Wrymlung the Decayed

Oath

Sunlight breaks through the branches of the trees that hang over the high stone wall between the bricked path that Wrymlung walks and the gardens of the keep, obscuring his form. He looks to his left as he saunters along, looking through the trellis along the low wall into the vegetable garden of the kitchen that feeds the Mediti family, his eyes trailing over the lush, green garden, his eyes locking onto the broad leaves of an overgrown cabbage well past harvesting. The veiny leaves are thick and hardy around the central bulb, drawing the eye into the middle, and Wrymlung stops, his sight catching on a spot of rot. In the otherwise abundant and healthy leaves, upon the lips of the bulb, a dark spot of black rot stains the cabbage and seeps out like poison spreading through veins. Birds chirp and twitter overhead as he stares at it, his eyes peering into the gouges of the soft flesh of the unfortunate vegetable as the sun beats down upon it and a gentle breeze rustles its leaves.

Wrymlung shakes himself and blinks rapidly, clearing his mind as he sucks in a breath before looking down the path to the iron-wrought gate set between high walls topped with elegant iron spikes that curve into spear points. Approaching the gate, his eyes trace the iron oak leaves that are shaped in such a way as to hint at movement, making it appear as though the leaves are fluttering down gently. The gate emits its harrowing wail of iron rubbing iron as he opens it and slips inside, closing himself in as he steps between two raised planters of carved, tan stone that are lush with plant life that he cannot name, yet they are familiar for the number of times he’s walked this path. As he walks, his feet crush old foliage and scrape against stone, giving him well away even just meters from his target who humors him, working all the while during his approach.

Heart pounding, Wrymlung approaches the woman who pulls up unwanted grass from around the stocks of blue flowers that hang down in the somber shape of a hood with hands gloved in tawny hide. In these last few moments of serenity, he studies her. Some of her jet-black hair has escaped the braided bun that sits high on her head to spring out messily and what she could not contain in the braid hangs past the sides of her face with a strand sticking to her temple in the sweat beads on her forehead from working in the sun for so long. Soft lips purse in concentration as she pulls a particularly tough clump out, her muscles bulging under her skin turned pink from the heat as she strains and then gasps with elation when the clump of grass root tears free from the rich soil. Tossing the clump aside triumphantly, she carefully takes off her gloves, sets them to the side, and unrolls one sleeve to wipe away the sweat.

“Venena,” Wrymlung calls out to her softly as a way of greeting.

She turns to him with a broad smile, her eyes bright, “Wrymmy! What brings you here?”

“I’m being sworn in today…” The words die on his lips as he looks at Venena, looking as she always does when she works in her garden which only makes him ache.

“Yes, I know,” Venena nods and stands from where she was perched, meeting him face to face, “congratulations.” Her smile is gentle yet apologetic, “I’m sorry I won’t be there. I’ve just been away so long that I wanted to get everything back to being just the way I like. Grandmother won’t afford me any servants for my garden after all…”

Wrymlung shakes his head, a fond grin quirking his lips despite himself, “There’s no need to apologize, my dear. I know your garden is like your child and there’s no reason why you should be parted from it any longer than you have to. The ceremony shall still go on without issue, if somewhat less elegant due to the lack of your presence.”

Venena shakes her head as she chuckles softly, “You and your soft words, Wrymmy. It’s no wonder that grandmother likes you so.”

“You flatter me,” Wrymlung ducks his head, hiding the way his lip tremors.

Venena takes his hand in hers, squeezing it, “There’s no need to be nervous. You’re going to be an excellent knight, and you will serve my family well…” He looks at her as her eyes go soft, “As you always have.”

His facade breaks all at once, like a building crumbling down to its very foundation and there’s no hiding the sharp pain in his heart from her that’s reflected clearly in her dark eyes as her smile falters then fades.

“Wrymlung?” her voice is a hush and barely above the breeze.

His lips twitch as he tries to form words, eyes wet with unshed tears then he bites down on his lower lip, the pain clearing some of his senses.

“I must ask for your patience,” Wrymlung starts, forcing himself to meet her eyes, for she deserves nothing less, “As I become an honored knight of your family, the Mediti family…” He sucks in a breath and lets it out shakily, “I will be taking on new responsibilities with my rise in station and… and I cannot…”

Venena starts shaking her head and her eyes grow wet with tears, “No. No, you cannot say this…”

“I must,” he whispers and prays she will hear him, “I do not wish to make things difficult for you, to make you choose between love and family.”

“So you’ve decided to choose for me?!” Venena tightens her hold on his hand, tears beginning to stream down her flushed cheeks.

Wrymlung hesitates, standing upon the precipice, “I…” He sighs, “I can’t be what you want me to be anymore. Someone of my birth, of my station, can only hope to better their life with these sorts of means.”

Venena draws his hand in so the back of it presses against the exposed skin of her chest that peaks out of her blouse, just below her collar bones, just over her heart, “You could marry me!”

“With what means?” Wrymlung gasps, his hand trembling in hers even as he pulls it from her, “And do not suggest we elope, I know how you care for your family and I will not be the one to take you from them. As an honored knight to the Mediti family, I will be sworn to protect you still but it is unconscionable for a knight to be with their lady in more than oath. Thus, we must part.”

Venena sobs and shudders, staring at him as words fail her.

“I’m sorry,” he curls his hand until his knuckles go white, “Goodbye… my lady.”

With that, he turns around and marches from Venena’s garden, drawing in as much air as he can to calm the burning shame in his chest. Pushing through the gate roughly, he stumbles into two guards who bear the Mediti crest of two intertwining, ivory snakes. Looking between the two of them, he sees how they have their hands casually placed on the pommels of their swords as they study him, looking for something.

One guard, a stoic warrior of dwarven kind, glares up at him as their hand tightens around the hilt of their sword with Wrymlung feeling suddenly naked without his own. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling around empty air in anticipation as his heart beats hard against his rib cage. The guard’s mouth opens, sharp words at the ready, but then a knight in glinting, golden armor struts towards them: Ser Regalia of the Treasury.

Wrymlung feels suddenly inadequate in the presence of such a legend as well as under the radiance of their smile that -despite the current situation- makes the growing void within him dissipate somewhat. They appear a sun unto themself, their golden armor seeming to glow in the soft sunlight of the evening, the light bouncing off of their dark skin to give them a kind of warmth that only adds to their welcoming aura. More gold still dusts their eyelids, accentuating their smoky brown eyes which are locked directly onto Wrymlung, making him shift under the sheer weight of their gaze.

“There you are!” Ser Regalia steps past the guards without a word or motion as the guards parted for them, clapping a hand onto Wrymlung’s shoulder, “I have come to escort you to her ladyship. It’s time.”

“We have orders-” the other guard begins but cuts themself off as Ser Regalia waves them off.

“Come, Ser Wrymlung,” Ser Regalia moves to his side and begins to guide him with an arm about his shoulders, “Let us depart.”

Wrymlung almost glanced back at the stunned guards, only for Ser Regalia to pointedly keep him facing forward.

“You mustn’t provide openings for others to advance,” is all that Ser Regalia says to explain their actions.

The two of them wind through the halls of the keep but Wrymlung barely registers the familiar paths he’s tread so many times now for the drumming of his heart and the dark thoughts swirling in his mind, the visage of the two guards seared in his mind’s eye. Before he realizes it, they are both in the main hall where Lady Giovanetta Meditti and several well-dressed colleagues of hers have gathered to bear witness.

Swallowing down the sharp feeling in his chest, Wrymlung stands straight and marches to his lady to kneel at her feet. In a smooth, practiced motion, Lady Mediti unsheathes the ceremonial sword proffered to her by a servant that shines brightly from its meticulous upkeep, and though it may be purely for occasions such as this, it is clear that the edge is honed and wickedly sharp. She holds it out before her, the tip of the blade pointed at Wrymlung’s heart, and he takes hold of it lightly, his gauntlet clacking against the sword.

“I do swear upon my name and honor, in the eyes of all the gods above, and before the guardians of this land, to serve the Mediti family faithfully, my lady,” Wrymlung keeps his eyes downcast and lets out a shuddering breath as the blade slips delicately from his grasp.

Lady Mediti first taps the flat of the blade upon his left shoulder and then his right, declaring, “By my authority as the head of the noble Mediti family, I name you as an honored night, Ser Wrymlung… the Star.”