NationStates Jolt Archive

*static blares over every television in the nation, and a few in the Hegemony as well*

A dark-haired, young faced man with big ears and visible tears in his eyes faces the screen. He swallows and begins to speak.
"We've just recieved confirmed word from the chancellery that our King, Matthew the XI, lost his life sometime during the night.
Circumstances are unclear at present, but the presence of the Great Wizard and his apprentice at the location the King's body was discovered at, suggest that there was some oddity involved.
Details emerging also indicate that Celeste Deborah Poitevous, 60, head of the House Warwick public relations studio, was also found dead at the scene."
He stiffens and a tinny humming is heard, his ear piece..
"More information has been gained, both our sovereign and Ms Poitevous have apparently been magically reduced in age, what bearing this has on their deaths is unknown, but it's confirmed that the circumstances were not suspicious and that there is no cause for alarm.
We'll bring you more details as they emerge..."

Matthew Vassily Warwick rubbed at an aching back and closed the door to his hotel room behind him. The negotiations were going very poorly, indeed it seemed they’d stalled totally.
This is not how he’d wanted it to be, the puking Klatchians scrambling for excuses, his own government selling arms to fascists who’d slaughtered his ally’s civilians, simply because the alternatives were worse.

This wasn’t what he’d expected from his life. A junior member of House Warwick he’d expected a long, vigorous existence in the army, perhaps an eventual promotion to commander of a regiment. Things hadn’t worked out that way. He’d lost all those friends of his youth, the people he’d grown up with, become a man with, to the heads of the various families.
The Dukes weren’t bad men, but they weren’t the almost kin that a shared adolescence creates. He was old, well; he was older than his father had been when Matthew had been when he reached his present position. He’d never expected to be what he was. He’d always believed that some day Celeste would understand how much she meant to him and he’d get married, settle down and generally live as a man should.
Then he'd turned twenty and the King’s designated heir had died, the King died himself shortly afterward.
And the Great Wizard had sought Matthew out and told him he would be King.
King. Ha. King of a nation that had been another world’s superpower and now was a drop in the global ocean, King of a nation that desperately wanted to make things better, but didn’t command the respect or the power to do so. The King who’d done everything he could for his nation, to be a middle aged man with a happy populace, but a hollow feeling in his heart that he hadn’t done anything someone else couldn’t have done.
Matthew flopped down on his hotel bed and reached into a pocket, pulling out a small wallet. He flipped it open and looked at the picture it contained. An attractive young woman glowed in a smile at the camera, dark hair framing her face and humour lighting her eyes. Matthew smiled back, as he had done every time he’d looked at the photo over the last four decades.
An old man he might be now, but he’d never broken his oath, sworn to himself, that he’d keep her safe. She’d been his guiding light, his purpose, for all these years. Britmattian militarism was an old tradition, but he’d forced his nation to be the best it could be, so she’d be safe.
Not a bad goal really.. he thought.
Matthew Vassily Warwick, also known as Matthew The Eleventh, King of Britmattia, pulled off his jacket and threw it in the vague direction of his cases, then lay on his back.
“I’ll only rest a little while. Just a little.” He said quietly to the empty room, closing his eyes and lying back.

/somewhere else /

A man, who a long time ago had been known as Olórin, looked down on the seething hordes below the ramparts and sighed. He plucked at a snowy beard and considered what could be done. The portal that the hordes assaulted was one of very few capable of allowing large numbers of powerful demons into the material plane. Fortunately it only opened irregularly, this irregularity was on a millennial scale, and so it was an infrequent problem.
Unfortunately, on those occasions it could only be defended by a mortal King armed a sword that had never married but had loved. Who also had to be totally committed to the idea of defending it. This combination got increasingly rarer as millennia passed, and the forces of Light had entered what could only be described as a state of denial about the portal. Basically, they were going to leave it alone and see if Destiny had any bright ideas...
Except for Olórin, who had, noticing which world the portal led to, decided to press the mortals he could always rely on into the breach. Which meant he had places to be. Olórin waved a gnarled hand vaguely, and a blue hole appeared in the sulphuric air, which he stepped through.

/somewhere else /

Matthew was awake nearly instantly, he’d never been a heavy sleeper, and as he aged had gotten progressively lighter. He sat up on the bed and traced the noise that had woken him to an old man gently filling his glass from the whisky decanter on the sideboard.
The old, snowy-bearded man was unquestionably a wizard, but of what ilk? The only wizards concerned with Britmattians, and vice versa, were the Great Wizards, which, as Matthew didn’t recognise him, this old man was not. He cleared his throat and the old man turned around. Snowy white eyebrows framed a craggy face; intelligent eyes regarded the King sadly.
“So you’re the King of my earliest pupils these days. A Warwick are you, with that colouring?”
Matthew nodded dumbly, frantically reassessing; there was only one person who’d refer to the Britmattians like this, in addition to making him feel like a schoolboy, “Olórin!” he gasped out.
The old man smiled gently. “Yes, that was my name among you. I’ve come to ask a boon of you, Matthew King.”
Matthew babbled acquiescence, but Olórin shook his head.
“No. You must know what you face, and why you face it before you can agree. I shall show you.” The old wizard gestured and the hotel room’s mirror clouded, then cleared, displaying a vast horde of goblinoids, imps, balrogs and creatures with no earthly name. Visible at the back were vast demons gesturing and shouting orders.
Olórin gestured at the mirror again and the image vanished. “That, good king, is what you face. You would have to defeat that horde by yourself, weapon to weapon, to prevent their invasion and laying waste to your world.”
Matthew gaped “Surely, surely there are younger men? Greater warriors?”
Olórin shook a white head. “Not with your unique qualifications Matthew, and age is no barrier there. Besides, sons of your house have ever been my most trusted warriors.”
Matthew’s spine stiffened. “Then yes. Of course. It would be an honour. When?”
Again Olórin shook his head. “Good King, you must have a purpose to strengthen your heart when facing these fell beasts, mere pride and wrath are no substitute for a reason to stand.”
Matthew smiled sadly and looked at the small photo he’d held in his sleep. “I’ve always had my purpose Olórin. This will just be one more act in her name. I am ready.”
Olórin nodded. “Very well. We shall arm you when we reach there, take my hand and our journey shall be over in a few moments.”
“I’m going to die aren’t I Olórin?”
“I’m afraid it’s almost guaranteed my son.”
“That’s alright. I’d done all I could here…” A last look of faint regret crossed the King’s face, but was replaced with the iron determination that had always marked him.
He reached out and took Olórin’s hand and the two men vanished.

/somewhere else /

Celeste Deborah Poitevous sat up in bed. It was early morning in Britmattia, really early morning, and she’d looked forward to a couple of hours more sleep before rising and beginning work, but she’d been woken by a vivid dream.
She rubbed her face and got out of bed, the dream echoing in her head, an armoured man bellowing a battle cry and striking at creatures out of nightmare. His battle cry had been something significant. What had it been? The dream had felt like it had last for hours, the man had stood and fought for what seemed like an age, his blade flashing even in the weak sun of the place, till the last creature had fallen in a bloody heap at his feet. There’d been massive rents torn in his armour by then, and he’d dropped to his knees and looked in her direction. He’d been yelling her name, that’s what’d been important!
Celeste recognised the voice too. It had soothed her for years, seen her through several boyfriends, dispensed wisdom and offered comfort, and had then vanished.
Matt... She clutched her chest, it felt like it was bursting, and the pain surged, and then seemed to vanish.
She hadn’t noticed it was still so dark, and strangely it was getting darker, how odd. A familiar voice only she could hear spoke and she smiled warmly…

Presently her driver knocked on her front door and received no answer. He frowned at the oddness, and prodded the door speaker button “Ma-am? Ma-am it’s Teller, you’ve got work this morning ma-am, please wake up.” Still no answer.
Teller Deveraux frowned and produced some small tools from his sleeve, he liked Ms Poitevous, she’d always been good to him and it had been her who’d set him up with his wife, who’d been her secretary, so he was damned if he was going to leave this oddness unchecked. He carefully picked the door lock and stepped inside.
He padded carefully through the house, checking room by room. He arrived at the master bedroom and stiffened in shock.
A much younger version of his employer was lying on the bed, carefully held in the arms of a dark haired young man in an old fashioned House Warwick cadet’s uniform, who was literally soaked in blood. Teller blinked. He recognised the young man from high-school history lessons. That was the King. He took a few steps into the room and checked the pulses of both the bed’s occupants. Both were dead. And smiling peacefully.
They looked like lovers who’d reunited after long years apart. Teller had served in the army, been in some rough places. None of them had ever freaked him out as much as the sheer waves of, of, of peace emanating from this room.
Teller backed out of the room and reached for his cell and carefully dialled 848, the Britmattian security code.
“Hello? I think I need to speak to someone senior, I’ve just found, well, I think you should take a look.”