Knight and Sword [To Galbaginus, My Brother Not of Blood. Comrade. Friend.]
To Galbaginus,
My brother not of blood. Comrade in arms. Friend.
The parchment letter was still warm, tucked inside a leather case that the messenger had carried close to his chest for hours. The script was bold and large, the content concise. One could say it was exactly the kind of words and handwriting befitting Dominus Artorius. To sense a man's power even in his writing—what a remarkable talent. Back in Eboracum, Galbaginus had thought there was only one person in the world capable of such a feat.
"Uh, Comes. Should I hand this over now—"
"Hold."
Content mattered more than form, in the end. When judging bloodlines' importance in Britannia through the lens of ties to Rome, Vortigern naturally came first. But if measuring by how deeply rooted a family was in this land, houses like Merlinus of Londinium or Comes Uterius of Camulodunum took precedence. Thus, broadly speaking, the lineage of this Eboracum "House Lot"—a collateral branch of the Botadii tribe and heirs to the druid line—could rightly claim second place in Britannia across all measures. Honestly, the direct Botadii house of Deva Victrix, represented by Eturnus—no, now Cunedagius—had long been Roman allies to the point of seeming semi-independent. That was why Eboracum had always ranked as Britannia's second.
In any case, born the firstborn of such a distinguished house, Galbaginus had been steeped in formalities from childhood. Even eating bread or drinking wine followed a strict order—something that would make a rascal like Caius scoff and retort, Don't make me laugh. That green, unripe boy like a half-sour apple was now leading Romano-British troops, spearheading the expedition across the western sea to Hibernia. Had time truly flown by so fast?
Come to think of it, everything had accelerated right after meeting Dominus Artorius. Perhaps because every moment had been a thrill-packed chain of challenges and triumphs. And even more exhilarating was the realization that, standing by his side, far more such days lay ahead.
Form over substance? No—substance over form. Galbaginus could sum up everything related to Dominus Artorius in that one brief sentence. Just like this handwritten letter.
"I shall show the Dominus the respect he deserves. Messenger, stand fast."
"Yes, sir! Comes!"
Galbaginus carefully folded the letter and handed it to a household servant standing by, then straightened his tunic. He slowly dropped to one knee, bowing his head toward the long wooden case resting on the trembling messenger's hands.
"Knight Galbaginus. There is no greater honor than this, Dominus noster."
Knight. A strange word he'd never heard before in his life. After Wolfmaer the Angle and Hereward the Saxon raider joined, the Dominus had taken to borrowing their traditions and terms more often, so Galbaginus had wondered if this was another barbarian word. But even Wolfmaer and Hereward claimed they'd never heard it. So it must be the Dominus freely adapting some eastern savage term. He often muttered incomprehensible words to himself. Everyone already knew the names of the horses pulling the Dominus's chariot: Mayberrycus, Ochucus, and the like.
Galbaginus was certain that if a child were born between the Dominus and Domina Guinevere, she would claim a strong say in naming it.
"Heh."
The thought drew a chuckle from him. Still on one knee, head bowed, with the crowd gathered at Eboracum's south gate all watching, Galbaginus pondered Artorius once more.
Truth be told, Artorius the man wasn't perfect. A fellow who grabbed people like rats with a club from the start could hardly be called a flawless person. There wasn't a shred of the church's preached mercy in that club. Yet why had Britannia's finest swordsmen all flocked to his banner? Setting aside raw combat, how had this wild man—clumsier than Galbaginus himself, despite years of noble training—ascended to Britannia's de facto king?
Galbaginus believed the answer lay in the letter he'd just received and the sword the quaking messenger bore. Artorius was undeniably clumsy, constantly defying traditions... but instinctively, he knew how to lead people. And that circled back to essence, leading to this conclusion:
If the ultimate goal of Rome's institutions, traditions, and noble culture—centuries of imperial study—was to produce true rulers by observing, examining, and learning from past kings... then Artorius proved that those fit to wear the crown were born, not made. How many mad emperors had the Empire endured? Honorius was downright mild compared to the true lunatics. Emperors, kings, barbarians by any name—true leaders were simply born that way. Traditions, systems, education merely guided that raw material effectively in the right direction.
No amount of teaching could turn a natural wastrel like Galbaginus into anything else. He'd run off young, joined some giant's service, and spent his days brawling.
Shk—
He slowly extended his arm, relieving the convulsing messenger of his burden at last.
"Well done, messenger."
"Y-Yes, sir!"
Crack!
The messenger saluted with shaking limbs and hurried off, leaving Galbaginus alone. Travelers and wagons entering from the south halted, murmurs fading as they wondered what had transpired.
Galbaginus opened the case and drew forth the sword. A long longsword, a finger—or a handspan—longer than his usual. A ceremonial blade, then? Meant for rituals?
"Hardly."
Another noble might send such, but not Artorius. To the Dominus, a sword unfit for cutting was meaningless dross.
Shing—
Gripping the hilt, he drew it slightly. It slid free without resistance.
"...!?"
Something was off. But first, draw it fully.
Shring—
With a pleasing friction, the blade emerged completely—and it was breathtaking. Not quite matching Beduerus's, but to a noble like Galbaginus, sword enthusiast, its hue was unprecedented. Pure white. Not gleaming silver like a polished parade blade, but snowflake white.
Galbaginus stared, entranced, only realizing as his gaze traveled from tip to hilt that he'd held this long sword one-handed all along.
"...Light."
Like a twig? No, a wooden bowl. Unbelievable. Was the blade not steel, but some other material? Truly just ornamental?
Shing!
Habitually, he drew his everyday sword from his belt and thrust it into the soft earth. The well-worn hilt gleamed; without pause, he swung horizontally.
Clang!
Sparks flew with the metallic ring. In a flawless, economical stance, Galbaginus's blade traced a clean line, slicing the steel—not bending or snapping it, but parting it like flesh. The resistance felt through both hands? Like swatting leaves with a branch.
"..."
He'd accepted something he shouldn't have.
"Dominus."
This public display was deliberate on Galbaginus's part. Artorius was an instinctive ruler; even without overt intent, his actions always drew in subordinates and bent wills. This was no different. Creating the odd title of "knight" out of nowhere was the same.
There was reason Britannia—rudderless after mad Honorius's abandonment—had reborn under Artorius in under a year.
Galbaginus had planned this: publicly receive the Dominus's sword, proclaim himself knight, advertise House Galbaginus's ties to Artorius, elevate his house, reaffirm the Dominus's supremacy.
All that effort paled before this single sword. Now Galbaginus trembled.
The knight glared at the blade as if it might devour him, then called to the distant messenger.
"Did the Dominus say anything else?"
"..."
"I'm asking you, messenger."
"Yes! Y-Yes! It was a bit cryptic to relay verbatim, but I remember it all!"
"Speak it. Every word."
"A sword hotter than it looks, with a fierce temper...! He spoke to it like conversing, and said it suits you perfectly, Comes Galbaginus!"
Galbaginus understood perfectly. He hefted the sword and struck down hard. The white trail seemed to challenge him: Do you deserve to wield me? Show me your skill.
"Haha!"
Beduerus taught efficient strikes; Galbaginus delighted in flashy feints and tricks. Dazzling. The knight's blade flashed like the sun.
Mid-swing, he glanced toward the city center. There stood his father and the town's notables, eyes wide. But Galbaginus sought one: his mother. Seeing her faint smile and nod, an old prophecy from his conception surfaced unbidden.
"Gwalhmei, unconquered beneath the sun."
He named the sword.
"I don't know if you'll like it, but you're mine now. Galatina. So decreed our Dominus."
A name drawn from words for light and dawn suited the white blade perfectly. Radiant Sword Galatina. It gleamed as if approving.
"ProtegIa?"
"Yes, Dominus."
"...Hm. Naming's free rein, sure, but isn't it too stiff? Plenty cooler options."
"If you bestow one, I'll accept gratefully."
"Oh? What then?"
Savoring a rare leisurely day, I sat with Beduerus at the garden table before our house, enjoying wine time. Gazing at the serene winter lake while sipping—surprisingly, this simple ritual brought great emotional calm.
Speaking of names! I'd personally fetched Britannia's finest smith, used lake-granted iron forged by the Lady's method to craft swords. Astonishingly, each blade left me bedridden. The process was so complex I barely grasped it, let alone explain—but roughly, the Lady channeled immense power through me and the lake into the iron ingots via water... Like embodying an overwhelming god. No act to repeat lightly.
But who am I? A man with a steel-hard body and unyielding spirit! Armed with robust soul, I ground through it, producing two swords. Resting days, then prepping iron for the third.
These soul-forged blades were for my knights—especially my top picks. The first, naturally, for him: Beduerus's share.
"How about Left Arm, for the sword's name?"
"Pfft!"
Beduerus, raising his glass with his right arm, sprayed wine long. He covered his mouth, stared bewildered, then burst into mad laughter.
"Kuhuhu—wahaha!"
A stranger might call it insanity, but we'd seen every horror together, rolling in blood, sweat, filth on battlefields. Such jests comforted, amused.
"Perfect name, Dominus. And fitting... Might even outvalue my lost left arm."
Shing!
With one arm, he drew the slender blade smoothly, gazing entranced. As my firstborn knight, it was heavy from birth. An eldest-son sword? Even now, the dark gray blade on his palm exuded crushing presence.
"We'll call it Left Arm—just between us. Officially, ProtegIa."
"Stubborn."
ProtegIa. Meaning "guardian." Henceforth, protector sword. Perfect for Beduerus.
A fine name.