Chapter 5

Authors note:

Ye gods, this chapter was hell to write. Literally took almost a year of writing, planning and the likes. I had to rewrite the entire thing after realising that I wrote the story into a corner. Anyhow, the chapter is up and so enjoy this while it lasts. Chances are the next one is going to take a while as well.

I apologise if my story is lacking in action and too much exposition. It's the way I roll.

I have to thank Nik for proof reading/ editing/ this pile of mess and forging it into a readable chapter.

I'm also in the lookout for a beta-reader. Inbox me.

Review! My immense ego demands tribute!

Halo and FoZ does not belong to me. If it did, I shall be flaunting my immense wealth to the world as well as making my story canon.

/

Lord Samuel Thomas described himself, for a lack of a better word, as fat man. Not morbidly obese but that of a well-fed and well-lived man of thirty-five; a bulging belly and a wobbly double chin. He almost certainly would not fit the traditional image of a man in his prime. So it was understandable that when climbing up the stairs of the palace that he took a minute or two so that he could take a breather and wipe the sweat off his brow.

His wife, Melissa, had chastised him for eating too much salted pork when eating breakfast. "I didn't marry a pig!" She wagged. "Your habits shall be the death of you!"

Any other man would've slapped the woman for saying that to their husband. But he loved and cared for her too much to see her hurt. Being married for almost three decades can do that to a man, and there was also the fact that she was right about his less than healthy diet.

He sat down on one of the stone benches lining the palace halls and gathered breaths in long wheezes. I do need to lose some stones, he thought glumly. There were spells for levitating up the stairs, as simple as waving your wand around and poof. But Melissa insisted to lose a few stones by using the time-old tradition of simply walking. Of course saying that was easier than actually doing it as Sam found.

It was a clear day, as the days in Albion were, just by the virtue of being able to see patches of sunlight through the dense clouds. Sure, it could not be compared with the skies of Roma or Tristain. But it was something to thank the gods for.

One cannot win a civil war with bad weather.

Through a window, Sam could see the troops on the parade below. A company of Harthsrow Grenadiers engaged with one another in mock duels with training staves. They were dressed immaculately in bright blue fatigues and red shakos with billowing feathers. These troops were sent by the countess of Harthsrow when the province had thrown in their allegiance to the cause of the rebellion.

The armies of the revolution marched under a multitude of banners. Harthsrow grenadiers marched under the banners of the blue skylark; the green lizard of the Greenswich irregulars; iron golems under the sigil of the Albion Magisters; dragon knights with the purple cloaks of house Gordrick; Albion aerial corsairs sailed under the black banners of the skull-and-cross-wand; and many, many others.

Six years. Six years since the start of the rebellion, and more dead than I care to see.

"Lord Thomas! What a marvellous day it is to serve."

Sam turned and saw a young man approaching him. He was a handsome man, of thirty-five. "Lord Armswell," Sam answered. "I apologize I did not see you approach. I was too busy resting after the stairs. Just taking a small breather."

Lord Patryck Armswell came up and sat down next to Sam. He was smiling. He always wore that smile like a cloak. What was he hiding?

"Lord Thomas, it is unbecoming of you to be defeated by a flight of stairs. What ever happened to the Lion of the West?"

Sam could not help but go red with embarrassment. "Lion of the West" was an affectionate name created by the court after his involvement in the siege of Harthsrow Fort. Sam could not forget what had happened there, barely four years ago. In truth, it was nothing more than an accident that he saved the countess. He did not deserve the praise that was heaped upon him; he did not deserve the four-hundred men that were sent to him as part of the pact of allegiance.

"Good weather we have today, surely the Founder has gifted us such a thing to bring victory ever closer."

"Yes, yes," Sam said hurriedly. "It is fine weather indeed, my lord, but it is simply just that. When all of Gandalfr's Angyls and Followers appear right before us in a halo of light, and retake Lanchester Fort without a single death, it is through that I will believe in a true miracle from the Great Founder."

That smile never left his face. "Be careful, Lord Thomas, the Orthodoxy Inquisition is still active even with the war. A simple comment, even one intended to be a jest, can be interpreted as heresy."

"As fine as it is to comment on the weather and debate theology, if you do not mind, my lord, I have urgent business to attend to. The Lord Protector awaits me." Sam got to his feet.

"Ah, yes. I have been meaning to gain me an audience with the Lord Protector, but the war effort hinders him from seeing me according to his servants. I have been stuck in the capital for far too long. Would you kindly do me a favour in suggesting to Lord Cromwell that a certain courtier is in need of an audience? I believe it is of the utmost concern regarding the issue of my inheritance. "

Sam nodded, his double chin flapping up and down. So that's your game, you little toad. Lost your support? "Yes, I will tell the Lord Protector about your situation."

Armswell patted Sam on the back and smiled. "Thank you, my lord. I hope your afternoon goes well."

Sam said something and departed without a further word.

The small private chamber is just further down the hall and to the left. You can't miss it, because of the two mail-plated Magisters standing guard. The elites of the Albion magical forces glanced down at his direction, combat-staves held at the ready in their gauntlets.

Sam coughed and started to address the two guardians. "I am-"

"We know who you are," one of them interrupted. He spoke with a great boom of a voice through his fully-enclosed great-helm. "Lord Cromwell is expecting you."

The door to the chamber opened up with a spell. "Go, Lord Cromwell does not like to wait."

Inside the chamber was a small but spacious room with a veranda to allow sunlight in. The first thing Sam noticed was the disembodied musical instruments enchanted to play music. They were playing a piece that he did not know. It was slow and sorrowful. It brought Sam back to happier and safer times.

"That is the La Mademoiselle, my dear Lord Thomas; it is a song about a young peasant girl longing for her beloved who is at war. A fitting piece I would say. I believe it is now being sung at the front."

Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of Albion, the architect of the nation's madness and its saviour, was sitting down in a simple cushioned chair and casually twirling a goblet of red wine between his fingers. The Lord Protector had spoken without turning his gaze away from the veranda. He stared into the distance, beyond the clouds and stars that no magister had yet been able to reach.

Just then Sam realised there was another man in the room. A tall grim-faced man with golden blonde hair sat near the corner in a wooden chair. He wore the segmented armour and purple tabard of the Albion aerial forces. His intricate coat-of-arms showed him to be a high ranking officer. He was Captain-General Julian Rhodes of the Albionese Air Force and Cromwell's adjutant. Rhodes gave Sam a nod of acknowledgment.

Rhodes was known throughout the realm for his strict discipline and extreme competence. It was through him that the Albionese Air Force became the most feared in the continent.

Cromwell lost himself in thought. Sam wondered what the man was thinking. As a figure, he was an enigma. Nobody understood just how the man thought. He had risen up against the unlawful absolutist monarchy and pulled Albion into a long and bitter struggle for freedom. The man was a genius, everybody knew, and the rebellion would not have succeeded without him from the beginning. At times, Sam saw him as a charismatic leader, one that took direct leadership and initiative. But at others, he was an introvert, who locked himself in this secluded tower like a witch or a necromancer from the ballads and stories. Nobody knew who the "real" Oliver Cromwell was.

Finally, after less than a minute Cromwell spoke. "Do you remember the days when we were under the clutches of the monarchy, Samuel?"

Cautiously, Sam spoke: "My Lord?"

He turned around to face Sam and smiled. "I apologize; I was lost in a daze. I was daydreaming of memories long gone and of no importance except for the sake of my nostalgia. How are you Sam? I hope it has been well?"

"Fine, my lord, I have the reports ready now." Sam pulled out a number of documents tied together with a red string.

"That is good. We have waited too long. The Captain-General was just demanding to start the stratagem meeting right away. But I told him that it would not do without you, Lord Thomas."

Sam looked sheepishly at Cromwell and at the Captain-General. "Yes, well. I apologise, my lords. My girth is not what it used to be. And I was delayed by Lord Armswell."

"The sycophant." Cromwell said that in a voice usually reserved for when discussing the common vermin. "I've been meaning to put him somewhere where I could see less of that weasel. Speak no more of him."

He then turned his eyes to the Captain-General. "You may start now, Rhodes."

Rhodes took out his wand from a pouch and cast spell of illusion. A map of Albion appeared in the room. Numbers, shapes and symbols represented companies, battalions and regiments. It was colour coded for easy identification: Blue for the revolutionary forces and red for the loyalists. The entire civil war was present in the confines of this room.

"Begin."

Sam took out a bundle of papers and began to read them out. He told them of how a hamlet at West-temple had been ransacked by mercenaries (under whose pay nobody knew) with three-hundred serfs killed. He told of a famine that was ravaging the underbellies of Greenwhich because nobody was tending to the fields. He told of how the famed Ironsides were defeated during an attack by a force of pyromancers and golems. He told of how, once again, the great Lanchester Fort failed to be captured and the revolutionary forces driven off.

"…We have taken Sussex, but with heavy losses. Generals sympathising with the revolution have turned their armies around to face Londonian Fort. Lords Montreux, Wilson and Harington have amassed their peasant levies against the southern bastions."

Cromwell was now in his cold calculable state. His eyes darting from location to location as Sam read the reports. Cromwell noted the number of flashing squares and triangles, each denoting a unit in action or in retreat. The majority of the retreating units were loyalists. He pointed a finger towards a blue square. It was a triangle with the symbol of a gauntleted fist, symbolising an Earth based regiment. It was one of the many units violently flashing.

"That unit over there, that heavy golem unit."

Rhodes switched his gaze towards the indicated unit. "Yes, that is the 21st. It is currently to be disbanded after taking heavy losses. The brigade suffered sixty percent casualties after attacking Lanchester. I heard that the commander had his men flogged for their failures."

Personally, Sam was a man of peace and would only use violence only when prompted as proven in Harthsrow Fort. Only six years ago, he would have baulked at such measure to maintain discipline. He did not like the way Rhodes casually commented on such an act of barbarity, but he understood just what was needed to win the war. Even at the cost of personal freedom.

Cromwell studied the map carefully. "The royal family is putting up more of a fight than we thought. The defeat of loyalist forces is crucial before we can expand our war into the rest of the continent. What of the agent, the chevalier from Tristain? Have we received any news from him?"

Sam shuffled through the papers until he found the intelligence reports from the mainland. "He is to be scheduled to arrive within the fortnight. Our contacts in the mainland have already met with him for debriefing. It seems that he has critical information regarding the position of the Tristain royalty."

Cromwell sipped his wine. It was an excellent vintage, Sam could tell by the label. A product of the royal Nourmaundie grape yards in Galleia. It took someone of Cromwell's influence and wealth to import such a luxurious item all the way to Albion with the Tristain navy's embargo. The entire contents of this goblet were worth more what a plebeian's monthly income.

"It is imperative that the rest of the continent must not be allowed to interfere before we crush the loyalists."

Rhodes snorted at that. "They fight more with each other than anyone else. Some royal families still see the Tudors as upstart rulers; they wouldn't give a rat's ass if we took over the throne."

"The politics of Halkeginia are complex but they all obey one thing: the status quo. If one faction falls or loses power, you can be sure that there would be a scramble for one group to take the advantage. That's why any change in the status quo is so feared amongst nobles; they are scared for things that change."

Rhodes spoke up. "Better the devil you know than the one hiding in the shadows."

"That is what I am counting on. Tristain and Albion have a history with one another. Though Germania wants nothing to do with Albion's current plight, they could not risk antagonising their neighbour, especially with their eastern frontiers against the Rodinians. More recently, the marriage between the Crown Prince of Germania and Tristain is a dangerous thing. The allies in Ostmark and Polska is just simply too weak to unite and do anything. I need them to squabble and fight amongst each other. I want them to claw at each other's throats so that there will not be any opposition to impede us."

"Our spy will stop that?" Rhodes asked.

"The last time the agent contacted our sources, he mentioned some important document that guarantees such union between Tristain and Germania will not exist." Sam replied.

Sam had many agents active throughout the continent. One thing about being a retired trader is that you develop a web of valuable contacts throughout a very successful career. He made sure to milk those connections as much as he could.

Cromwell drained the last drops of wine. "Enough. We shall meet again tonight to discuss the situation with Lanchester. I feel unusually tired all of a sudden. Must be the wine."

Sam bowed. "Yes, my lord. Will I be taking these documents with me?"

"No, leave them. I shall look through them and I believe the Captain-General will also need them."

"The Albion general staff needs to have confirmation for the latest offensives. I shall have them draft a plan for the next Lanchester attack, and we can certaintly make use of these reports." Rhodes announced.

Cromwell took out a bottle of Nourmandie wine and additional goblets. "Before we all go, my lords, shall we drink a toast to the future of Albion?"

Rhodes smacked his lips. Even the most straight-backed aristocrat needed to get drunk now and then. "Yes, I don't see why not." Rhodes said.

Sam eagerly took the goblet. Cromwell unscrewed the bottle and poured each of them a generous amount of the liquor.

Cromwell raised his goblet. "To the future of Albion!"

The rest of them echoed the toast. Sam stared at the crimson liquid inside the goblet and hesitated momentarily before drinking his wine. He thought of the bloodshed to come.

/

The time was 0530, according to his HUD. He had slept for four hours the night before in a dreamless sleep. As with other nights, Saito had not gotten out of his power-armour and had instead worn it to sleep, with his Stomper and combat-knife at his side. There were no existing threats within the walls of the castle to justify his paranoia. But recent events, such as the duel with Guiche, had warned him that there were still dangers out in this world that were still unknown to the Spartan.

It was almost dawn and Saito could smell the morning dew as he powered down all the armour systems of his Mjolnir and prepared for his daily workout by disassembling its components. He systematically took them off with ease; it was a ritual he had performed a hundred times. Each Spartan was responsible for maintaining their gear. The few ONI technicians and services available aboard the Xanatos were often swamped and were in short supply. The type of missions they were sent to mean that they suffered horrible attrition rates and the ability to reinforce and resupply were rare.

He was left wearing only in his undersuit when he finished with dissembling his power-armour. The pieces laid together in a neat pile. He stored it away safely underneath Louise's four-poster bed. He was aware that his tiny master was still asleep.

Saito knew that Louise had a bad habit of talking in her sleep, a fact that he felt prudent not to mention. Saito still haven't even talked about what had happened during the lecture theatre despite being the fact that it had happened more than a week ago. It was an awkward moment and, more importantly, a moment of weakness for both of them. Paranoia was justified, but weakness was unacceptable. It was something that the Spartan could not comprehend.

He made his way down from the tower and into the courtyard.

Ever since arriving in this backwater world, Saito developed a series of workouts to keep his body in fit condition. He felt the wind across his face and the soft grass on his feet. It felt good to be outside.

Soon, Saito began his first lap. Then the second, third, and fourth. Before the sun rose up and the first rays of sunlight beamed down, he was up to his fiftieth lap.

Fifty laps in twenty minutes, he thought. I am getting weaker.

Weakness is unacceptable.

Fifty laps around the castle were considered by normal people to be an awesome feat of herculean endurance. Not even Olympian athletes could match such physical prowess. But Saito was not considered "normal" by any stretch of the imagination.

Saito was by no means the strongest or the fastest Spartan in Theta Company. When the orphans for the initial class of Theta Company were recruited – or, as some would say, kidnapped - they were not chosen for their strength, intellect or wit. The children of the Spartan II class were chosen specifically because they were the epitome of the human race through a strict series of criteria to ensure only a select few can even begin the deadly augmentation progress.

Saito had none of these traits. None of the Spartan IIIs did. They were made markedly inferior from their bigger cousins. Everything they would ever do, a Spartan II could do better.

In short, the Spartan IIs were designed to be fine-made warriors while IIIs were made to be mass-produced soldiers. They were built to fight and die like the dogs they were. That was the, Saito thought bitterly, the Spartan's reason for existing.

They were told this in every single part of their training. It was mentioned so often that it forged a sense of bitterness which their Spartan Commander used to manipulate. As a group they trained, fought and bled each other until they perfected the arts of war. To be better, no, greater than their peers.

Weakness is unacceptable.

That was why he trained himself to the utmost perfection. But constant drilling and training could only do so much. Running laps and physical exercise were things Saito could do while in his sleep without breaking a sweat. He could perform maintenance on his equipment while blindfolded.

Saito ran lap after lap, mesmerised by his thoughts, until he realised that the morning bell was chiming. Crowds of students and servants were already flocking out of the dorms and into the great hall. Familiars were not permitted to enter and so were ordered to stay outside.

But it seemed that his unique status as a relatively human familiar granted Saito some leeway. The duel with Guiche helped him too. With Saito's absolute victory over the young aristocrat, his status had risen considerably. At the same time, Guiche seemed to be the laughing stock of the entire school with a popularity level even lower than that of Louise. That was saying something.

The once arrogant noble seemed to have become a social pariah. He still possessed an air of pride and superiority that seemed to have been bred into him, chin raised high and an air of importance. But that pompous ego seemed to evaporate whenever Saito showed up.

As Saito entered the students halted and stared at the Spartan. Saito ignored them and headed towards the stairs. As soon as he turned his back they started to mutter under their breaths. His enhanced hearing enabled him to hear their conversations.

"Look, its Louise Valliere's familiar."

"What? I thought he was a golem."

"No, you imbecile, he is a Rodinian Cossack created from the parts of dead people. Look at those scars on his face; they don't look like ones a living person could have."

"You are right, that face look as if it has been cut off from corpses."

"Wait, I thought he was an Albion spy…."

"His body isn't half bad, though…"

"Oh no, he's looking this way. Let's go to the hall."

In the days after the duel groups of nobles would appear to give him a congratulatory shout and cheer, honouring his victory over the Gramont boy. He did not join in. Saito's chilly reaction stopped them from congratulating him after he refused to meet their acknowledgment. In the space of a few days, everyone reverted back to their passive hostility. Saito felt that there was no need to celebrate what he thought was beneath him.

The many voices began to fade as they retreated into the great hall. Saito ignored their petty gossip and continued up stairs to Louise's room. He passed by other students as they made their way down stairs for breakfast. The ones that lived in the dormitory wing knew that Saito had finished his morning routine as they so regularly saw the Spartan. They no longer reacted to him as they had before, but they still avoided him as he approached.

A manservant approached him and hesitantly bowed. Judging by his uniform, he belonged to the kitchen staff. He was a thin character with short, messy blonde hair. He was probably no older than sixteen. "Ahem, excuse me, Mr-sir Saito, sir…I just-" He appeared nervous and timid, unsure whether or not to say anything.

"Spit it out." Saito spoke, not unkindly, but the sudden words made the boy jump.

The servant swallowed, "We- we from the kitchen all saw what you d-did the week before. We, the kitchen and castle staff, well, really, really respect you for what you did. I mean, defending yourself and giving those nobles the taste of their own medicine…It-it was magnificent…"

Head raised up high, eyes awed with adulation. Saito knew of such looks, they were the same whenever a Spartan arrived to save a beleaguered human populace from the Covenant.

It was also a look that people gave when they realised that a Spartan was a head and shoulder taller than everyone.

Saito decided interacting with this civilian was an amusing distraction.

"I did not fight for the sake of the servants, but for myself," Saito said. "The Gramont boy was no serious matter and would be of no concern to you."

That seemed to have had the opposite effect on the servant than what he had expected. The servant was in awe. To him, the warrior was everything he had expected a noble knight to be from stories. He was strength, honour and humility. The Valliere's warrior-familiar, seeing a castle maid being harassed by the Guiche princeling, defended her honour by challenging the aristocrat mage to personal combat. It was said that the warrior had delivered an eloquent speech decrying the decadent practices of the aristocracy delivered in flowery prose which had humbled even the grandmaster with its passion. In the end, the noble was defeated by unmatchable combat prowess. But the Spartan was a humble being. His honour unmatched and he instead accepted the surrender from the noble with grace.

Well, that was the version the kitchen-hand had accepted. It was either that or the rumour that he had taken the maid afterwards for his own amusement and ravished her. Or he could belief the tale where Saito had mutated into an eldritch abomination, in the shape of a wolf, and devoured the young nobleman. But all of that was just silly.

"M-Mr Saito, sir" he stammered. "I would like to say that, you are welcome to the kitchen anytime you want. I mean, it would be an honour to cook something for someone like you and Marteau the head chef wouldn't mind. We bring back plenty of leftovers from the feasts and most of it goes to waste. Please come in anytime if you want something." The boy gave Saito another bow. This time he made a deeper movement, showing more respect, and left. But he stopped and came back, red-faced. "Sir," he added and quickly left.

/

Back in the dorm room, Louise Valliere had woken up. She stretched her arms wide, trying to signal to the rest of her body that she was awake. "Servant, get ready for-"

She stopped mid-sentence as she saw that her familiar was not present. A momentary panic permeated her morning thoughts. Where is he? Where is my familiar? Has he abandoned me? Then her sleep-addled mind began to clear, and she remembered that he was on his morning run. Just like a mongrel dog.

Instead of stewing on her exasperation (and isolation), Louise got up and walked over to her wardrobe and began to change. She wondered about her familiar and what had been going on since the past week. Under her tutelage, the Spartan became hyper-competent in the written language at a frightening pace. She told herself that it was all because of her academic talents. In truth, the warrior displayed a frightening ability to learn and adapt.

Louise, despite her failings in the practical department of magic, was well learnt in theory. The pile of parchment on the desk was a testament to her intelligence. Essays, treatises and research papers marked with high praise from her tutors showed that beneath the "Zero", lays a high achiever as befit one of the Valliere bloodline. But the Spartan was frightening. It was a mistake to judge the Spartan as anything but a huge pile of muscle and armour, as Guiche had found out the hard way.

The incident with Guiche was another thing altogether. She celebrated the fact that her familiar had won the duel against the noble. The idea of the arrogant, obnoxious and self-centred little piss-drinker being humiliated in front of the entire school brought a warm feeling to Louise whenever she thought about it. It was a sweet, sweet feeling to be the one dominating something for a change. But that was the crux of her worries. A commoner, as awe-inspiring he was under his suit of armour (powered armour, she added, remembering what her familiar had told her), was still a commoner

Magic-less and of common birth this particular person had beaten and, worse of all, humiliated a mage in front of his peers. Despite him being the third-born son and a third-rate human being, he is still a member of the vastly influential Gramont bloodline, an aristocratic military family that could be traced back to the founding days of Tristain.

What to do, what to do?

/

Siesta made her way up the tower-stairs holding a basket of undergarments in her hands. She was with another maid, Francesca, who was also carrying a basket. Francesca was a young girl of sixteen and spoke with the accent of those who hailed from the eastern provinces, a place famed for their wheat outputs and fine wines. They also had an unfortunate reputation as big talkers who could not shut their damn mouths.

"Siesta, is it true that you and that familiar…I mean word got around that you and the giant were seen together many times over the week. I mean, I heard it from Ann, in laundry, who was told by Patrick, the staff hand, who read it in a student's letter home - which is odd since he can't read - who had sworn that he saw you and the giant together in the east wing of the castle. I think I remember it was Old Stewart who said that, but then again he is becoming blind and senile at his age. Anyway, rumour has it that you and the warrior are doing you know…Oh my Founder! Is this like in the stories? The forbidden relationship between a magister's familiar and a serving wench! Oh my! I apologise, Siesta, it's not that I'm judging you by calling you a wench or anything. By the stars, how I envy your curves and those marvellous bust! Oh look I'm rambling again."

Siesta fought the urge to bang her head against the stone walls just to shut off her cognitive functions. Moreover, she fought the desire to bang Francesca's head against the wall until all that remained was a bloody stump. Even then she doubted that it would truly silence the blabber mouth. Siesta sighed.

"No, Saito and I are not together as Ann and whoever else are saying. It's all just a misunderstanding. I just happened to be there whenever Miss Valliere's garments needed to be put into the laundry which Saito delivers to me. Sure, we talk and chat but that's all."

Actually, it was Siesta who did the talking while the Spartan just walked on in silence, occasionally responding with answers to her questions. Whenever he talked of his homeland, Saito talked as if he was recounting it from a book. It was informative, of course, but it was frustratingly void of any emotions. He did everything as if he was an automaton, almost as if he really was a golem.

Urgh, why are all men such thick creatures?

"Hmmm, I always thought of him as a taxidermist's project, all stitched-up and brought back to life. I never suspected Miss Valliere of being a necromancer though; she doesn't look like the type. Of course I guess that's the point of these modern-day ne'er-do-wells; they are always the types you least suspect. The more nice and normal they appear, the more likely they'll go off and raise the dead from the local cemetery to take over the known world. He was so kind, they'll say. He was so quiet too they'll add. Never thought he was secretly planning to become the Eternal Liche-master of the New UnDead World Order, ha! Its all in those bigwig broadsheets for those educated types in the cities. Mind you, the Tristain royalty controls them tightly. It's pure suppression of our basic rights! Reminds me of the time when my cousin Betsy in Nouvre…."

Siesta cut her off, "We are servants, Francesca, serfs, we don't have rights. You should also not be talking about the masters like that."

The blonde waved it off. "Specifics. We may be the uneducated masses that grovel under their feet. We may be magic-less servants who have to use our God-given arms to do all the dirty work, but our labours should not be exploited; we control the means of production! Take my hands, Siesta! We the oppressed masses shall raise the banners of revolution and cast down the parasite-class who bleeds dry the very blood of society!"

Siesta rubbed the bridge of her nose in frustration. The eastern farm girl could get heated sometimes. "Francesca, I… I have no idea what you are on about. I honestly cannot comprehend your babble today. I mean, it's even more bizarre than usual. Have you been reading those pamphlets that the students have been passing around?"

Francesca gave an indignant huff. "The teachings of Ulyanov of Simbirsk are revolutionary. What Ulyanov prescribes in his pamphlets and essays is that we shall merge all of Halkegina into a classless society through the pro-, pra-, prolo-, prol-… Potatoes!"

"You just made that up, didn't you?"

"I've read it in the pamphlets, transcribed from the very mouth of Ulyanov himself!"

"Wait, I thought you couldn't read, Francesca?"

"I may have overheard the students talking about them when I made my rounds…" She answered sheepishly. "But that still doesn't diminish my revolutionary spirit!"

Siesta had no way of knowing how in the Founder's name this conversation turned from concerning her and Saito to necromancers and then to revolutionaries. It was also said that those from the southern provinces had a natural knack for steering any conversation away from its original topic. Seems they had perfected it into an art form.

"Look, Francesca, we need to move on with these undergarments. The matron will have our heads if we don't get them back to the masters before mid-"

"Siesta, I need directions." Saito said suddenly.

Holy mother of Bremnir! Where did he come from? Her mind was racing at the very sight of him.

All Siesta managed was a squeal of surprise and dropped her basket. So did Francesca.

"Oh Founder! You scared me!" For a man so huge he could move around like a mouse. She then noticed that the clothing she was carrying had scattered all over the ground. "Look what you have done!"

Saito looked down at the two frightened girls and then at the ground that was now littered in various undergarments.

"Sorry," he said. It was comical how deadpanned his reply was. Siesta figured that this was all that she would get off of him. "Jus- Just help us pick it up!"

The Spartan was already bending down, picking the clothes up. "My mistake, don't worry about it."

He then held both of the baskets in each of his hands as if they were nothing. "Here."

Both the maids gently took them from him. Francesca did so with a little more caution, as if Saito would have struck out and attacked her. When she realised she was alive and whole, Francesca thanked the Spartan.

There was a split second of awkward silence before Siesta spoke. "You were saying something, Saito?"

"The kitchen. I would like to know the directions to it."

"You are awfully tall," Francesca spoke out.

Saito looked down at her. Siesta turned to stare at her, too.

"It's just that outside what the nobles usually conjure, things like golems, dragons, monsters and whatnots you are pretty damn tall, especially for a human. Are you sure you're not a golem? I mean, yes, you are all flesh and blood. I think. Who knows what's underneath that tight suit. You are awfully muscular, too. I would think they would be crafted, like all of those statues I hear of in Heliopolis. What are they made of anyway? My mother is a seamstress, a real one. It looks so flexible, but so…revealing!"

"I- what?" Saito managed to say, dumbfounded and caught off guard by the rapid-burst of questions and comments.

"Well, the rumours around the castle is that you are a-"

"The kitchen is this way," Siesta interrupted, doing the poor girl a favour before she does any more damage. "I'll show you it."

She turned to Francesca. "You have to go back to the matron; I think she would want us to hurry with the clothes, Francesca."

She was about to answer but then she was the glint in Siesta's eyes. An unknown signal told Francesca that to speak any further would be inadvisable. "Ah, right, yes. I just remembered. See you later, Siesta. Bye." With that, she grabbed the clothing baskets and hurriedly ran.

Saito knew enough not to enquire.

"This way please," Siesta said with a smile.

/

The head chef was a big burly man in his forties. His name was Marteau. Saito remembered that this man was the husband of the head matron. It seemed the entire family was part of the service staff for the castle. And why wouldn't they be? Saito heard that the wage of a high servant position was worth as much as a minor noble's income. Good food was hard to come by.

But what was more interesting was Saito's own position in the hierarchy of the castle. He was not wrong that his defeat of Guiche turned the social issue upside down, but it also changed the way that the servants looked at him.

"Our Sword" they had dubbed him. It was funny that even being transported into this world – planet? Universe? He still could not decide - he was still being treated as an object of awe.

Siesta came back with a hot bowl of stew and soft white bread. "My specialty," Marteau said. "It's the exact same thing we served to the noble kids today. I personally think it's wasted on them, but you deserve every helping."

Even with Saito's lack of exposure to good food, he could tell the stew was delicious. Saito tore off a piece of white bread and dipped it into the bowl, soaking up the stew. It was not long before Saito had finished it all. He was hungrier than he had realised.

He was aware that all eyes were on him.

"Hey, mister, can you teach us those moves you used when you fought those golems?"

Saito looked down at the kitchen hand. He was fourteen years old. "Sorry kid, I don't think you are up to the challenge yet."

The boy looked crestfallen. Saito realised that he came off as too arrogant. Perhaps he should've broken it to the kid with a little bit more tact.

"But with the right training and equipment I'm sure you could take on armies."

It was true, if you were to arm a fourteen-year old with a gun and teach him the convictions, he would learn the skills needed so that he could stand up to anyone, even if they were genocidal fanatics. That was what the UNSC had done for three decades.

Marteau patted the boy on the back. "Cheer up, Francis! I don't even think anyone in this castle could do what Our Sword did. You really showed those mages what we commoners could do, eh, Saito?"

"I did what I had to do." Otherwise, Louise won't teach me how to read.

"See! Look at him. This is what a hero is!"

"Our Sword!" The kitchen staff chanted. "Our Sword!"

"I could fetch some water or wine." Marteau suggested. "I believe we have some of Albion's finest wines, fit for a hero!"

He shook his head. "Alcohol is forbidden to be consumed by Spartans." And would probably have the same effect as spring water.

Marteau raised an eyebrow. "What a boring lifestyle choice. They don't even let you have a little bit of fun? Not even for a warrior?"

"Not even the slightest."

/

Colbert noticed that it was late. It was clearly after sundown and he really should be getting back to marking those term papers, but his curiosity and one-tracked mind had him looking for something. That something was about the mysterious warrior known as Saito, the so-called Spartan. He didn't know what he was looking for precisely, but it drove him to continue.

He could find nothing on the subject. There was nothing on any group of warriors called the Spartans, and he definitely couldn't find anything about an "ooennessee". Nothing concrete on worlds beyond the stars or anything related to the fearsome warrior existed in the available texts. But hidden within the folklore dating back to the past six or so thousand years of history was something.

That couldn't be right, though. It was almost certain that what the legends suggested couldn't be correct. It was nothing more than legend; it was all superstitions and fables. They were nothing like the learned modernity of today's intellectual sophistication. Colbert told this to himself.

He needed more references. He needed to find more concrete evidence to go on. He looked at the huge stacks of books and scrolls. There was more work to do.

/

He saw an image of a world covered in metal, a churning sea of quicksilver and a sky filled with a dying sun. A noise, an impossible noise that was only possible if a trillion times a trillion insect all buzzed at once…

That night, in his bastardised suit of Mjolnir power armour, Saito dreamed of a metal planet.

/

Yosh! Finally got this damn chapter finished. Do you guys think that 7k words were a little too much? I'm going to cut down on word length next time.