#prukweek

‘Giselle the inexorable,’ Arthur knelt as he addressed her, there was mistaking who she was. ‘My lady.’

Giselle the inexorable. Giselle, goddess of war and death. Gods rarely appeared before mortals, and who knew what one as powerful and feared as Giselle might want from him. The legends say that she was once a princess, held hostage in her enemies’ court. They slaughtered her family anyway, and she fell into grief and rage. In her grief, her hair turned white, but in her rage, she annihilated the occupants of their palace. Not a single soul was spared from the massacre, and when it was over, she ended her life upon her own blade. The gods, impressed by this feat, took pity on her suffering and raised her into their ranks, so that she could unleash her grievances upon mankind forevermore. But legends were just legends, and Arthur could see no way that the goddess before him had ever been mortal.

‘You recognise me, good.’ Her voice was cold and clear, indifferent, with just a hint of approval that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. ‘Rise, brave one. From now on, you will be my champion.’

Champion. That word filled Arthur with pride, re-enervated him from the weariness of battle. He felt a change in his bones and knew that he’d been decreed to enact the will of the goddess. He wanted to say he accepted, to pledge his life to her, but by the time Arthur found his way back onto his feet she had already vanished.

In his next battles, he felt the presence of the goddess, expectant, urging him to fight harder, to push himself to the limit. Even in times of peace, he could see her beautiful, impassive face in his mind’s eye. Her statues don’t do her any justice, and they are hidden in derelict temples or in shadowy corners of pantheons, for while war and death are respected and feared by all, they are loved by none. Arthur visited them anyway, cleaning her altars and leaving her offerings regardless of war or peace, he was her chosen champion after all.

She appeared again after his greatest victory; the conquest of a neighbouring land. As his King’s most decorated knight, this newest acquisition would be his to rule.

‘Lady Giselle,’ he knelt as he saw her.

The goddess of war and death was just as breathtakingly, blood-chillingly beautiful as she had been the first time Arthur had seen her, but this time she seemed less frightening.

‘Well done, my champion.’ She told him, with the ghost of a smile upon her lips. ‘You may rise. Thank you for maintaining my shrines, it has been appreciated. You will continue to fight with my blessing.’

He wished that she would say more, so that he could remain longer in her sacred presence, to tell her he’d pledged his life to her, but once again Giselle was gone before he could speak a word.

Arthur ordered a great temple to be built in her honour as soon as his rule was stabilised, and personally oversaw that it was properly maintained. He continued to fight wars for the High King and felt her presence as he fought. Her blessing, as she had said. He longed to see her again, the almost-smile she’d given him haunted his dreams. In between battles he spent much of his time at her temple. He was the most devoted of her worshippers, and his devotion was not unrewarded. With every battle her presence felt stronger and sometimes he felt her guide his aim or whisper praise or warning across his mind. But hope as he might, pray as he might, she would not appear in person. Be patient, she seemed to tell him whenever he entered her temple, and Arthur held onto his hope that he would see her again, for that sounded almost like a promise. As long as he served her, she would not abandon him.

The last time, she appeared as he lay mortally wounded on a battlefield. Pain numbing all other sensations, his vision already fading, Arthur felt the shift in the air that heralded her physical presence, rather than seeing her.

‘Giselle...’ he managed to rasp out, he couldn’t move, couldn’t make any display of his respect and devotion towards her.

A cold hand caressed his cheek, and Arthur felt himself being supported upwards. The pain subsided, his vision cleared, and he looked up to face the goddess.

‘My bravest champion,’ she said to him with a pleased smile, her hand still cupped around his face. ‘It is time for you to join me forever in death.’

The legends tell of a new god; Arthur the harbinger, consort of Giselle the inexorable. The god of courage in battle and a judge of honour. They say, that when a strange, handsome man with golden hair and green eyes appears, a terrifyingly beautiful woman with white hair and red eyes will soon follow, then war and death will find the land and all those judged unworthy shall perish.

England quirks a bushy brow at him, not answering the question.

‘Why do you hate Austria so much?’ He asks instead.

Prussia is surprised, and he thinks for a moment.

‘I don’t really,’ he replies honestly. ‘Not anymore at least, but it’s fun to act like I do. It’s just a tradition I guess.’

‘And there you have your answer,’ England tells him with a satisfied smile.

Prussia laughs again; a short, amused bark of laughter.

‘It’s a tradition for you to hate France, who could have guessed’ he grins aggravatingly, causing England to roll his eyes at him. ‘You know what else is a tradition?’

‘Us joining the others at the hotel bar and making a nuisance for them?’ England says nonchalantly before flashing a devious smirk at Prussia. They both snicker. At the last few drinking sessions that always inadvertently happened after the world meetings, they had caused no small amount of trouble. The instigation of at least sixteen drunken arguments, several unadvisable bets, almost starting a second Cold War, and one too many incidences of bar peanuts being thrown down the backs of shirt collars, could all be attributed to this pair.

‘I wonder if West will try to ban me from coming to another meeting after tonight,’ Prussia ponders with some amusement. ‘Mind you, I’ve lost count of the times he’s tried that, but I just never listen.’

‘Maybe you should break this habit of not listening to your brother,’ England replies, just as amused. ‘He’s actually right sometimes, you know. How shocking for a younger sibling.’

‘Says you,’ Prussia mock grumbles. ‘Do you ever listen to any of your brothers?’

‘No,’ England admits. ‘But none of them are anywhere near as competent as yours.’

‘Well, it’s tradition for me not to listen to West,’ Prussia argues for the sake of arguing.

England looks disbelievingly at him, though he is quite used to this type of argument from Prussia by now.

‘You can’t just blame everything on tradition,’ He remarks with dry exasperation.