Cataclysm Rising | Chapter 65: A Day of Delight (First Draft)

Saturday, August 6, 4 S.E.

“Has he been a handful, Duchess?” Leonidas’ mother asked from behind him, as he was finalizing his outfit. “We did our best to teach him manners, but after everything that’s happened, I can only imagine he’s been as stubborn as his grandfather.”

“Phaw!” Ceruviel responded, waving an elegant hand. “Barely a peep, truthfully. He complains now and then when I hit him, but for the most part, he has been a model student. Very swift on the uptake, when it comes to his training.”

Maryanne and Reginald chuckled behind him, and Leonidas tried to tune them out as his mother launched into some embarrassing story from his youth.

Instead, he focused his attention at himself in the mirror and tried to rationalize who was looking back at him. The man reflected within it barely resembled the one who had returned to Terra so recently and yet so long ago.

Ivory fabric formed the outer layer of his wedding attire, fitted close against his torso and tailored with impossible precision. Its surface was faintly lustrous in the light of the room’s arcane lamps and seemed to absorb and reflect the light when he moved. The dark tunic, embroidered in golden filigree, clung to him comfortably beneath the outer layer, its weave soft and cool against his skin—nothing like the utilitarian underlayers he’d grown accustomed to wearing into battle on Elatra.

Over both of them rested the regalia, as Ceruviel called it.

Golden adornments framed his chest, sculpted to accentuate his form, and etched with elegant filigree that flowed in sweeping arcs rather than jagged lines. Ruby gemstones had been set deliberately into the breastplate and shoulder guards, polished to catch the light with every movement he made.

The pauldrons sat broad across his shoulders, balanced and regal, heavy enough for him to remember them without impeding his ability to move. Engraved patterns curled along their edges, unmistakably martial in origin, inscribed into something more ceremonial.

His arms were encased in matching vambraces, bare from the edge of his palm onward. Gold lines flowed across them in vine-like patterns, and each was set with smaller red stones that mirrored those across his chest. When he flexed his fingers, the plates shifted smoothly, soundlessly, and obediently. It was like the armor itself understood its purpose was peaceful, not warforged.

An ivory cloak draped from his shoulders, secured by gilded clasps bearing two more crimson gems, one apiece. It fell cleanly down his back—untouched by the blood, ash, or dust that he had been embroiled in for so much of his time since he’d first transmigrated.

It was not his usual fare, so different from his actual warplate.

Not armored like an Archon prepared for war and all its brutality.

Instead, he looked like what he had no choice but to become: a King.

Leonidas exhaled slowly, lifting his hands to needlessly test the perfect fit of the vambraces as he met his own blue-eyed stare in the mirror. The armor didn’t feel wrong. That was the unsettling part. It fit him as naturally as his own skin. It looked right for the man staring back at him, and that was what he struggled to resolve.

When did the Texas boy become a Monarch?

He tried to rationalize it in his mind as the familiar feeling of mixed anxiety and imposter syndrome reared its head, and then was firmly quelled by a flex of his Willpower. He’d recovered his physical abilities that morning, and he felt good again. Not as whole as he’d been during [Cataclysm Overdrive], which still had another 78 hours on its cooldown, but definitely better.

His eyes darted to his bare head, and he exhaled in quiet relief.

Only Aylar would be wearing a Crown for the wedding. He’d insisted on it.

Leonidas turned when he was satisfied, and blinked at seeing Ceruviel, Maryanne, Reginald, Bardulf, Parnym, and Jefferies staring at him in silent approval.

“Er, what?” Leonidas asked after a minute. “Is there something wrong?”

His parents cleared their throats and looked away; Bardulf and Parnym gave him a pair of thumbs up; Jefferies wiggled his mustache; and Ceruviel smirked.

“Just over a month, boy, and you’re already stepping into Kingship. I’d be bewildered if it hadn’t been by my own design,” his Mentor said critically, her lavender eyes sweeping the outfit in silent approval. “You look ready.”

Leonidas smiled wryly at that, and his Party members nodded in tacit agreement. All of them wore suits—or dresses, in his mother and his Mentor’s case—for the occasion, made on priority order by the best clothiers in Dawnhaven.

“I knew you were different when we first met, Achilles, but this really hammers it home,” Bardulf said with his usual grin. “How things change!”

Parnym didn’t speak, but only smiled at him in his reserved way.

“I will go and inform the Royal Guard,” Jefferies said dutifully. “They will be expecting you in ten minutes at the most, Young Master—I look forward to the ceremony.”

Leonidas smiled at the Head Butler in response.

“Thanks, Jefferies,” he said, dapping up the mustached Terran as he departed. His gaze turned back to his parents thereafter, and both Reginald and Maryanne stared at him with uncertain eyes. They were still conflicted, he knew, about the nature of his future—especially when it came to the inevitable polygamy—and what it meant, not just for him, but their entire family.

Kairi was firmly in his ‘camp’, so to speak, and was even then with Aylar alongside Synthra and the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Her period of Potentiate had already passed, and today marked the moment she’d settle fully into her new position. It was a marked turning point for both Leonidas and Aylar, even without the wedding.

“Son,” Reginald said finally, his hand reaching up to brush through his hair in the habit Artur, Reginald, and Leonidas all shared, “your Mother and I… well, that is to say, we want you to know that—”

“We’re so proud of you, Leonidas!” Maryanne interrupted, the words exploding for her as Reginald sighed in quiet relief. “I mean, it’s all a bit rushed, but—well, Aylar seems like just a terrific young woman, and she’s so beautiful, and you’re going to have the most gorgeous children—”

“Mom!” Leonidas said in mortification, his cheeks heating. “That’s—we can worry about that later.”

Maryanne nodded at that, smiling at him proudly, and reached out to grip his father’s arm in hers, drawing an exasperated look from the Archmage as Leonidas imagined the force of the grip that must have been compressing the limb.

“I guess it’s time,” Leonidas said after a moment, and glanced down at himself again. “I can’t say I’m not nervous, but…”

“You’ll be fine,” Ceruviel said firmly and waved a hand to open the doors with a flicker of Psi. “All that remains is to see it through, Achilles. The less you lose yourself in your own head, the better.”

Both Parnym and Bardulf nodded at that knowingly, and Leonidas sighed.

“You’re right, I suppose,” he agreed, drawing a supportive nod from his father and a beaming smile from his mother.

Bardulf moved to the exit and paused, gesturing with an arm and grinning.

“Your Majesty,” the Shadowblade said in a distinctly high-brow affectation, drawing a snort from Leonidas.

“Hilarious,” he muttered, walking through the doors before he could second-guess himself again and pausing for the rest of them to exit before striding down the hallway. The distinct lack of mind-glows in his immediate proximity would have normally alarmed him, but he remembered Ceruviel had mentioned keeping the staff out of his way to avoid delays. It was appreciated, given his existing self-consciousness about his outfit.

Other than coordinating colors in the Alteran way, he and Aylar hadn’t even seen one another’s chosen attire. It was both exciting and mildly daunting.

Leonidas made his progress through the mansion swiftly enough, ignoring the excited chatter of his parents, mentor, and companions behind him, and descended the first flight of steps toward the central landing of the main staircase distractedly, staring down at his feet in contemplation.

He paused when he reached the landing, however, and finally looked up.

Every maid, every butler, and every Knight in the Estate was assembled before him; lined up in two neat rows with wide smiles, with Jefferies and Ilsan Matrovar—his newly appointed Royal Guard attache—standing at the end near the open doors to the estate. Leonidas blinked in shock at the sight, and his heart went into his throat as he descended the stairs, looking at the assemblage of Haelfenn, Nyrfenn, and Terrans with stunned surprise.

John, Elise, Sonya, and Patrick would already be at the venue—but other than them, every single member of Ceruviel’s Household was present.

When his feet hit the main floor of the entrance, the assembled rows of staff promptly bowed or curtsied, holding the poses with remarkable discipline as he walked forward, feeling his eyes stinging at the gesture. He saw faces he recognized readily, some newer, some that predated his living in the Estate, and each of them uttered the same phrase as he walked past.

“Farewell, Your Majesty.”

Three words, spoken calmly, softly, but without an iota of mechanical intonation. They were spoken with pride, with warmth, and with a kind of affection that made his body tingle with emotion.

He saw the Butlers that had helped him peruse outfits, the Maids that had fussed over his wounds after training, the staff that had snuck him snacks against Ceruviel’s orders, and the ones that had given him casual pointers on his Psi after serving Ceruviel for so long. He saw the men and women who had worked tirelessly to offer him hospitality, safety, and comfort during his stay, and his heart swelled.

When he reached the Latherian Knights, each one adorned in purple-liveried warplate, they snapped to attention, fists-to-breastplates in silent salute.

Leonidas regarded them all silently, instinctively saluting in kind as he stepped past them and came to a halt before Jefferies and Ilsan. Before he could say anything, Jefferies smiled with a twitch of his mustache.

“It was their desire, my lord,” he said calmly, nodding to the staff, who had straightened when he’d passed each row. “They felt it appropriate, since you will no longer reside here.”

Leonidas glanced back at Jefferies’ words, felt his throat constrict, and turned back to the tall Head of Household. “Jefferies, I…”

“It’s quite all right, my lord,” the man said bracingly. “This is all we can offer you as you embark on your new journey. You can thank us by doing us proud on the Throne. We are all rooting for you, Your Majesty. Each and every one of us.”

Leonidas swallowed at that and smiled ruefully.

“I’m not even coronated yet, Jefferies.”

The Butler simply grinned, a rare expression, and shrugged a little.

“Technicalities, my lord.”

At Jefferies’ side, Ilsan quirked her brow at him and glanced past at the staff.

“You really do have a way with people,” she noted, examining the staff and Knights, and then looking back to him expectantly.

Leonidas paused at her words and gaze, turned, and faced the assemblage of Housesworn, his gaze trailing over them and his parents, companions, and Mentor beyond—all five standing with quiet smiles, and in the case of Ceruviel, especially, fierce pride.

Refocusing his gaze on the staff, Leonidas spoke as confidently as he could muster.

“I do not know what the future holds,” he said to them after a moment, finding the words that felt right. “But whatever it may be, know that the successes and glories to come were born here, in House Latherian, under the care and kindness you all showed a lost Terran. I will never forget your kindness, nor the loyalty you have shown to me as a guest, an Earl, and an Archon—but most importantly, the compassion you demonstrated to me, Leonidas, as a person.”

Leonidas hesitated for only a moment and then promptly bowed to them.

“I will make you all proud. I swear it.”

A rustle of fabric and clank of steel followed, and he blinked when the entire staff went down on one knee.

“FARE THEE WELL, ARCHON LEONIDAS!”

Leonidas felt his throat tighten again as he straightened and turned back toward Ilsan before he could do more than smile, taking a steadying breath as his Willpower flared to keep him from crying like a fool.

“Let’s go, Ilsan,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice. “My bride will kill me if we’re late.”

The black-haired Haelfar nodded at his words approvingly.

“Your Lance is prepared, Archon,” she said more formally, and turned to do her duty, striding out of the doors with her golden warplate catching the late morning sunlight.

Leonidas heard the telltale rustle of fabric and clank of armor, accompanied by the murmurs of his accompaniment moving through the staff to join him and, with his back straight, strode out into the light of the new day.