#guthwulf

This was not how it was supposed to be.

He was to stand tall beside his dear friend, his closest friend, hacking down enemies and revelling in the beauty of the fight, a hunt of its own, warring to live another day. And to keep the man he loved on the Dragonbone Chair, his crown resting with ease atop his dark head. To see him sitting unbent on the throne made of the bones of a great dragon.

These were not words he'd dare say out loud, but it seemed as if the darkness knew, haunting and taunting him, showing him images he could only dream of.

And images he never would.

It was the latter that made him weep so terribly.

"Now you understand," a man's voice cut through the wall of sadness that choked him, crossing the gap as if he himself were a part of it. Gaunt hands were on either side of Guthwulf's face, and soon Elias was before him, black locks loose and spilling to his sides. He looked every bit the king he was meant to be, but a sad yet sinister smile was twisting his lips, his dark eyes seemingly blacker than polished jet. He kneeled, leaning in so close that their noses were nearly touching. "Now you understand what is at stake if I lose. If we lose."

"It isn't right, Elias," he groaned. "That sword is—"

"Enough." The word sliced like a knife, but his hands were gentle when he swept away Guthwulf's tears. "I have the sword because I alone have the power to do what must be done. I will have Miriamele back, I will keep my crown, and I will keep the Hayholt, and the very world itself will bend to me."

His words were soft, even if they were painful, cruel.

"And I will rule with an iron fist, with or without you."

Guthwulf couldn't stop his lips from trembling. What did that thrice-damned red rat Pryrates do to him? How could Elias let it get this bad?

Where was his friend when he needed him the most? He moves and speaks as if afflicted with a terrible case of madness, as if he turned against the Lord Usires. Against God the Almighty.

Against, even, his own sense of self.

It was a pitiful, sad sight.

"Though I would prefer if it were with you." Elias sheathed his sword—Jingizu, he called it—in a soft rush of metal in scabbard, and waved a hand as if to dispel the miasma of darkness. "I wanted to make you understand, Guthwulf. Do you?"

No, he thought, and I will never understand you again, my friend. My dearest friend.

"Yes," he instead replied, loyalty pouring from his mouth in fervent waves. He could feel his soul calling out to those damnable swords even still, begging to be whole. Though Guthwulf wished to rise from the stone floor, he was at the mercy of Elias's hands, and his eyes besides. They pulled him in deeper, murky seas of green—shining with moonlight, shadowed with unchecked darkness.

He half looked like the younger man he was once, less distrustful and without Pryrates whispering lies in his ear.

How he missed his bright-eyed king...

Guthwulf continued kneeling, solid as a statue.

"In due time, you truly will, my friend, you will." His fingers graced Guthwulf's shoulders like long spider legs. "But now, I need your loyalty. I need you. I have a task for you. Sharpen your sword. You will have need of it."

"What do you say, Ned? Just you and me, two vagabond knights on the kingsroad, our swords at our sides and the gods know what in front of us, and maybe a farmer's daughter or a tavern wench to warm our beds tonight." "Would that we could," Ned said, "but we have duties now, my liege … to the realm, to our children, I to my lady wife and you to your queen. We are not the boys we were." (Eddard II, A Game of Thrones)