The glories of the past could not be replicated by the future for the simple reason that the past held 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, clad in togas embroidered with precious gems, bearing in their hands musical instruments so beautiful they seemed made to be admired rather than played.
Following them, over a thousand men armed with swords and shields made their way behind the bards and minstrels; men as large as doors and robust as trees, with expressions hidden behind reddish flesh that concealed a fortitude and bravery reminiscent of ancient heroes. Behind them came a third retinue, the most spectacular in the eyes of the crowd: hundreds of women, maidens as well as other servants, danced rhythmically in a mesmerizing movement while their gauzes and perfumed tunics, and their skin bathed in oils and balms, shone an ivory white to the entranced eyes of all present.
And leading that retinue, in a carriage drawn by enormous white horses with manes as long as a snowy mountain range, was a man. He was a man of fair complexion and beautiful features; his hair was a bright green hue, like young grass, while his skin was pale and pristine. His features were hard despite his delicate and graceful appearance compared to the tall, tanned men who surrounded him with respect and adoration.
Surrounded by men and women singing and weeping with emotion at being in his presence, Han could not help but feel somewhat foolish; yet, he rose from his throne, and with him rose dozens of men and women, all Filiads in the service of Tara and the Empyrean.
"Oh, Great Lord of Maeve, what brings you to the humble domains of my clan?" he said with a potent 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 lost, perhaps nothing would remain of him.
But this would not be the day that happened.
"Ha, ha, ha!"—the laughter sounded like a mockery and praise at the same time. The green-haired man's expression lit up like a radiant sun. "You bring joy to my day by allowing me to hear your voice again, Great Filiad. Perhaps only you are worthy of my fanfare."
Han Qing, the Supreme Filiad of all Midgard, smiled slightly upon feeling the gaze full of arrogance, but also of a respect that only youth can hold toward the previous generation; although that respect came from the very feeling of new generations surpassing the old.
"I am flattered, Your Majesty Chuhan; it is an honor that you desire an audience with this old man." Han Qing held a calm expression, almost frozen in time. He was ancient, very ancient; some said he was over five centuries old, others spoke of much longer. Unfortunately, in his pride, he had preferred to keep his age a mystery.
A mystery easily solved if one read the detailed genealogies of his clan, like that of many others. His wrinkled skin and bald head, like that of an old tree, were darkened with age spots, while a long, well-groomed beard fell to his chest, giving him a sufficiently wise appearance.
Laughing lightly, the Lord of the lands of Maeve spoke again, this time revealing his motive for an audience: "I have heard much of the wisdom of the Filiads, 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. Were it 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, were it not for the great retinue behind him, Han Qing would have believed him. Unfortunately, such were not the lords of Midgard.
A tremor resonated in the air when Chuhan unsheathed a sword. The expressions of his disciples filled with fear; his son stepped forward, perhaps thinking to face the Lord of Maeve. But Han had no fear; if a fight was what this lord sought, a fight he would have. To his disappointment, he did not seek a fight.
"Do you recognize this sword, Great Sage?" he shouted with a commanding voice that by this point lacked any respect toward one of the most ancient figures in all Midgard.
Even so, he could not answer. He recognized it; how could he not recognize that sword? It was as ancient as the name of Midgard itself; it was older than his kingdom and his lineage. It was an ancestral treasure that only the blood heirs of those ancient heroes were capable of wielding. It was a sword, but it had the shape of a dagger, though of considerable size: its blade reached over two meters long, which for the High Lord of Maeve, who stood two meters thirty, was an achievement to wield.
Because in his veins ran the blue blood of the Feysir, alongside the green blood of the Feynir. That sword, whose name resonated throughout Maeve and perhaps all of Midgard, if not the entire mortal realm.
"Sky Matritensi," Han murmured in a lost tone.
The smile on the Lord's face widened: "Its name is known to you, even, oh Great Sage. But do you know its history? The stories of my ancestors, every verse, every battle, every feat."
Chuhan's smile left Han Qing breathless, as did the words that followed: "Do you know, Great Sage, the entire history of the Cycle of Ash and Iron?"