Chapter Text
You stood tall
Full of fury and pride
That let you tower
Above the mountainous man
Who stood before you
And your aims.
He shrugged and he sighed,
Slinking back from you
Asking with great pity
For you to stand down,
For you to step back.
But you stood resolute,
Sword to your shoulder
Tipped in defiance
Of your superior in title
If not battle-won skill.
So full of defiance
You shouted a challenge:
“To the floor Nigenad!”
It was a cry to which
He did not bow,
Only ever finding courage
In an assertion of its lack.
He stood above you in height,
Yet he looked to the floor
Mumbling out your name
And a pathetic request
Arguing this need not occur.
To which you agreed:
“Then withdraw your claim
And leave me the blade
So that your better may rise
To the duty which is owed her.
Withdraw your claim Ortus
And I will let you run
To slink off without pride
But limbs quite intact.”
“You know I can’t, Harrow.
You know that my father,
Cold and hard as he is,
Would rather see me dead
By his very hand
Than see me secondary.
You know this well, Nova,
So please I beg you
Lay down your arms.”
He was a mountain
Made of every last trait
That the Ninth prized dearly
In its cavaliers.
Ortus Nigenad was the name
And he was more pack mule
Than man.
Yet he was permitted
He wear the vestiges of man
And with them bear arms.
He held with him now
A neatly kept buckler
And a black steeled rapier
Far better than your own;
A gift from his grandmother
Which you sorely wanted.
You were of no such make,
For you were small and slight
And you lacked the sheer might
So dearly desired of Ninth cavs.
But while you lacked for size
You made up with speed
And dreaded technique needed
To wield Samael’s Chain.
And in those arms of yours
You held what was wanted
In ages long now passed.
For you held the chain well
That was wielded once before
By the first graveguard standing
Before the Locked Tomb’s rock.
For your stole the chain well
When it had hung uselessly
From atop the monument
Of dear sweet Anastacia.
You sword was found lacking
And your size just as much.
But your spirit burned hot
And the chain hung proudly
Around your shoulder there
As you stared down Nigenad.
Still he would not budge!
He would not leave nor run,
Not from you or his post:
“I wish, I do, Harrow,
That they would free you
And leave you to run off
To whatever far star
To which you aspired,
But they shall not, Harrow.
I wish, I do, Nova,
To let you stand here
In my place taking up
The duties of the Ninth
That lay in First House halls,
But I can’t, Nova.
I am no Nonius yet,
But I must act as one.”
You scoffed at these appeals
To a cav found less worthy
Than Samael Novenary:
“Matthias did not once stand
Before a lyctor’s wake,
Let alone at one’s side.”
To which he of course contested
And which you of course shut down
Before you declared aloud and proud:
“I am the Ninth House daughter,
Though I am but a cruel failure.
I am the unfulfilled vow, Nigenad,
I am the unkissed skull’s bloody teeth.
The reverend line’s secrets
They will never be mine, not one,
But at the very least, Ortus,
I will bear the Ninth’s blade
For that is my right by birth.”
These words rang out
Across the narthex whole,
A shout and a challenge.
Ortus bore no ill will
And less courage still
But he stood awkward yet
Saying back to you:
“You don’t really wish
To carry that blade for her
Do you Nova?”
He wiped sweat right
From his painted brow
As you laughed at him
Before declaring plainly:
“I would sooner her die
Than wield it willingly
In her honor, that wretch.
I would sooner watch her
As the breath left her
Leaving her for dead.
I wish for nothing more
Than to see it and let it,
Yet that having been said
I will bear the blade
And you will bow to me
You despicable worm!”
Ortus bore little will,
Yet he continued to speak:
“You know Harrow Nova
That the Reverend Daughter
Does quite care for you.”
You advanced upon him
Just one step forward
Demanding that he quit
While he was quite ahead.
Ortus found some will
As he spoke again:
“You know too, don’t you,
That she has fought
That you may hold the Chain
And for the lessons
On how to hold it too?”
Your face burned with fury
Wholly unmasked at last,
Seeking his silence at once.
Ortus found more will yet
And he said what you feared:
“You know that even now
She goes before them both
Asking in deep petition
For your freedom yet, Harrow.”
Your heart burned great
With shame after shame
For you could never stand
On your own feet alone
Without her behind you
Trying to hoist you up:
“I will make it to the pain
If you continue this path!”
“Then please leave yours
For you know as well as I
That the Reverend Father
Nor the Reverend Mother
Will name you above me.
Would that be the case
I would step down, Harrow,
But they will not budge
Unless I die the first of us.”
You nodded at Nigenad:
“No, they will not name me
Not without your death.
They will not consider it
Not even for a moment.”
And fool that he was
He took those words well
Thinking them safety
And he sighed deeply
Thinking this all finished.
And you so desperate
Took the Chain down
From you shoulder coiled,
Holding one end tight
As you pointed your blade
At him with killer intent.
His face turned with fear
And he begged openly
For you to stand down,
But the hatred rose high
For yourself and for him,
And even more for her
Who stole your name,
Who stole your titles,
And your very family still
For being just able
To do what you could not:
“You will die Ortus Nigenad
And I wish you well, I do,
On your way to the River!”
Yet as you prepared
To run him right through,
Through the chapel doors
Stormed forth the marshal
The foul, old Crux shouting:
“Swords in the narthex!
You shame the Ninth House!
You embarrass the Reverends
Time and time again!”
Only Crux’s harsh cry
Stayed your screaming hand.
You took to neutral stance
Sword tipped to your shoulder
Then rested to your side:
“I apologize, dear Marshal.
I had forgotten myself.”
The marshal snorted loud
Looking not to you
But to Ortus Nigenad:
“I do not scold you
But this mound of meat
That should know better
As he stands primary
To our necromantic heir.”
And Nigenad, the worm,
Bowed his head deep
Apologizing and agreeing
Though it was not he
Who had started this,
And who bore open steel
Before Anastacia, so dear.
The Marshal ever cruel
Bore no pity for him:
“I forgive you not one bit.
Now go and be off
To your damned cuckoo!”
Lacking the will found
Those moments earlier,
Ortus bowed once more
Before stepping past Crux
Mumbling as he went.
The Marshal’s ears were sharp:
“What was that, you swine?
I oughn’t to call her that?
I will say it loud, you fool,
And I will it once more,
She is a thief and a cockerel
And you will see yourself
Off and to her side, Ortus!”
So thoroughly shamed
Ortus Nigenad left
Without one complaint more.
The Marshal watched him
And then said to you
In the kindness that he bore
Only to you and you alone:
“Rueful the day is
That we send out flotsam
To win our house’s pride,
And more rueful still
That we send out jetsam
To protect the very same,
Don’t you think, Harrowhark?”
Your pride was shot
For you had just lost
The last chance you’d had
To win back your pride,
But your heart was soothed
To hear your name spoken
In its fullest of forms.
He stepped past you slow,
Your one champion left
In all of Drearburh cold:
“Treat your weapon well
And treat the faithful kind
Who have come before us
To the altar, Harrowhark.”
Again you burned up
In shame, always more shame,
For you’d not seen them
The pilgrims lined up praying,
And as Crux stepped on,
You sheathed your steel
And coiled your chain.
To the Anastacian mount
You bowed your head
And to the pilgrims next
Asking their forgiveness
For your intrusions there
Upon their silent devotions
And you stood small.