Year ???
The glories of the past could not be replicated by the future for one simple reason: the past carried the glamour of memories and stories, while the present was vain and dull. And the future… the future was unknown.
These words ran through Han's mind as he watched, with unease, the spectacle unfolding before him. Thousands of men, dressed in robes embroidered with precious gems, carried musical instruments so beautiful they seemed meant to be admired rather than played.
Behind them, more than a thousand men armed with swords and shields made their way forward, following the bards and minstrels—men as tall as doors and as sturdy as trees, their expressions hidden beneath ruddy flesh that concealed a strength and courage reminiscent of ancient heroes. Behind them came a third procession, the most spectacular in the eyes of the crowd: hundreds of women—maidens and servants alike—danced rhythmically in a hypnotic motion, their gauze and perfumed tunics, their skin bathed in oils and balms, shining like ivory before the enraptured gaze of all present.
And leading that procession, in a carriage drawn by enormous white horses with long manes like a snow-covered mountain range, stood a man. He was fair-skinned and handsome; his hair bore a bright green hue, like young grass, while his skin was clear and pristine. His features were sharp despite his delicate and graceful appearance, especially in contrast to the tall, bronzed men who surrounded him with respect and adoration.
Surrounded by men and women who sang and wept with emotion at his presence, Han could not help but feel somewhat foolish. Yet despite this, he rose from his throne, and with him rose dozens of men and women, all sworn to the service of Tara and the Empyrean.
—Oh, great lord of Maeve, what brings you to the humble domains of my clan?—he said in a powerful voice that made the very air tremble. He was old, yes, but not weak; his voice was his greatest weapon, as well as his greatest burden. Once he lost it, perhaps nothing would remain of him.
But this would not be the day that happened.
—Ha, ha, ha!—the laughter sounded both mocking and praising at once. The green-haired man's expression lit up like a radiant sun.—You brighten my day by allowing me to hear your voice once more, Great Filiad. Perhaps only you are worthy of my fanfare.
Han Qing, the supreme Filiad of all Midgard, smiled faintly as he felt the gaze filled with arrogance, but also with a respect that only youth can have for the previous generation—though that respect was born from the desire to surpass them.
—I am honored, Your Majesty Chuhan; it is a privilege that you seek an audience with this old man.—Han Qing's expression was calm, almost frozen in time. He was old, very old; some said he was over five centuries old, others claimed far more. Unfortunately, in his pride, he had chosen to keep his age a mystery.
A mystery easily solved if one read the detailed genealogies of his clan, as with many others. His wrinkled skin and bald head, like that of an ancient tree, were darkened by the marks of time, while a long, well-kept beard fell to his chest, giving him a suitably wise appearance.
Chuckling lightly, the lord of the lands of Maeve spoke again, this time revealing his purpose for the visit:
—I have heard much of the wisdom of the Filiad, and I did not believe it until I heard many of them recite from memory all the legends of the ancient kings of Tara and the sacred Hegemons. If it were not for them, the long history of the Fey race and Midgard would have been lost in the river of time.
His words, spoken with such ease and charm, made many of his disciples and apprentices nod slightly. Perhaps, if not for the grand procession behind him, Han Qing might have believed him. Unfortunately, that was not the nature of the lords of Midgard.
A tremor rippled through the air as Chuhan unsheathed a sword. The expressions of Han's disciples filled with fear; his son stepped forward, perhaps intending to confront the lord of Maeve. But Han felt no fear. If a fight was what this lord sought, then a fight he would have. To his disappointment, that was not the case.
—Do you recognize this sword, great sage?—he shouted with a commanding voice that, by now, carried no trace of respect toward one of the oldest figures in all Midgard.
Even so, Han could not answer. He recognized it—how could he not? It was as ancient as the very name of Midgard; older than his kingdom and his lineage. It was an ancestral treasure that only the blood heirs of those ancient heroes could wield. It was a sword, yet shaped like a dagger—though of considerable size: its blade stretched over two meters in length, and for the High Lord of Maeve, who stood at two meters thirty, it was still a feat to wield it.
For in his veins flowed the blue blood of the Feysir, alongside the green blood of the Feynir. That sword, whose name echoed across Maeve—and perhaps all of Midgard, even the mortal realm—
—Sky Matritensi—Han murmured in a distant tone.
The lord's smile widened.
—Its name is known to you, even, oh great sage. But do you know its story? The stories of my ancestors—every verse, every battle, every feat?
Chuhan's smile stole Han Qing's breath away, as did the words that followed:
—Do you know, great sage, the full history of the Circle of Ashwood and Iron?