Work Text:
These being the words of Heir Apparent Mort’demur recorded by the same for the erudition of the Nobel Council.
When I was born with pale skin and frail limbs it was not believed that I would survive the night. But there was that by the love of my mother and the care of her wetnurse I was nourished. There was the piety of my father who prayed at the alter of death every day that it might turn away from me. And there was some grace to be had from The Stars Above, because I did survive. Three years after that night I was Named Mort’demur, meaning Death has Turned Aside. I was still sickly, my earliest memories are of the royal arborist adjusting the braces on my limbs and explaining to my father that they would only encourage what was possible, not force what was desired. His ministrations along with the healers worked as well as could be expected, and I could live my life. But more is expected from the Heir Apparent.
As astonishment died and I continued to survive the whispers began. It was clear that I would not be strong enough to properly Wield a Weapon, would not be able to properly bind one to myself to one. My limbs are too weak for anything larger than a dagger, a weapon chosen only by the desperate or the murderer. What kind of King, it was asked, would not be ready to lead their army with a sword held high? Other weapons have been used infrequently of course; lances, maces, my own father is bound to a Warhammer. But these are no help to me; my limbs begin to shake if I try to lift anything heavier than a dagger. And so the nobles who whispered behind my back began referring to me as ‘the leaf’. There were even suggestions that I should step aside, that my parents should try for another son. I would do much for the good of the realm, even abdication if it was required, but I do not believe that the Gods have put me here simply to enact one moment of personal abnegation.
It was these thoughts weighing on my mind that I took a trip out of the city and into the surrounding farmlands. I was hoping that a clarity of air would lead to a clarity of thinking. In the event my plan worked, but not in the way I could have expected. My carriage was passing by a farmhouse when I saw a pair of children playing with dark feathers by the side of the road, pretending that they were swords. It was here that I was inspired, not all that is Wielded is a weapon. The minimum requirements for the ritual to bind one’s soul to are not very onerous; the tool to Wield, the expertise to Wield it, and a little of your own blood to create the connection. As a result, even the peasants are able to bind themselves to the tools of farming.
The quicker witted among you will no doubt already have divined where this story is headed. Even so, the journey is sometimes more important than the destination. I bid the carriage halt and haltingly stepped out. I approached the children and asked them where they had got such nice feathers. They told me they had found them in a pile at the base of a nearby tree. I offered to pay them each a silver coin if they would lead me to it. They eagerly agreed and soon enough I was looking at fair few feathers, some of which were bloody. It seems some sort of avian scuffle had taken place at the base of this tree. I paid the children for their help. Then I looked for the largest feather I could find and came across a rather large pinion probably from a raven, the sort of feather that one could make into a quill to write one’s own opinions.
Upon returning to the castle, I sent for one of our scribes to instruct me on how to create a quill. Having done so I started writing this missive. I apologize to those who have figured out what is going on, it must seem like I am belaboring the point. But for things like this form is not negotiable. I have a couple of stories to tell before the end.
The first comes to us from the old Republic of Reliquary which used to exist to the south. There came a time in the political maneuvering when the two executive senators developed into an irreconcilable hostility. The first, whose name is not known, arranged to have his opponent, Crassus, ambushed and held hostage in his villa in the countryside. He was stripped of his Sword and told in no uncertain terms that he would be writing a letter to the Senate announcing his retirement. After Crassus seemed to bow to these demands his would be captor returned to the Senate and prepared to act surprised when the letter was read. Sadly for him, the people he left to watch over Crassus were not equal to the task. He sent several letters during his house arrest, some to friends telling them to be ready to assault the villa to free him and the one to the Senate announcing not that he was retiring but that he was ordering the arrest of his counterpart. A rarely used legal power that required both Executive Senators to be put on trial. As so it came to pass that Crassus was rescued, while the unnamed one was found guilty of treason and had his name scrubbed from all records. And while Crassus’ supporters brought their swords to free him, they had been set in motion by the strokes of a quill.
The second story is of a kingdom to the east that had just won a war for independence against its overseas capital. After winning the war the hard work of creating a functioning government began, and was not going well. The officers of the victorious army approached their general and urged him to seize power. He had won the war and was sure to do a better job, they reasoned. Instead of agreeing the general shamed them and reminded them of the oaths that they had all signed to serve and defend their new country, not rule it. Chastised by the rebuke the plan was given up and the leaders resigned in shame. The weapons they would have brought to bear halted, again by what had been written.
And so I come to the end, and a simple declaration.
My name is Mort’demur Folium
My Weapon is the Quill
It is the strongest there is