Regalia Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
The sword was ceremonial. It had traveled to the Far East and back
and halfway around the world the other way. It had been there when nations had crumbled,
when armies had fallen, and when great men had been humbled. It had been there
when powers had aligned and deals had been made and truces had been won. The
sword carried peace with it, be it welcome or not. The sword meant compromise.
It was a symbol and even if they hadn’t seen it before, they knew its worth.
The stories were that well known and widespread.
The sword was ancient. It had been handed down from one emperor to
the next, from one empire to the next. They kept the sword and carried it because
it connected them to the past; it made them a part of something greater. It
legitimized usurpers to the throne. It lent credence to the young and
inexperienced. It bound families and kept alliances true.
When it wasn’t accompanying emissaries and armies, it was placed
on prominent display in the public arena. While well-guarded, and it was very
well indeed, it was still out in the open, for all the people to see. It was
the empire, symbolically and more. It was inspiration. The people could see it.
The people could believe in it. It was displayed without fear, for that was the
strength of the empire.
No one thought the sword had any true power. But of course these
people were wrong. It was a ceremonial sword, but it was so much more. It was a
symbol, of course. It was inspiration. But it held within the power of everyone
that had ever fallen in line and bowed to the kings and to the empire. It
contained within the history of the world, the wars, the triumphs, the brave,
and the fallen. It had been at all the important events, and left its
impression there. And in turn, all those great and triumphant things had left
their mark on the sword. It carried the energy of history, the power of the
moments and the magnitude of the empire. It was the strength of the people,
their resolve, their dedication. It was a symbol of the king. It was the power
of the army. The sword was the empire.
The ship was crossing the vast sea. There had been another enemy.
Another war. Another victory. And as always, there had been another surrender.
There would be negotiations and reparations and soon forces would align and the
blood would be forgotten and a stronger more powerful empire would rise and
grow. And the future would be bright and empire would be bold and the king
would be praised and the country would be profitable and the lives of the
people would be better. But for now there had to be a ceremony and a surrender
and signatures on pieces of paper. And a festival. There was always a feast.
And the sword would be present for it all. It would oversee everything. It
would make sure nothing went wrong. It would be a symbol of the empire’s power,
old and new.
The ships had been attacked as pirates appeared from the nearby
islands. No one attacked the king’s emissaries. Not after a triumph. But
pirates didn’t care for protocol. Even the strongest of nations could be
challenged and caught unprepared at times. The battle was fierce, but the ships
were mostly for ambassadors and hardly equipped for prolonged combat. The
pirates were faster. The pirates were prepared for war. The ships would be
boarded.
The King’s envoy was below deck. He was not a fighter, but he
wanted to live. He took the sword from its case and said a silent prayer. He
believed in the empire. He believed in the king. He believed that the strength
of the empire would give him and the sword strength. The sword was mostly
ceremonial. Today, it would have to be so much more.
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