hairy situation
[WP] In peacetime, the ruler grows their hair long. In war, they cut it short. To declare war, a persons hair is sent to the enemy. The statement carries greater weight the longer the hair; to receive long hair says you have angered one slow to anger, that you have incurred a wrath not easily woken.
*****
Broken faith was evident. Despite promises to the contrary, assurances that they would be left neutral, oaths that the war-braid was not meant for them but for the lands next to theirs, smoke adorned the horizon.
The nobility stared aghast at the corrupted sunrise. What was normally the hopeful orange hues of the rising sun were now sullied - pale sunbeams struggling to pierce the ashen sky. What little illumination they could provide revealed a column of people trudging towards the capital. They looked like ants from this distance but even the fact they were visible told a horrific tale; to be seen from so far there must be hundreds. Tens of hundreds.
A door slammed against the marble wall. Oak groaned and stone cracked as the king stepped inside the hall. Despite the twenty-span ceiling, King Andras' hair brushed against the hanging chandelier as he stormed inside.
King Andras was an old man. His huge physique showed not only his giant heritage but the scars of his younger years. Thick ropes of smooth flesh wrapped his arms and bare chest, marking his youthful indiscretions. His muscled form was nigh buried under the marred skin. This surprised his court, as the king hated to be reminded of his warlike years.
None were old enough to recall those days, and it was forbidden to speak of them. Even as children the king's titles were a taboo. A frightening prospect, like the boogeyman or the specters of the night. Andras the Juggernaut. The Walking Buttress. The Butcher. The Right Hand of Death. Many titles had the king collected during his lifespan, and he had been a young lad at the same time had their great-great-great grandfathers.
Long since had he relinquished those titles and those ways. His dark hair hung in a braid in testament. It spun down his back in a single lock so thick a man's hand could not circle round it, and hung so low he wore it wrapped round his waist as a belt. And he was crying.
The court stiffened as one, tension pulling words from their chests. The ground quaked with every step of their king and his long stride shook tears from his wet cheeks as he strode for the Oaken Throne. The king's father's father had constructed the chair from the wood of seven trees, the oldest and most sacred trees in their neighbouring kingdom upon their defeat at his hand. The same kingdom unto whom Andras' father had returned land taken in that horrific conquest. The selfsame kingdom that now lay waste to their peasantry.
Those in attendance held their breath as one while Andras sat himself in the great throne, his hand resting upon his sword. The blade was the subject of as much rumour as the king himself. The elders of the kingdom could still distantly remember their forefathers telling them of the legendary weapon - as tall as a man and thrice as heavy, capable of cleaving even the most masterfully worked of armour and arms. Andras had plunged it three feet into solid rock the day he had renounced war, and there it had sat for night unto a century. Untouched.
Until today.
"It seems that my warnings have passed unheeded. My pleas for our people go unheard. I am a peaceful man, a mere obstacle to the leaders of today." Andras' voice, normally so strong and rumbling, was raspy from his tears. It slid across the ears of his council as a cloak drawn over gravel.
"They believe that I will not break my oaths. That my word matters more to my than my people. That my pride will keep me from protecting them. They are... mistaken." Not a quiver of doubt or trace of anger could be heard in the king's voice. It was as hard and unyielding as the marble at his feet - marble that squealed in protest as his hand wrapped round the hilt of his blade and pulled, forcing the stone to surrender his blade back to him.
He hefted the hunk of metal with a single hand. It flowed in his grip beautifully, almost elegantly, almost as though filled with joy to meet his grip once again. The court watched with apprehension the reunion of the two old legends even as the blade passed behind the king's back.
Andras flipped the sword back over his shoulder and rested the flat of the blade against his bare shoulders. With his free hand, he reached down to untangle the braid of hair at his gut.
"No oath means more to me than this kingdom. No promise more than my people. No title more than these lands." He growled, the fire of anger seeping into his words. He gripped the now-loose braid and drew it around the tip of his sword and held it back so that it hung precariously over the wicked edge.
"The people of today have forgotten me. They know me as Andras the Kind, The Gentle King, Peacebringer of the Seven Accords. They know me as weak and slow to act." Even hoarse, his voice reverberated through the bodies of all present, given body by his grief and sorrow and pain and fury.
"I will remind them how wrong they are. I declare myself Andras the Warrior once more. I am again the killer, the bloodsoaked monster of the battlefield. I am again the Desolation of Kingdoms. I am again the Defiler of the Seven. I am again the Right Hand of Death,!" Despite the tears freely flowing down his face, the scars on his chest heaving with his sorrow, his voice grew ever stronger. Ever firmer. Ever more furious.
"I am the End of Kings! I am Andras, son of Anlin son of Amaral, and I will protect my people! I will protect my land! I will protect my lands! I see my villages burning in the morning sun, and I will rebuild them atop the bodies of all they send to me." The sword swung up without any struggle, and the thump of Andras' hair against the Oaken Throne was somehow almost as loud as his voice had been. Anger twisted his face to a scowl and he tossed the braid to his chamberlain. The man caught it and struggled to stay upright under half again his own weight even as Andras stood again.
"Send that and this message to our neighbour." He rumbled, gesturing to his chamberlain. "'I am Andras, the Reaper of Men. I am not quick to act or anger. I am not quick to violence. But you have given me the time I needed. I name you not king, but worm. Coward. Killer of women and children. And soon, I shall name you an example."
His voice reached a roaring crescendo as he turned again to address his court, and with every word his gaze grew harder. Colder. Eventually, to look the king in the eye was as soft as staring at the floor.
"My people! Ring the bells of the churches and prepare us a feast. Tonight we eat and pray to the gods of battle! Prepare your bodies to surpass theirs, your minds to outthink theirs, and your souls to take their own. We enter into a war, for the first time in the last century. And we will celebrate its end with the fall of a kingdom"
*****
THE END.
