Away to Arusalem, part II

Damsel

Chapter 15

Cymen was now put up against horses faster than his own, and fighters smarter than he had ever before encountered. They did not hide up in trees, flicking down arrows. They came at him up front, with slice-blades blasting back the sunlight. The animals helped them in a way that his own animal, Chance never could. He hadn’t the words to put between them.

The desert air rushed and stung Cymen’s cheeks with sand. It stung the lower lids of his eyes, made him wince. After days of this, he found himself dressed as they in order to fight as well as they—he was being forced to learn so fast…

But that dragon. Fanven the Red, said to be the first spawn of the Devil Queen’s brood, the first wretched soul that she mourned for and kissed out of twisted compassion, placed armor on him against Hell’s flames… this monster was exactly where he was not supposed to be, on the surface of the earth, throwing his claw and commanding armies. Being the war machine that laughed at all of Gafe’s war machines.

And then Gafe was another thing… somehow, the enemy learned what that stood for and they yelled “What a grand and frivolous effort you are!” at the soldiers wearing white. It was the one thing in their language that they knew.

For the first time in a long time that Cymen could remember, he cursed King Micco.

Damascus was the one who finally saw their opening, “Cymen, it’s as I’ve been saying all along. That monster needs to eat, and we took a lot out of him since my last miracle of transubsisting cast him far away from White Wall… you must see it too, by now!”

They were calling out to each other, in a new desert wind coming on. Sun directly high up, midday. The large red dragon looked like a mountain’s shadow, redded on all sides by sunlight pushing over its edges from beyond, beyond.

“Yes, he is slowing…”

“Since we gave the men lances, you know, fixed those to their backs… Fanven can’t swallow anyone. Do you know… he must have been eating his own men to have gotten this far…?”

“Oh, by Heaven, yes! I do see your meaning… the tribes, they’re fending him off.”

“It’s finally happened. Their coalition folds, Cymen! Shall we go now?”

Cymen was already charging ahead though. He blew a horn and the others got their horses, left their camp-things behind, and rode out with him. Damascus couldn’t go as quickly. He actually bit some soldier in order to remind them to pick him up.

They funneled through a twin set of dunes, then, unexpectedly, came into a canyon before meeting the enemy’s camps and roaring Fanven himself.

“Amazing thing to behold—the contract with the blood-dragon being broken before our eyes.”

“Fanven’s being slain?” Cymen reigned in at the sight of it. Men throwing spears, hooks, chains, anything at the beast all at once. Mangled corpses were near the red dragon’s spread feet and tail coiling up again and again in annoyance. His wings would flare open and take away the sun, then crack closed again. Other dragons were attracted by the dead bodies, and they would sneak in at intervals during the day, to try and carry off anyone Fanven missed. There were so many attracted to the war-site by now, they were as fast and frenzied as swarming fish. Many and slippery on purpose. Nobody could fend them all off.

“…Cymen, you shouldn’t be disappointed.”

“My master’s sword is mentioned in prophecy as a dragon-killing sword. And then there was the junebug—scarab, and the seventy day of west-wind… how can they be killing it, not without my master’s sword?”

Damascus was distracted though. “Ack, they’ll never do it that way… nobody’s got anything sharp enough. Or, tall—high enough? What’s the word… long enough. At the least, they’ll need a projectile.”

“I’ll throw my sword! Damascus, that’s it—get the men, work a miracle to get me in close enough… close enough to end this, but not have them kill me before that—”

“Are you a nut? Oh, yes you are… I’m going to throw you in there, but you’ll not come back.”

“This is war, you dumb, pointless half-animal, half-ass!”

“And you are being vain, vain, vain right now. You can’t kill a dragon that way… our best chance…. Cymen, you know what our best chance is.”

More Fringe-men from the camp began to notice how they were intruded upon and began to blow their own horns.

“We only have a few more private moments to ourselves… and there are only a few things a private moment is good for… come on now, what else won’t take so much time and can do so much good. Turn me on!”

Cymen now also cussed at Damascus, harder than he remembered doing in a long time.

“I’d ask anybody else but you, however, I know what it’s been like out here and all those men caught all kinds of fun itchy things among the dancing-tents and hookah places we’ve been through from slide-eyed women… you’re the only one who’s stayed sober, so do it now!”

Damascus spread all four legs, in a way that a horse couldn’t, nor even a dog—he did this like a person in an animal suit, who might do as they liked on hands and feet not knowing how ridiculous it should have looked. But, it was that audacious spiraling golden horn, the beam of sun that gleamed across it in the direction Cymen knew Damascus wanted to go. And now, for the first time since the battle had started, they were all finally close enough to try. The dragons darting high up around Fanven’s head, the size of mosquitoes by comparison, saw Damascus walk off alone and began to sift aside.

“You know that I never miss either, so don’t you miss me now, when this is so easy. I need juice! Cymen, kiss me. Now!”

And so the virgin knight kissed the unicorn, he shot a pretty reddish rainbow from his horn, that arced over white sky, various sunstreaks, sweating heads of laboring men slashing away at dragon foot, meaty dragon tail, scaley anything they could try to murder dead, but their master was large and vicious and would never forget any of their treachery, he threatened, until this bow of colors entered his mouth, blasted back out both nostrils, filled up his great eyes with swirling colors, and then threw back his long neck. A tether, tied off where else, but on some snag up in Heaven itself.

Next, came the Great Grand galloping over the flat, brilliant road of it. He could not fly, but he could race, and he bucked-kicked the final length of the way, horn pointed exactly, to pierce Fanven through the beating vein that could be seen pumping a frenzied heartbeat beneath the skin of his throat.

When Fanven died, dragons of all colors scattered.  It looked as if the sky had burst.

Honestly, after what became the last real battle—a few pitch bouts came up as the Fringe-men and the White Wall soldiers departed from Fanven’s death-site and found their own camps again. they could not go further without rest, though Arusalem was within sight.  Damascus paced up and down the sands, and his partner Cymen the Ruecross often called, waving him in from the day-singe, the night-chill, and imbetween--as if not enough--a sandstorm.

"Here, eat soup."

"I shall not!  What sort is it?"

Cymen watched Damascus eat for a while, then snorted laughter.  "It's dragon."

"Oh, you hell-child.  I'm eating spawn of the Devil-Queen herself?  Do you know how offensive that is to one of the Father's creations, in fact, the very first of the sacred beasts? You are mad, Cymen Ruecross.  I'd rend you through right now, if you weren't such a good kisser."

It made Cymen snap his mouth shut.

"Which reminds me, we ought to plan our wedding soon, before the others around here get any ideas.  My friend, you fought valorously.  Before long, everything with a hole for fucking should be throwing itself at you.  Aren't you pleased?"

The knight in shining armor crouched over folded knees, expecting to get sick into a cupped hand.  "Sometimes, I seriously doubt that the Holy Father made you."

"The Divine loves his creations, plants and animals and all the things that they do.  In night or light.  I'm not ashamed, especially not when I was blessed to have taken vows before King Micco, and I'm the last of my kind and have free reign, anyways."

"I believe Arusalem will surrender."

The Unicorn got to so much fur-raised upheaval that they were now balanced in tone.  "Cymen Ruecross, how dare you suggest that the holiest city this side of the world would go for anything less than a fight?  And, we need to have complete ownership of it, to have come this far."

"I'm the general of this army, and I have been, in fact, waiting for a message of surrender for two days now.  There are signs, already, that it will come."

"If the people are starving or thirsty because we're blocking the trade routes, then all the more reason to motivate the other regiments to ride into those walls, right over them."

"This war was started by someone we know, at home.  They were not the aggressors.  And, the red dragon who decided to take advantage of the confusion is now slain.  There is room to negotiate."

"You?  A haggling merchant?  I doubt you even realize how many digits you've got on your body, Cymen Ruecross."

"Arusalem is a holy place.  And I know the history of my Order, the city has suffered enough.  There are sacred texts inside, generations of priests who contain mysteries in their minds and hearts, relics.  I spent forever hunting one grail for Micco.  The present world is at a terrible loss for all those other things people have forgotten.   I won't go scattering objects to the four directions, only for His Royal Highness, the King Over Kings himself, to send me fetching them again.  If we can avoid destroying what's left of humanity, in that city, then we should."

"I see that your personal joy would be increased by this move, too.  We'd all get home a lot faster to a certain..."

"Yes, the rescue of souls from the brink pleases me immensely."

Damascus pouted.

By mid-morning of the third day, a messenger arrived.  He came shouting the intentions of the Fringe's greatest city, only he was of them, and they did not call it something so vague and demeaning:

"The United Kingdoms of the Crescent, the Prophet's own Caliphate--blessings be upon him--wishes to speak of music to this very Harmonic Golden Order!"

Damascus bitched that there was no arguing with a poet.  The soldiers of Gafe even hesitated.  Cymen gave the call.  "Let him into my tent.  We shall speak."

"Good.  We can always say that he pulled a dagger on you, where no one else can see..." 

Cymen greeted the man again, speaking over Damascus.  "This is the Archbishop of, of the Harmonic and Golden Order.  I am its General, Cymen Ruecross."

They sat inside the faded blue tent.  The messenger bowed on hands and knees, but kept an ornate scroll gripped close against his stomach.  His slender jaw, tanned skin and adventurous, windswept look almost outplayed the hollow in his cheeks.

"It is said, far and wide across the Caliphate, that your kingdom is ruled by an angel."

Both Damascus and Cymen waited for that to be questioned, in turn.  It was not.

"Prince Poas, our wise and honored leader, was pleased to hear of it, and recorded it into law." Now the scroll was opened.

"Into law?  How can you pass King Micco into law?"

"A law that our wonderful Prince Poas believes people will, in honor of the Prophet--blessings be upon his name--come to follow and agree... that the existence of an angel on this earth and a submission to that kingdom cannot be denied."

He went on making deals, which Damascus pawed a hoof at.  A picture was being drawn, of a wise and perfect Prince descended of the Prophet's own wisdom, and many records also suggested a blood-tie.  This was a passionate, fighting person whose father had united all the kingdoms in the Caliphate and so, from Arusalem, they were held with a metal-bound grip.  Peace had to be, understandably, enforced, and Prince Poas was well-versed in the codes.  He was also well-versed in the laws of the Weird Beyond and could be that awaited bridge between both kingdoms.

"What is that, the Weird Beyond?" asked our friend in golden armor.

The messenger startled.  "Well, it's what we call you.  Forgive me, but I assumed people of the Weird Beyond would be more aware of themselves.  There is such an over-focus on the Christ and the saints in everything that you do--"

Cymen clamped a fist over Damascus' white leg, but the Unicorn got it out of his mouth, if not by kicking.  "How can one over-focus on the Saints?  They make miracles.  Miracles power the whole world!  And the first miracle worker was such a fine example."

"Angels are the best ones to work miracles, directly.  Mortals should never be thought of as more than divinely inspired.  The Archangel Michael is your king, is he not?  Let a real angel be an object of adulation, and the Father in heaven--his name be blessed--as the one receiving praise."

"Angels?  They do so make mistakes.  One of the worst was ever rescinding their support of mankind in its hour of need during the fall of Ommotlayan..." Damascus sputtered, "I've spoken to a lot of the more arrogant, back-washed ones!"

Cymen turned the conversation.  He'd clutched a hand over his breast when anything at all should have been said in defense of his land, and appeared lost in thought. 

The messenger saw his moment and concluded serenely, "Of course, I cannot offer a real surrender.  Only my Master, the great Prince Poas can do so.  He would come out to you, but his subjects are fearful for their lives and would be crushed to see him leave."

"Well, we aren't going to him." Damascus snapped.

Cymen raised up a knee and leaned on it.  He looked the foreigner in his eyes.

"General Ruecross, is there any more that I can say or do, to convince you?  You seem troubled, somehow."

"Yes, I am." a breath, a needy pause Cymen could not mask, "Would your people, or your Caliphate... I'm not sure whom to refer here--your Prince, or your Prophet?  Erm, his name be praised."

"Blessed." a more meaningful smile that drew out all the wrinkles in that aging face, "But these are each very different.  What do you ask?  I can guide you."

Damascus rolled his bulbous brown eyes.

"I want to know which of them know the difference between an angel or a... a lesser divine if they met one?  And, if they found such a creature wanting, according to your religion, what might be done?  What could be prevented? I mean that... well, you all know by now, that we have been... only called a Grand and frivolous effort. No man decided on it, let's say..."

"A mortal cannot hope to tell about angels, outright.  It would take time--"

"What would your great Prince Poas say?" Damascus teased.

"Ah, I believe... with conviction, I know, that the Prince would wait first and judge the creature by his actions.  He would be compelled to do so, first, by his faith which demands no praise be given, except to the Father--blessings upon his name.  Second, Poas would need to have the foresight of many generations to come, hundreds of years beyond that, before pledging an entire kingdom to some false idol." 

"And if the great being was found out, somehow, to be false after a time?"

"Then it would be put out of the city and destroyed immediately, by holy law."

Now, it was only too obvious, to Damascus, what Cymen's weakness was.  Or, did he have a strategy?  Sometimes, the brawny red-head honestly did cry, for feeling, and it was horrifying either way.

"...General Ruecross, my Prince would not offer you an alliance if your name was any less known, or word of your virtue had not found some way to cross enemy lines.  You are a good man.  We have complete faith in you.  Please allow Prince Poas and the noble kingdom of Arusalem to help.  While intact."

Cymen leaned across and slapped wrists with the messenger, while Damascus laughed at them.

"It's flattery the same as if they'd rolled a buxom, oiled woman out of a carpet to please you, old friend.  But I'm tired of talking nonsense.  Fine then, fall for it.  In fact, I'll make this event useful, and go bet gold."

After the unicorn left, "This has got nothing to do with me being a virgin, you know.  I am, indeed, impressed with your message.  In fact, I'm curious--"

"Please make ready and come to the city as soon as you can.  I will deliver the good news."

Cymen then realized how far his friends had gone these last hundred years in prodding about his romantic life.  To the rest of the world, it was still considered very personal business.  The messenger gently apologized that he had not been speaking of Cymen's physically virtuous element, and then maintained this forced smile until the scouts laughed and said the man and his horse were well over the second set of sand dunes.

"Good job at negotiating, General Cymen.  Apparently, they needed an arrangement as badly as you do."

When Cymen and his army entered the city, the place was worked up into a hungry fervor.  They rang bells and beat drums.  Palm branches were tossed into the streets. 

Damascus observed, "They are afraid of you."

"I'm sorry to hurt you so by way of confirming, but yes, many living creatures are afraid of you, Damascus."

"Oh, shut up."

"Well, I'll invite you to do the opposite.  Make whatever comments you like.  This is still war, and I've not forgotten it."

The buildings on either side of the main causeway were not as old as the crouching towers and the wilting marketplaces that could be seen everywhere else.  This was a city that had been changed many times, and sometimes that transformation had been forged, without consent.  People of the Crescent, People of the Star, People of the Bonfire pushed and raised hands together.  And, there were some of their own hanging on since the first Crusade, People of the Cross, too.  At intervals, guards would weave in from behind the crowd and sequester a brave individual shouting against the flow of voices.  They were in plain clothes, but both Damascus and Cymen had seen such expert practices a lifetime before.  Right around the time of Vischte and his rapture.  In the Weird Beyond.

"You know, I really would call it that too, considering Vischte used to be in charge of us.  Not to mention that bastard kept me in a cage."

"Oh, but look how far you've come.  These days, Micco keeps you in a collar..."

They let their voices fade when palace or temple was directly upon them.  The structure was massive.  White stone and tall braziers going even in the desert day.  Priests in robes bowed one by one and lifted hands in praise.  Everyone welcomed Cymen Ruecross.

At last, unshod cleft-hooves and golden greaves walked the final steps along a carpet of rose-petals to stand at the center of an impressive complex geometric shape neither of them could follow to the end of and soon felt embarrassed and boyish--or coltish, at having tried to inspite of everything.  Their eyes eventually met with pink marble walls and a bejeweled dome.  A small alcove inlaid with a mosaic of richly clad men sitting at a table with no faces.  The rest was all stone flora, the sound of raging ceremonial horns, and a slender young man coming at them with oily-silk cape lashing violently about in a wind.  Prince Poas' gray eyes were drawn around with black.  His skin was fair and stark in contrast.  There was no blemish anywhere on him nor in his dress, and Damascus found himself nuzzling into an offered hand, because it was uncharacteristically soft. 

And then, the dashing, impressive youth smiled up at Cymen.  It was everything. 

"What's this thing beneath our feet?" Cymen stamped, and turned a circle as if it were a carpentry project.  "I like it."  So rude and out of tandem.  Prince Poas checked with his advisors, but they feared to do anything else but smile.

"You are joking?"

Cymen blushed with shame at growing silence.  Damascus endured the moment, when everyone met his human friend and began to realize he wasn't very clever out of battle.  Somehow, Prince Poas had got it out of Cymen a lot sooner than most. 

"It's you, my dear.  This is a Ruecross."

Then, Cymen did a loud 'oh, of course, wow, why didn't I see that' while Damascus attempted to introduce himself using more syllables.

Prince Poas leaned down to pet Damascus again before the end of his speech, to loud throat-clearing from the advisors.  "Oh, you've fine fur." Poas whispered, to no one.

Poas looked Cymen over too, toe-to-head, before passing between his guests to address the crowd.

"Believers in the Prophet--his name be blessed, always--I do something remarkable today, by the law, and pleasing in the eyes of the Father--bless his name."

Damascus complained under his breath, "There's a lot of blessing going on.  Is it some code?  Also, this Prince is very thin.  And, young.  And, good-looking.  How could that messenger have ever described someone so spoiled by nature as wise?"

"Shh..."

"General Cymen Ruecross of the Harmonic Golden Order," Prince Poas beckoned, but Cymen was already there with him, smiling.  Poas almost turned directly into Cymen, eliciting a gasp from the audience.  "I... I mean to give you my sword.  Not cut you with it." Then, Poas swept back a foot in a very slow, practiced bow that also worked to afford them distance.  Cymen nodded and showed the Prince's sword to his men.  They shouted victory.  Cymen, when he could be heard, thanked Arusalem, for peace.

Everyone was given a place to rest while visiting inside the castle.  Damascus took turns between worrying about assassins and complaining that Fringe men were far too sleek and good-looking to be trusted with anything besides assassination.

Cymen resented such commentary.  He was of an opposite instinct.  Cymen now paced at the center of what felt less like a common room and more like a kind of livery.  All the apartments of his soldiers branched off of this open air courtyard off the East Wing of the palace and it went up for a second story.  "What remarkable passion Poas has!  It's as if he's swathed the very energy about his form, wears it.  I've met many a run-down monarch in my travels but this just moves my heart.  With the Prince of Arusalem walks hope itself, and didn't he seem as eager as I was, to mend things?  I feared I would need to hold back, but Poas drew it out of me, he matched it.  We should not have been divided so soon.  There are so many more things I need to ask him."

"Like the specific terms of his country's surrender?"

"Oh?  Yes, that.  And also, the fine architecture, and the use of this palace... or is it a temple?  And their Prophet--bless his name.  We haven't anything like it, in Gafe."

"Yes we do, we've got a base angel farting it up, is all.  Cymen, nor is it necessary for you to keep babbling that.  It's their custom, their religion, not yours.  Will you stop fretting on about your latest lofty crush?  Weren't you the one who brought up the talk not long ago, about angels in disguise?  Or, wearing angel disguises.  This is all too easy, and young Poas too smooth.  Nor should anyone ever like you this much, Cymen Ruecross.  Poas is hiding something, somewhere, and we must sort it out.  Quickly."

"...'Blessings upon him.'  Yes, it's a custom, that's exactly why I should say it."

"But you're a big and base, blaring, red-headed, virginal holy knight from the Grand And Frivolous Effort, and when those words leave your mouth you look like even more of an idiot.  Would you like to fart up this end of the war effort too?"

Cymen went back to pacing.  Smiling, and pacing.

"Some hearts fall so in love with anything that even looks like righteousness, in any form.  Ugh."

"Did you also notice, that he called me 'my dear?'  Is that another custom from the desert?  Oh, I was such a fool, then, for missing my chance to say it back, Damascus!"

The Unicorn had a real chance to prevent confusion over it, but he was making an effort not to bite Cymen at that moment, and so he let the foolishness stand.  A vizier came with a servant, expressed surprise at seeing Cymen still in his traveling clothes, and when nothing came of it, forced wider smile and offered to escort them to see the Prince.

Later, "I must confess, Prince Poas, I am impressed with you in every aspect," Cymen bowed, "My dear."

Prince Poas had hardly finished shaking hands with Cymen.  Their fingers squeezed at either wrist and the young man again looked sheepishly backward, to an advisor.

More freaked out, baffled expressions.

Poas slowly nodded, gave a private thank you between them, and then invited Cymen and Damascus to sit.

Tea was served.

"Forgive me, how old are you?  I've never seen someone so young and so adored for his conviction, by so very many throngs of people.  And you said you had not been ruling, for long?"

"General Ruecross, I was ready to ask you something similar.  However, I hoped we might speak of strategy first.  My messenger told me of a certain angel-king... is your tea alright?"

"It's hot."

"Oh, Cymen, then just sip it!" Damascus hissed and lashed his tail.  The holy animal threw another foreleg up over an arm rest.

Poas laughed with surprise and sounded really boyish as it came from high up in his throat, and an Advisor gave a warning look.  The Prince blew on his tea to pass the moment instead.  "Now then, it sounds as if there might be a matter of a false Divine--"

"I've never had it from a glass before.  How is it possible to drink the tea and not burn my hand?"

"Don't you mean your fingers?  No one takes tea, by the whole hand!" went Damascus again.

Poas' eyes were wet by now.  He squeezed them shut.  "My dear, you hold it up here, where the tea is not.  The glass, there, is cooler.  Then, breathe, and sip."

Cymen tried it.  "Remarkable!"

"Haha! Alright, I give in.  I'm sixteen--Seventeen."

"By the Lord!" Damascus exclaimed.  "Oh, that's making up for some disaster in politics if I've ever seen it--"

"Damascus, don't be so rude."

The royal vizier apologized, on Poas' behalf.  "We advisors are here to guide, of course.  There was a civil war finishing, just before Fanven awakened.  This is the King's last surviving son."

"So then, the forces inspired by the citizenry attacked the royal family?  How can you assure us of stability at this moment?  Are we even safe in this castle?"

"We were hoping you would appreciate the opportunity to become even more involved in our power structure and help stabilize that." a bow.

Damascus harrumphed, "Well, truthfully, we would.  It's a perfect situation for us to assert ourselves.  So very convenient, though... I'm afraid that I'll cramp my ass-muscle, watching it all come so neatly together."

Poas said, "But we also know that you cannot stay indefinitely." he inspired hushing, but spoke louder, "I would only entrust a delicate independence to someone like General Cymen Ruecross."

"Is that to do with the design on the floor?"

Poas looked lost again, and consulted Damascus.  Cymen seized attention back.  "I'm not as eloquent out of my element, but what I ask does make sense, Poas.  Is there some kind of expectation from that symbol, perhaps a prophecy?  If so, then I warn you, I am only a man.  I know how to use my sword to whatever end is necessary, and Damascus is very good at the rest.  You can expect that we will resolve things to our satisfaction, not according to implications in Scripture."

"There is a telling, involving a Ruecross.  The people have latched onto it.  I'm not so foolish as to think of you as some messiah."

Finally, Cymen heated.

"You will also find that their appreciation of your efforts and the stability of this city will depend upon your soldiers resolving things in a way that pleases our custom, no matter your inclinations.  Arusalem has been burned down, before.  The third or fourth time, I was forced to watch it.  More tea?"

Cymen knew enough not to berate the young man anymore, for he was still powerful, and Damascus did not like the advisors' constant prying into things.  The Archbishop quietly showed his friend how to solicit a private session, and Cymen wasn't so clumsy at it as Damascus might have hoped.  Sadly, no opportunity arose to ever bite his dear friend, even for punishment's sake.  Damn! 

Well, lives did depend on having at least this one successful exchange.

"We two should relate alone, as men.  Let's not talk about politics at all.  I want to know more about you, My Dear."

Cymen had asked to see Poas' favorite part of the castle, soon after Damascus started another classic Unicorn-style of obnoxious, braying, impossible argument with the royal advisors.  They may have been masters of elocution, but Damascus was sole master over a singular, thousands of years' old pent-up rage that only a certain forgotten treasure among the divine Father's best creations could ever manage, especially after the Rapture. 

So then, Cymen Ruecross and Prince Poas now lingered on the balcony of a night garden, many rooms apart from the echoing noise.  White flowers bloomed in the distance.  A flowing fountain was set at the center of it, and silver pebbles gemmed the moonlight all around.

Yes, Prince Poas was incredibly pale!  Cymen felt his age, and envied the unscarred, near-perfect complexion.  And then his other features, except for thick eyebrows over naturally deep-set darkened eyelids were all light. 

"I'm liable to beat you, boy!" Cymen blurt out.  "Women must wear their tongues and burn your ears, talking about you.  I've never had such luck.  Well, until recently.  And... few people living would call her luck."

Poas tripped on the stairs.  Cymen braced to steady him, but the young man grasped stone railing, ensuring that he was fine.

"Um.  What do you mean by all that, General?"

"You sound troubled to hear it, which is a better question.  And, you'd be smart to call me Cymen from here on out."

"I don't know... I'm not used to men calling me, 'My Dear' and implying that I'm well... it's not very comfortable."

"But you keep calling me, 'My Dear.'  Don't all men call one another such things?"

Another frightened stare.  "Excuse me.  Me and my doe eyes..." Poas walked to the other side of the fountain.  "The Weird Beyond does have such strange customs.  I didn't realize that I'd inspire that in you.  It was a slip, of mine.  But, not affectionate.  Just... sometimes--though my Advisors have warned against it, people please me.  I know right away that I will be honored to know them."

Cymen smacked his forehead.  "Oh, and it goes so very well with commentary to your messenger, about my virtue."

Poas laughed again.

"You'll do much better when your voice changes.  I don't meant to insult, it's just that everything else is in such good place, with you.  Some things are clearly late, but there's plenty to admire, even now.  And then you'll marry, and everything else.  I've been in the saddle or fighting for my entire life, and Damascus has only ever been someone's servant.  We've hardly lives to offer women.  So then... I suppose I mean to admit that, this palace, its temple, all your obvious potential... it's practically talking into my ear.  But not against you.  I'm jealous."

Poas turned his back and wandered.  He had an odd way of walking, or remembering to put on airs and walk in a more aggressive, manly way.  "Let's get back to embarrassing you.  Why did you see fit to discuss your virtue with a royal messenger?"

"It was an accident.  I'm always making the mistake of telling people that I am, yes, a one-hundred and something year old virgin."

Poas was on the brink of returning to the light of torches, but on hearing that, spun around on a heel and went back to sift more polished gravel.  "Maybe, it's not so strange... You serve an angel, and lots of men do that, they must."

"Do they?  Not as many as there are women.  I don't think so.  You're being kind to me.  You know how it gets incredibly hard.   And, difficult too.  Hah!"

More wild laughter from Poas.  Now it sounded like out and out giggling.

Cymen sat down at the fountain.  "Are you finally as embarrassed as I am right now?  I'm already making jokes to save face, but you seem to understand. We must be comrades in arms."

Poas was now laughing so hard that he was red-faced.  "Oh, by everything great and holy... yes, I think so."

"But you have an excuse, you're much younger than I am."

"It's nothing to be ashamed about, I'm not.  I'm pleased to wait for marriage.  I don't want some... well, some people can be lewd, and go grabbing, and be gross.  Especially in prisons."

"Is that where they got you from?  How you escaped being assassinated too?"

No more laughter.  "Long ago, there was a dispute.  They dealt with my mother, and must have forgotten about me too, until now."

"And you chose to serve?"

"Yes, it is service.  How wise of you, Cymen.  More than a few of the men in this palace thought I'd be happy to put on something pretty and play house for a while."

Cymen scratched his head.  "Armor can be pretty... I suppose.  Alright, so don't ever use that word.  Not another time.  If you weren't meant to be King, I wouldn't say anything at all.  But, I can see that you have a slightly feminine nature--no offense--and you're trying to correct it, which is good."

Poas was stunned.

"You can be charming though, Poas, I wouldn't change that.  Don't change that, ever.  People of all sorts respond to charisma."

"No, sir, I wouldn't dare.  Instead, do you suppose I should be honest about--"

"No more giggling, either.  It's what your kind of laugh lends itself to, a fretful, damsel's laugh.  You must use an authoritative voice.  And, if you've got something good to say, speak over those damned advisors in there.  You did it once this evening, I had assumed you didn't have it in you and it gave me the shock of my life."

Poas apologized, and began to wash his face rapidly with the water.

Cymen touched Poas's arm, gripped it a moment. "And um... no crying.  At least not in front of your enemies.  A sealed tent is good, or a bedroll when you're alone.  Or, with a good, lifelong unicorn friend who understands you are a compassionate, spiritual person."

They both waited until emotion had finished running its course.

"My father was an evil person, Cymen.  I am so grateful to be saved from all of that.  But, now, I have yet another battle.  I must undo all of his wrong."

"If the people of Arusalem so hated the King's sons, how did the people ever come to accept you?"

"That is more something I expected your friend, the holy-beast, to ask."

"Why?  It isn't... I resent that he calls it some lack of intelligence.  I just use my brains for other things.  Harder things."

"It's innocence.  You... I have it too.  When you are the youngest, the smallest, the least... threatening.  Like the charisma you spoke about.  I cannot say how, but I have witnessed, firsthand, that people also respond to innocence."

Cymen laughed at himself.  "Ho, no.  You've got that wrong.  That must be what makes me damsel-wine and dragon-feed." 

"No, it's very nice on you.  You aren't a furnace, for your size.  More like, a hearth." Poas smiled.  Pearl-teeth courted moonlight.  "I am relieved to find that I might go on in my work and not lose that.  So then, I can be kind-hearted and a brute, if need be.  This is very good news. Ha, I shall cry--to the Unicorn friend I'm doomed to find--far, far less."

They sat together but were not facing one another.  "Before all of that though, Poas, you must first depend on your faith."

"Well, I have before, but even for this?  Even when it comes to courtly tactics and lies, and human messes to clean up... Is that what you do?"

"Always."

"How nice it must be then, to be you."

Cymen gripped the other man's shoulder.  It was slim beneath armor and built up cape and garments.  "I was going to say something dramatic, but boy!  Believe you me, you have got to put some weight on you!  Shall I show you some positions you can try, with a sword?"

"Oh!  Oh, no thank you.  Perhaps, later."

"I suppose that's best.  One should exercise in loose clothing, or else with less on to really demonstrate the correct form of muscles.  Then, you can strip, I can get a good look at you and find out what's going wrong.  At seventeen, unless your warlord father was magically a waif, you should be much bigger."

"No!  I mean, clothes on.  And now, why not now, in the darkness?  If you must.  It... can't come up later."

Cymen assented, drew his sword and exhibited one position after the next.  "You really do have an odd build.  Not a broad, deep chest, or anything.  Did they get you healthy enough, before taking you from the dungeon?"

"My chest is just fine, thank you very much!" Poas shocked and crossed arms.  "Now, you do your thing and we'll see if I care to follow you, after being so insulting.  Sir."

"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you about being womanish.  You want men, brute men like me or perhaps worse to respect you."

"Oh, don't worry, my dear Cymen.  They will."

Damascus watched the remainder of the exchange from the stone porch.  He flicked longish pig's tail and made a wise decision about their budding friendship:  only Cymen Ruecross could manage such a thing in dire circumstances.  Frightening, what Scripture and a fallen angel half-assing it could do together to forge a hero.  Oddly enough, it also lended a great deal more possibility to humanity.

"I fear for the day when he ever takes it out of his pants for good.  We'll have lost one of our best." No, these were not tears!  It was just... just... no, that part must have been a dream.

And so, Eve, that is how your little war went, and why this lap is so very warm.  Nice of you to drop by.  Now, we tuck ourselves in, keep warm the sniffling nose.  A stroke down my back, a pat of my head as he awakens, to keep watch.  Good night, my dear.  Sweetest dreams.