I know there is a lot of confusion about what is going on now in the story, but do not worry, you will be filled in very soon. Hermione will come in later on. This is a romance, remember? This chapter is not as long as the last, but please enjoy.
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Chapter 3 -- Battle At The Gate
"Frock is being notified now about the invasion." One of the two paladin say as they all run down the halls. They run at a hurried pace, though the paladin's do not breathe any heavier like Ron and Harry do.
"No." Ron replies loudly in a puff of breath. He stumbles forward in his slight drunken haze, but quickly regains himself. Harry looks at him strangely.
"Do not inform Frock." Ron says it firmly this time, a spark in his eyes. The paladins give a questioning glance to Harry for a confirmation, and Harry nods to them.
"We will go ahead." The paladins say in unison. They sprint out of sight down the hall and into the large entry hall where the palace doors are.
Harry and Ron evade the palace guards and knights scrambling to get to the front doors of the palace to ward off the attack of invaders. Harry leads Ron to the artillary room, and they dress in plate armor, much similar to paladin's armor. Plate is stronger than metal, and lighter as well. They move quickly down the freshly lit halls, for night is advancing rather quickly on this day.
They reach the front doors of the palace, and they are open wide. All available men stand crowding outside. They are divided in groups, and their commander is giving them orders. No words come clear to him, so he completely ignores the yelling.
Harry then notices Ron's fifty knights outside as well, standing out in their teal armor. Ron's knight's are, Harry knows, very well trained and the best of all of his other men. A few of his knights stand out to be druids, a magical creature that can fight magnificently in battle and weild magic. Their skins have a bluer hue than a human's, and their maximum height is three feet taller than an average knight. They are beautiful and graceful in battle, and to watch one fight is an extrardinary experience.
Ron befriended the druids soon after he became king, and they helped him with his inexperience and being a young king. James, on the other hand, despised the race. Harry remembers his father refusing to aid the druids when Ron asked for assistance, only a few years before the war. It surprised Harry to find out that the druids were fighting for Ron when Ron was allied with James.
The druids are a small but powerful clan, living in solitude. They are known to be humble and quite comical, brave and adventurous. Many are experts at handling a bow and arrow. Whatever task they take up, they work to their full potential. Being allys with the druids is a smart move, Harry thinks to himself. The two he sees are standing tall and graceful, a bow strung around one's back while a dagger hangs from the other's waist.
The gates rattle and shake, and the Juxert army behind them scream with all their fury. The sound reaches Harry's ears, and he grips the handle of his sword, blood pouring in his veins. He cannot hear, for his heart pounds relentlessly into his ears, and he slowly loses sensation in his fingers. A dull ache begins to form in the pit of his abdomen, and he sucks in a deep breath to help stall the feeling. He closes his eyes, and emotions surge and twist. Paint is thrown on a canvas from behind his eyelids, and they illustrate a masterpiece of death. He reopens his eyes and stares at the palace gates, praying for them to open.
Ron leaves his side, pushing his way through the crowd of knights and paladins to his group of men and two druids. Harry scarcely notices this, for his conscious is far off. He has a sudden itch to be right infront of the gates which he cannot break his eyes from. His fingers twitch, and his jaw tenses from being clenched. The air is cool on the hot, tender flesh of his neck and cheeks, for he does not wear a helmet. The sun is dying in the horizon, and the sky's hues turn dark. No clouds litter the skies.
Harry unshealths his sword, holding it in both hands. His eyes scan the shining metal, taking in every detail of the sword he has sat and stared at for many nights in the past. A line of crimson runs down the center of the blade starting from the hilt and ending at the tip. The metal above the hilt of the sword is pure gold about an inch thick, and it is hot to his touch. The hilt itself is fine leather, worn from endless days of training.
Harry grips the hilt of the sword, thrusting it high above his head to pierce the night sky. A roar rips from his throat, and all eyes turn to him. The adrenaline begins to pump in his veins as the gates barge open and men pour through.
"Leave no one alive." The hoarse roar from Harry's throat tears his insides apart. Paladins, knights, and druids shout their approval, turning to face the enemies who barge in through the gates. Harry's entire composition breaks, and he throws himself into the sea of fighting. He rushes toward the front lines, where he so longs to be. He slices through a Juxert soldier, and the adrenaline makes him mad. The ground thumps with the corpse, and he continues to swing his sword. Crimson blood rolls over his knuckles, and his heart thumps hard against his ribcage. The blood is hot and seering his skin.
A scream erupts from his throat. Harry plunges his sword through a man's heart, and he watches the man's eyes roll into the back of his head as he falls to the ground. Harry steps on the man's stomach and tears the sword from his chest, laughing manically from the emotion coursing his veins.
"Harry, get out of there!" Ron's voice is clear, but far off. Harry ignores him, running further towards the gates to a group of three Juxert men who hold their swords ready. Harry smirks at them, and their arms falther. Harry takes their moment of hesitation to cut their heads clean off. They land with a disgusting thud at his feet, and he kicks one of them.
"Dirty bastards." He mutters as he steps on a head of another man, satisfied when he hears the cracking beneath his steel boots. More Juxert soldiers run towards him, but his men come rushing by his side, taking his kills. Anger boils his blood, and he pushes through his men, wanting to be at the front. He is desperate and jealous that his men fight for him, rather than him fighting for his empire. He thrusts his sword to another man's death, and blood splatters onto his cheek. Harry stands straight, flicking his tongue towards the blood on his cheek to taste it. He feels perverted as he does so, and the thought lifts his spirit.
"Harry, get out of there." Ron is behind him now, and Harry feels a force driving him backwards. He struggles against the power, and the hand holding him suddenly crosses his chest for a better grip. Harry grunts, and all his resistance fails. He holds his sword in his right hand while his left tugs at the arm.
"Let me go!" Harry screams, his eyes coming out of his head. Pressure builds in his belly to the point where he feels he will vomit if he does not return to the battle.
"Idiot!" Ron shrieks at him, and his hold is more violent now.
"Leave me, Ron!" Harry kicks and wiggles his head, pulling on Ron's arm. He feels wetness dripping down his neck. He touches it, and brings it to his gaze, seeing his own blood on his fingertips. Pain shoots through his body as the metal of Ron's armor continues to dig into his flesh.
Ron drags him up the stairs of the palace with incredible strength, finally letting him go at the top. Harry falls on his rear, then he lays back completely on the icy stone. He stares up at Ron's face. Both of their eyes are ablaze, their tempers at their peaks.
"You will stay back here." Something in Ron's voice causes Harry's insides to churn, but he forces it away. He doesn't nod, and Ron walks around him. Harry pushes himself up to his feet, and he glances at Ron's back. Ron watches the battle taking place before them. Harry coughs, and the pressure in his belly overflows, and acid burns his throat. He bends over and tears form in his eyes.
Harry listens to the wails of men dying as he stands, wiping his eyes and mouth. He clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly to ease the dulling ache in his belly. His eyes follow the gleam of swords as they swing and soar through the air. His heart leaps each time someone is killed brutally, and blood splatters in the air. He longs to be back in battle, and then something inside of him snaps, breaking into a million pieces.
"This is why I don't come with you to the battles." Harry screams, and Ron turns fully to face him. His face is hard and serious, his lips turning to a scowl, and his eyes are narrowed. Harry had dubbed this look Ron's Battle Glare, for he does it everytime they are on the battlefield, but in this moment he did not care.
"You cannot rush in like a fool, Harry! You could have killed yourself. They will win if you die." Ron walks towards him as he speaks, and his voice is dangerously low now. Harry shakes his head ferociously, his hair matted with blood and sweat.
"I won't get killed. I know how to weild a sword. It's in my blood. I can fight, Ron, better than you. You will die before me in battle." Harry's voice vibrates within his chest, not easing the ache he feels, only electrifying it. Ron's face twists in fury.
"You fight along side Frock when I refuse to join the battle. You have no children, either, Ron. Don't tell me what I can and cannot do. You may be older than me, but that means nothing." Harry pauses for a moment. His face is hot, and fresh beads of sweat form on his forehead though the air is chilled, "This is my war too, and I will fight in it. It is my duty. If you're so goddamned paranoid like my father was that I will die, then you can come fight along side me, but do not humiliate me again, because I will not hesitate to use my sword to cause your death."
Ron's eyes are on fire, and Harry can see the flames leaping deep within the green orbs. Finally, Ron steps aside, revealing the battle that continues to rage. Irritation and anger continue to rest on his shoulders as Harry's eyes dance. He turns and walks to where his sword lay, and after bending to pick it up, he walks briskly towards the steps of the palace. He purposefully bumps his shoulder roughly against Ron's. Their metal clanks powerfully, and sparks fall from their shoulders. Harry runs down the steps to where men are dying, and his sword is high over his head.
The ache is dull in his belly now, but when he swings his sword and blood flies; the adrenaline kicks in and all consciousness is lost. His arms move on their own accord, and he hears the wails of defeat.
Hours pass since the fighting began. Beams of moonlight shine through the clear night to illuminate the area of battle. Lights from the palace cause the area to be brighter. The stench of death is thick in the air, and blood stings Harry's nostrils. Few men are standing now, mostly those in red and blue armor. The ache in Harry's belly is finally quieted. His eyes wander from corpse to corpse, mentally etching the brutality in his mind. The ground is drenched with blood, and his hands are stained forever with sin. He reshealths his sword, and his shoulders sag forward, for he lets the exhaustion overcome him.
He sees the blurry outline of Ron's figure a few yards infront of his staggering frame; light surrounding his body. Harry walks towards him, tripping over the bodies and his own feet. He slips a few times, and barely recovers himself. Blood runs down his forehead and over his temples. Ron's figure gets larger, but as he gets closer his image becomes more fuzzy. Harry reaches towards him, and then he feels a strange sensation of falling. Wind races past his ears, and then he hits his head, falling into unconscious.
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Author's Note:
Tell me what you think. Also, I was told that I need a beta reader. If anyone is interested, e-mail me. Thank you, I appreciate it.