Serellia (Everlasting Legends, Book 2)

Ch. 22 - Contrived Conversation

Ardaik 17th - Homenil, Serellia

Rowan's vow felt as though it still occupied the space between them, well after it had been made. Artus didn't mind that Rowan hadn't said anything else for some time after that. Instead, he quietly reveled in the gentle crackling of the fire while turning the relic in his fingers beneath the confines of his fur cloak. The only thing that could've improved the moment would be for Flann to have been occupying the empty armchair to the left of Rowan...the three of them together again, safe and all in one place.

The warmth and darkness of the room eventually coaxed Artus into closing his eyes, though only for a moment. He wasn't ready for sleep. There was too much he wanted to tell Rowan...too much he very likely shouldn't say.

Glancing over at the other chair, he noticed Rowan's lids drifting shut as well. Artus couldn't help the short chortal that burst from him, causing Rowan's lulling head to snap to attention. "Hm?"

"Are you comfortable?" Artus wondered, removing his hand from in front of his mouth and allowing the limb to drape over the arm of the chair he occupied.

Rowan cleared his throat. "More than I've been in what feels like a lifetime."

Shifting slightly, Artus sat up a little, tilting his head and peering at something on the floor next to Rowan's chair. He hadn't noticed the strange profile of the heap before. The objects were metallic, reflecting flecks of orange and yellow. "How long has that been there?"

"Oh!" Rowan practically leaped to his feet. "I discarded them there when I removed them," he explained, quickly lifting the pieces of armor to tuck them back into a crumbled sack he retrieved from the floor next to the hearth.

"Where did you get plate-mail?" Artus was already off of his own chair, trying to get a better look, when he spotted the sword as well. His hands were around the hilt before Rowan had any chance of stopping him.

"Be careful with that!" Rowan snapped before flushing fiercely at the stunned look on Artus's face. He cleared his throat, seizing the bastard sword from the prince. "I–uh... It's not a decoration."

Artus's black brows pinched together. "I know that."

"I don't want you hurting yourself."

Artus's frown faded into a neutral stare. "...I suppose I should have asked first," he conceded, "May I see it? I should like a better look at that crest."

"What crest?"

"The family crest? It's just there," Artus pointed. "You didn't notice it?"

Rowan spent a moment studying the design, turning the edge of the sword towards the fire to get a better look at the etching on the flat of the blade near the crossguard. He didn't recognize the emblem, which was no surprise, given how long its owner had likely been deceased. Artus, however, came closer, nearly leaning his chin on Rowan's shoulder.

"It looks familiar."

"Does it?" Rowan raised a brow.

Artus withdrew, returning to his chair to seat himself and cross his legs. "That family no longer holds a title."

Rowan felt his gut becoming as heavy as a lead weight. It was bad enough to carry something handed down from someone else, like some commoner, unable to purchase or have made something for your own use, but to have it also bare the crest of a family stripped of their title was beyond disgraceful. He'd have hurled it all into the fireplace if the memory and scars of what happened the last time he'd tried to rid himself of it were not still so fresh.

"One of my great grandfathers, however many generations ago it was, tasked the kingdom's most highly regarded knights to subdue the greatest threats to the early territory of Lorellia...though I've mostly only read about Sir Auberée de Billeay, since he was said to have slayed a kraken."