Crowned by War

 —"Why are you so... happy? I'm here to kill you."

—"Yes! You are! After five thousand years of boredom, someone has come to fight me! And you won't run away, no, I see it in your soul; you'll fight until you either win or lose. For this battle, the greatest of life's pleasures, I thank you."

Preface: Continuing my drive to try to write something on a consistent basis. Another r/WritingPrompts inspired piece.

The shrine was not some forgotten thing, for all that it was tucked away in a valley hidden deep in a high mountain range. Care had been taken in maintaining its grounds, the paths leading to it, the idols and displays lining the descent. Calling them idols was perhaps giving more credit than necessary, they were really simple manikins adorned with dented and scarred armor, with weapons mounted beside them on iron racks. Age-worn banners had been planted along the path as well, some bearing the standards and sigils of long-dead kingdoms and houses. Many of these had faded over the ages, the oldest little more than colorless rags stirring in the wind.

The tall wooden gates leading into the shrine's grounds were ancient and old, but that same care that had been put into everything else along the preceding route was evident here. The lacquer and paint had been touched up over time, and the hinges oiled, so they barely creaked when I pushed them open. The space beyond opened out and downward, into what was clearly an expansive arena floor, in which the sand had been arranged into an odd sort of mandala, the lines of a rake clear. Ranks of empty benches and chairs ringed the arena itself, and opposite the entrance stood the shrine itself, with an elder sigil of divinity standing proud above it, a ring of interlocked swords and chains. The Sign of War.

Sitting beneath the sigil was an old man, dressed in a mantled robe, a long-handled calligraphy brush in hand, painstakingly drawing it across a canvas scroll hung on an easel. His pate was shaven bald, his gray beard cut close. The years showed on his face, but he was hale and still well-built in spite of his advanced age. What one might mistake for wrinkles at a distance resolved into scars when one got closer. Tattoos banded his forearms, and I could see no tremors in his hands as he worked.

"I saw you at the paddock, at the second bend in the path in the valley." His voice had the rasp expected, but is still strong and clear, reaching me on the other side of the arena. He did not look up from the scroll as he moved the brush in shaping another mark. "I saw you when the tinker's wagon dropped you off, two leagues from the valley entrance." He swept the brush in a slow arc to complete the sigil he was painting. "I saw you before you woke up this morning."

I said nothing, calmly folding one arm behind my back, the other resting on the hilt of the sword on my hip, regarding him attentively as he finished with one last flourish. Setting aside the brush, he rose, taking up the scroll and easel together, and carefully moving it back nearer the entrance to the shrine. "Seeing you isn't the same as knowing you, however," he remarked, as he folded his arms in the voluminous sleeves of his robe without turning. "Who are you, that sought out this place?"

Instead of immediately answering his question, I clasped a fist over my heart, lifting my voice so it echoed around the arena. "Hail, Karlvon, Born of the Far Reaches." I bowed at the waist, continuing, "Hail Vasto Polmarc, Eternal Champion." I lowered myself to one knee as I pulled my sheathed sword from its place on my waist, planting the end beside me. "Hail, Yudaragi, Lord of Battles." I laid my sword on the ground before me as I knelt completely, lowering my forehead to the stone floor. "Hail, Bellerex, Crowned by War."

The old man had turned to regard me, mouth twisted into something like a smile, something like a grimace. "I've not heard some of those names and titles in a drake's age," he finally chuckled. His expression turned stern again. "Enough with the platitudes. Answer the question, boy!"

I rose to my feet, returning to the casual but attentive stance, leaving my sword where it lay. "I am called Marten. I've been hailed as Marshal Strongarm. Scion of Tiran Soldat. Last of the Bellicon League." I regarded the old man, who had pulled one hand from his sleeves to scratch thoughtfully at his beard. "For many an age, too many to count, wars have plagued this world. Endlessly fought in your name. Peace lasts barely a span of years before it all resumes again. Too many deaths, so much ruin, for little more than pride and fleeting glory."

Bellerex lowered his hand to his side, cocking his head. "I do not ask for those deaths, I do not revel in the blood or ruin. They are simply the cost of the choices made. Not made by me, Marten. It is always their choice."

"If the wars eternal are to ever stop, I must put end to War Itself." With a tamp of my foot, my sword leapt into my hand. In a flash, it was drawn and pointed at him, edge keen and gleaming in the afternoon light.

The old man tilted his head the other way, staring back at me. And then he laughed, clasping a hand to his forehead as he did so. I felt the flush climb my cheeks. "Do not mock me!"

"I mean no disrespect, Marten!" He was still laughing, but it wasn't the mocking cackle I expected, or the derisive chuckle. This was long and full of feeling. There were tears in his eyes as he turned his gaze to the heavens. "Ah-h-h, to have my prayers answered after so long."

Prayers? What could this man, a divinity in his own right, pray to? "Are you-- why are you happy? I'm here to kill you."

"Yes, you are," Bellerex was smiling at me as he shrugged off his robes, sweeping them into an arm with a smooth gesture and draping them over a bench. He wore loose trousers, spotlessly white, with black footwraps and legwraps. "For five thousand years, I've waited for someone brave enough to come to my shrine. To alleviate the boredom in my soul. To give me something more than endlessly caring for the garden, the sands, the trophies lining the path, and idle calligraphy."

I frowned, recalling the banners I'd passed on the way in. "I'm not the first in five thousand years--"

"You are the first who has no fear inside him." He shook his head as he wound leather wraps around his hands and wrists. "You will not run, boy. I can see it in your soul! You fight to the bitter end, win or lose. Every would-be challenger has lacked that iron resolve. As strong as they were in body, they were weak in spirit. Such men and women could never hope to provide a worthy challenge."

He spread his hands and laughed again. "And your conviction! You don't seek glory as they did! You seek something greater, as unattainable as it might be. A lasting peace." A shake of the head as he produced something from out of the air. An iron crown, fashioned to resemble interlocked swords, woven amid chain-designs. "For that, Marten, I thank you."

He settled the crown atop his brow, then leapt down into the sandy floor of the arena, conjuring a pair of swords into his hands. "Come then, boy, and test your mettle against the Lord of Battles, and see if you can take my crown from me! You face the King of War, and you had best not disappoint!"

I leapt down to join him in the arena. Bellerex was right that lasting peace might be unattainable, but defeating him would have repercussions that would end the wars eternal for at least a generation. In that time, the people might be able to rebuild, find something more to live for than to die in pointless conflicts. The cycle might break. For that reason alone, for that hope?

I would plunge into battle against a dozen Bellerexes.

My sword flashed as I sprang for him. "Have at you!"