Reclamation of Sovereignty

[MaXenzie]

Reclamation of Sovereignty

Dylan had gotten used to the stench of death. As he sat amidst corpses in this ramshackle barracks, his trousers around his ankles as a cleric mended the hole in his thigh, he ruminated on that fact. Surely, he thought, that you would never get used to the sight, nor smell, nor touch of the dead, and the rotting. But familiarity breeds contempt, he decided, looking on at his fellow men, lifting and dragging the bodies of Combine soldiers out of the room.
“You don’t need to help,” they reminded him, warm smiles upon their strained faces as they pulled each cadaver out from the room, and piled them up outside. Dylan glanced over to the headless body of a Civil Protection officer, grimacing through the scent of iron, and blood. Malcolm picked up the body, ignorant of the fountain of blood that ran down his back as he began to move it.

Dylan looked to the cleric.
“Not long, now,” the robed figure reminded him. “This one will be in fighting condition within minutes.” Dylan leaned his head back, and sighed.
“Any permanent damage?” Dylan asked the cleric.
“No. This one will limp for some time, but repeated visits will alleviate this,” the cleric nodded. Dylan looked over to the wound, squinting in bemusement as the hole in his leg tightened until it had vanished completely. There wasn’t even any scar tissue to indicate he had been wounded at all. The cleric stood, Dylan rising soon after him. “We will return to our flock. Be safe,” the cleric ordered softly, before turning, and leaving. Dylan took a step forward, before tripping on his own trousers, and almost collapsing.

After lifting his trousers up, and tightening the belt, he moved for the door. He stepped outside, and into London. A radio played Sweet Caroline faintly in the distance. He could hear squads of men drunkenly singing it not too far away. His knight, Gawain, was waiting for him, a firm, dignified smile upon his tight, and scarred lips.
“How’s the leg?” he asked as Dylan approached.
“Better,” Dylan answered.
“Good, good,” Gawain nodded. There was a long moment of silence, as the topic petered out. Then, he took a sharp breath. “You heard we’re reestablishing parliament?” he inquired.
“No?” Dylan’s head tilted somewhat, like a confused dog.
“Renaming it to the Round Table, as you’d expect. The king decreed that everyone at the table is equal, regardless of their rank outside of it.”
“I don’t think everyone would fit inside the House of Commons to get around the table,” Dylan dryly remarked. Gawain chuckled in response.
“First meeting’s soon. Just the knights and Merlin, at the moment. Who knows, maybe we’ll get more tables in future, eh?” he laughed. “Little tables for the squires and clerics, too.” With that, he marched away.

Dylan looked around. The speed of the spearhead assault minimized collateral damage. London was, save for all the dead and dying remnants of the Combine, intact. He could see prisoners of war getting rounded up by knights. Civil Protection and soldiers alike were made to sit on the curb of a nearby cafe as each was documented by name and tagline. The idea of a soldier surrendering was laughable to the young squire, but seeing it in person made him uneasy. Surely, the topic of what to do with them would come up in the upcoming session of parliament. Amongst other things. Like Wales.

Dylan grimaced. The ports of Wales made it a point of extreme strategic importance for the Combine. With the loss of London, they’d surely call for reinforcements there, and push East to reclaim England. He trusted his king with the handling of this delicate situation, but he was fervently uncomfortable with the looming threat that cast a shadow upon both himself and his friends. Like the Sword of Damocles, Britannia had achieved much power with the recapturing of London, but that power has come with an immense cost. Security. Safety. He saw a congregation of squires from Squad Galahad, and moved to accompany them. He wasn’t sure where his squad were, but presumed they were already with Gawain. Best to catch up, he thought.

The House of Commons was a veritable fortress of Combine technology and infrastructure. Members of the Civil Authority were being pulled out of the building by clerics and squires, made to sit with the conscripts and guards nearby. They were a snivelling, pathetic little sight to behold. Dylan understood the emotions, though. The same as what he felt when the Combine pushed him over his edge, and down the pit of resistance. He hoped, in the back of his mind, that these people would be able to reintegrate into society. He imagined, more cynically, that they wouldn’t, and that they’d be put to the sword in due time. Orders were given. Dylan followed them to the letter.

He stood outside the chamber, guarding the set of doors that led inside with shotgun in hand. He watched as the knights approached. Gawain nodded softly to him as he passed. Then Galahad, Tristan, Percival, Lancelot… Then King Arthur himself. The armour-clad being moved with unnatural grace for such a frame, his blood-soaked armour glistening as though untouched. He held his helmet under his arm, his blade sheathed upon his hip. He came to a stop moment before passing Dylan, and looked over to him. His eyes glanced down, then back up to meet the squire.
“How is the leg?” he asked.
“Better,” Dylan quickly answered. Arthur smiled softly, and stepped into the chamber. The door slammed shut behind him with a thundering roar that echoed down the corridor. Dylan rested his back against the doorway, easing the pressure off his injured leg. He didn't want to limp his way through the next inevitable battle.

“The recovery of Albion begins not with the shedding of blood, but with the appointment of those under God.”​