last, but for now, they would do. Few understood the pains of missing limbs. He wished Gwendolyn did not. He sighed softly, staring at the doorway that into the chamber. Would he even come to speak with him? Some part of him wondered why he would bother or if he expected what was to come. Would he ignore the message completely, or remember fighting alongside him? He hadn't even been sure if he had returned to his chamber. Either way, appearing or not, would be a deciding factor.
Twenty minutes.
The lettering of the note, with it's harsh lines and violent letters, felt more like a death notice than simple directions. Had it been written by an unknown party, Artorias would've never have risked venturing into the boiler room entirely unarmed. Yet it was Sven's name printed on the note, so telling of the man's character that it caused Artorias to huff unsurprisingly. To him, it was no choice at all. He folded the letter neatly and slipped it into his jacket pocket, turning on his heel and following the path that led him to the destined meeting place within the ship's bowels. Artorias was not a man who ignored such beckons, nor was he the coward to pretend he never saw such a letter.
They were soldiers. Both of them, Artorias and Sven, and even though the former had ascended to the throne, he'd never forgotten that. Sven had been one of the many who had participated within the revolution, whose sweat of brow installed Artorias upon the throne. There was a respect there, so deeply ingrained that he overlooked Sven's obvious dislike of him. What it was rooted in Artorias did not know, but he held the feeling that he was about to find his answer in the boiler room. Taking the one last turn that lead him to the door into the boiler room, there was no hesitation in his hands as he reached for the handle.
As the door opened, Sven's unmistakable silhouette hung high against the dim light of the room. Artorias strode into the room with his back straight and his face even lined, shutting the door behind him. He strode forward and stopped in front of the man, crossing his own arms and spoke expectantly.
"Sven?"
The longer he waited, the stranger he felt standing there, awaiting something he'd rehearsed in his mind. Pictured clearly, concisely. The reasons, at the time, appeared necessary. Now, they just appeared foolish. Like a parent stamping his foot and saying that things must be as they are because it is so. True enough—Artorias and he had more in common than he'd care to admit; both soldiers, both men born with sweat on their brows, and both somewhat weary of what they'd had to carry. Born from nothing and even still, managing to close his hands around the throne and lead it far better than those before him was certainly a feat he could not ignore. He respected the boy-king and he'd once considered him a friend, that much was true.
What were they now? Sven did not know. Not enemies, not friends, not acquaintances. All soldiers in the midst of war got to know each other with an intensity similar to family. Blood brothers, battle companions. There were many words for it, but they all meant the same thing. Admittedly, in Artorias, there was little to hate. It was difficult to dislike him based on such a childish stance, but even more difficult to let go. He needed to protect those he considered in his charge. If anyone posed any threat to them, then he had to make it clear that he would do anything in his power to dispose of them before they could betray them. He did not think Artorias capable. However, precautions overrode trust. His family could attest to that.
He heard the door creak open, and instinctively tightened his arms across his chest. Pulling inwards, steeling himself for polite conversation. A small sound rumbled from his throat: pleased. So, he'd come, after all. That much had not changed. He watched as the silhouette ducked into the boiler room, without hesitation and with little more than a passing glance before he stationed himself in front of him—good. With a meaty hand, Sven patted the pipes beside him, indicating that he should relax and face the doorway. No need to face off as if one might throw a fist. He was calm, calmer than he'd felt when first laying eyes on him in that accursed jungle.
“Is just for conversation,” he greeted, nodding his head. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, piecing his words together, “Vhat your, uh, kasten?” He tapped his head, then added, “Goal. Be finding you in jungle. Vith armor, and no memory. Now, two kings. One not real, and you, far away from throne. Vhat will you do?” Meaning, what would he do down the road. Obviously, the talking statues meant to include him in their little adventure. He had a pillar after all. Would he abandon them to reclaim his throne, or expect them to stray from their mission? This strayed away from his original point, but he wanted to know either way.
Satisfied that the death letter was anything but, a certain amount of tension released itself from his shoulders, like letting a spring gently expand instead of allowing it to fire off into the distance. Artorias did as Sven asked, finally breaking eye contact to linger with his back against the pipes, though never actually leaning against them. Grease, dust, and oil often found their home in places such as that, and the King did not wish to dirty the jacket he'd spent so much time cleaning and straightening. Still, he tried to appear somewhat relaxed. He crossed his own arms and adopted a not so staunch stance, though it would be unfair to call it lazy. Nothing about the man was lazy.
He let his head tilt toward the man as he spoke, sifting through the heavily accented words and deciphering their meaning. Artorias nodded along with the familiar question, as it had been one he'd asked himself not too long ago. It seemed that fate had plans for him, and desired him to venture along this quest of those, though for reason he could not fathom himself. "Ultimately, I would see the throne placed back into my hands," He answered, though there was an unspoken but in the pause after the sentence. "It is not so simple as that, however," he said, a sigh hiding behind his words.
There was the fact that, to the common people, he was still in control of the throne. If he attempted to retake it by force, it would throw the kingdom in turmoil, far worse than the rebellion had been. Two kings, identical in appearance and reign, would tear the kingdom he worked to hard to place on the right path apart. This was something he could not simply force to happen, no matter the strength of will he possessed. Artorias ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair, and then set about straightening it again with that same hand. "I can't wrest control from my own hands, and if I tried, I'd throw the kingdom in confusion in the attempt. It needs strong leadership, even if it's only an illusion."
It was a frustrating thought, he had no real recourse. He wouldn't throw the kingdom into another war just by resurfacing. Even if he were willing, it would be nothing like the rebellion, this time he'd be by himself. Myrddin was in the imposter's hands, Morgause had grown reclusive, and Leomaris was no longer with them. He was alone this time, and the thought ran a shivering finger down his spine. He'd always had them to rely on, and now they were out of his reach. "Fate seems deadset that I accompany you all on this venture, and there are no other options left to me that wouldn't result in bloodshed,"
Artorias shook his head as he spoke, clearly unhappy with the choices left to him. "So that's what I will do. I will see this quest to completion and hope that our goals do align in the end," Artorias answered, though he was quick to throw a glance at Sven, "Unless this imposter proves to be a poor monarch. In which case I will take the throne back by force. I watched a king abuse his power once. I will not see it happen again." Once those words escaped his lips, the strength he used to project them seemed to withdraw, and was replaced by an edge of exhaustion.
The look lingered on his face, and his shoulders sagged around his neck."I wonder what Leo would've thought about all of this?" He wondered aloud. They shared many things, but not least of all Leomaris's friendship.
Glad to see that Artorias complied with his gruff suggestion, Sven's own shoulders and arms seemed to settle against his chest bereft of its initial tension. No longer did he stand as if an enemy were to kick through the doors at any moment. Stubbornness was only as strong as the emotions you fed it and it was only a matter of time that it would fade away. Devoid of fuel or logical reasons, his dislike was foolish. With every conversation, and every flicker of a memory, Sven found his own slipping away like a veil being unceremoniously tugged off his head. It was difficult to stomach letting it go, and admitting he was wrong. He'd become a stubborn old dog over the years. It wasn't something he was proud of.
He, too, watched the boy-king from the corner of his eye, sitting slightly askew. Fate—he'd never thought that he'd ever utter those words aloud, let alone believe that fate existed. Life seemed as if it were composed of spontaneous flashes. Never the same, and with a little more direction than a broken compass. It was what you made of it, he supposed. If you looked at it in a certain light, you might have been able to see glints of fate. The kind reserved for good men and women, stretched along a tapestry of true, honest roads. Artorias' answers were, in a way, unsurprising. He'd forgotten that he wasn't here by choice; that he'd woken up in some strange jungle, like a bedraggled islander trapped on an island of steel. Fate. Or unusual coincidences. “A second rebellion?” Sven mused softly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Fighting vith, uh, lookalike for kingdom. Sounding like bad book to me.” Dry humor was the only flavor he was capable of. That much hadn't changed.
Optimism had long since vacated his presence, but for whatever reason, he'd believed that Artorias could simply waltz back into the kingdom and slay the doppelganger where he stood. Sit back on his throne and resume his reign. The train of thought conflicted so strongly with his normally steady, sound reasoning that he couldn't help but shake his head, crinkling his eyebrows. Perhaps, he wanted Artorias back on the throne. Where he belonged—partially, because he was a good leader and because it would be easier not to doubt his intentions towards Gwendolyn. Even if they might have been nonexistent, they'd been something before. Gratitude for saving his life, or no, his motherly instincts were made out of raised hackles and barred teeth. With the mention of fate, one more, Sven nodded gravely. “King's burden, ah. Never believing vhy you wanting it.”
Choices, restrictions, responsibilities. Burdens, worries, and a legion of people under his care. The weight must have been impossibly heavy, at times. Too heavy to carry alone. His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, and a touch more of his unreasonable animosity flecked off his person like specks of dust. “He would be saying to keep going. Together, like rocks say. And he would have taken Mordecai apart to put him back again,” his laugh was throaty, short-lived but genuine, “Danke, Artorias. I, uh, am difficult man. You know this.” He paused briefly and shifted his position, clearly uncomfortable with any topic where he'd have to apologize, or share any personal thoughts. He demanded answers, but hardly offered any of his own. “For vhat it is worth, I am thinking only you are good for throne. Thinking that then, and still, now.”
"If not me, then who," Artorias answered in agreement. Someone needed to be king, and who better than him? Years of discipline as a soldier and warrior, as a man who once walked among the people. Saw their plight and the corruption that dripped from the so-called nobility. There was nothing noble in resting on the back of the common man, and who better to be king than a common man. Only his shoulders were strong enough to carry that burden.
Artorias finally allowed himself a small smile at the memory of Leomaris, nodding his agreement with Sven, "He would've. And we will." Shrugging, he allowed the smile to fade, though the air of gratitude still lingered on in his tone. "You are," He agreed with Sven's opinion of himself.
"But what we do isn't easy. Never is. We need difficult men to keep us sharp and to tell us when we're flagging."