(Bridge continuation of Duty, Honor, Country.)

Charles pulled up the reigns of his horse sharply, perhaps a bit too sharply as the pair of guards riding with him pulled up short as well. There it was, Navarre, two armies approaching one another the sounds of booted feet thrumming against the hard packed earth was a stirring sight. Banners waving in the breeze the orderly ranks of militia, the less of peasant levies, and the proud baring of the Knights on both sides drawing ever closer.

"Your Majesty," came the voice to his right. It still took Charles a moment to realize they were speaking to him. HIM. A King? It still baffled him how it had all happened, it had been so fast. Trusting in Argorian's wise council he had traveled swiftly to Spain in response to the mysterious letter he had received promising to inform him about the reasons for the continuing attempts on his life. He had been certain it had been a trap, and indeed it had been though not the kind he had envisioned. In a manner that Charles, still had difficulty wrapping his head around the Hart family did have ties to the Spanish thrown going back over a hundred years. It was a distant tie, but strong, and with the Rey abdicating there had been quite a scramble to determine who had the most legitimate claim on the throne made more difficult by the fact that there were armies of thugs banging at the doors for Spanish blood!

"Damn Argorian.." he muttered softly under his breath.

"I'm.... sorry our Majesty?" blinked the confused guard looking at his compatriot with a look of befuddlement plain upon his features.

Charles at least had the decency to look suitably embarrassed. Argorian had accompanied him to Spain, helped him discover the truth, shot an elbow into his ribs when he hesitated excepting, then the two men had shaken hands and he'd run off to become a Templar as they'd had a mind to do together! He gave a slight rueful chuckle at the very thought... well he knew who to give the blame and credit to in equal measure for his current predicament.

"I still do not believe this is wise your Majesty. Let the battle play itself out there is no reason for you to-"

Charles raised a hand and drew a slow steadying breath as he checked his axe and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as the rest of whatever the man had been about to say was cut off short.

"We have driven ourselves to exhaustion getting here on time. If I am to be a King then I shall live and if needed die one. I will not leave those Knights down there to fight and die alone. Are you with me?"

The two guards looked at each other, and then nodded. "We are," not that they had much choice.

Charles smiled then and removed his axe from it's holder and adjusted the familiar weight of his shield onto his other arm. "Come then. It is war, and it wouldn't do to show up late.!"

(***********)
(Hours later, sunset.)

Charles was weary to his core. He knelt on the edge of the battle looking out over the carnage his ears still partly deaf from the sound of it.... horses dying, men screaming, and just the sound the pure cacophony of charging horses slamming into each other. Blood covered him. Some his own, some of it that of men whose names he did not suspect he would ever know, but they had won the day.

He had arrived only moments before the battle had begun taking rank beside Knights who hadn't the foggiest clue who he was, as they had been on campaign when he was crowned and their frantic flight from the coronation to the battle had outpaced even the most dedicated of couriers. There hadn't been time for introductions, just the mad swirling chaos of battle after that. Charles couldn't even remember most of the battle to be entirely honest. Thrust, defend, attack, fallback arrows, spears axes clashing breaking against each other and cleaving flesh from bone. This, this was the end result of war, the true cost when one Nation chose war over peace and decided to attack. He did not yet know what kind of King he was going to be, but he already knew what kind of King he did NOT want to be.

"Are you well my son?" The voice startled Charles for a moment, who had not risen from his knees since the battle had broken up. The head of his axe was grounded against the earth and both his hands lay on top of the grip half supporting his weary battered body. Though if the support was more emotional than physical he did not yet feel able to say. He was aware now, being so interrupted, how dry his mouth was, and how empty was his stomach. He still did not think he'd be able to eat, whenever he thought of food he was reminded of watching a man's guts spill out onto the blood soaked earth.

"I am... uninjured Father.." Charles answered, avoiding part of the question as he took in the sight of the Priest standing there. He was a middle aged man, perhaps some ten to fifteen years older than himself. There was some blood on his hands and his ropes, and a bundle of what appeared to be bandages at his side... helping the wounded then.. Charles should be grateful there were men doing such things, and he was, but for one moment he could not help but wish to see this pale unassuming form replaced by some warrior-monk of legend. A fanciful notion, yes and one soon banished, but Charles was too honest with himself to deny the thought.

"I see," the Priest didn't say anything more right then, just handed Charles a skin of water which he gulped from greedily washing the grime and the dust from his parched throat.

"Tell me Father, is this the will of God?" Charles asked nodding out over the remains of the battlefield, his stomach turning again at the sight of several vultures battling over scraps of dead carrion that used to be men of his and the Imazighen's army. Christian or heathen the birds were, apparently unable to tell the difference. Perhaps there was some maudlin wisdom in that, but this was not the time or place to ponder what it might be.

"My Son, men... even Kings, have been asking men of God that for far longer than you or I care to think about." The Priest paused then, placing a hand on his shoulder, "And I can but give you the same answer that is always given. We do not say what is God's will, for who can know the mind of such? We do what in our hearts we are moved to believe is His will and try to make the best judgments that we can with that principal in mind. Your charge before God was to defend your faith and your People, you have done this."

"Have I Father.... or is this just the beginning?" Charles sighed softly and shook his head, struggling to his feet as best he could, the surviving member of his guard, one arm in a sling, moved to help support him but was waved away quickly. He was exhausted, and battle sore, but he would not be helped around like some invalid.

"Another question for which I have no answer. Put your Faith in God your Majesty, it is there you will find your answers."

Charles looked at the priest for a moment and nodded, moving off in the direction of the Camp where the Spanish army was regrouping after the battle. Tomorrow, next week, next month he did not doubt this war would continue. But one day it would end. He would lead Spain as best he could, duty compelled him to make this new homeland... stronger than he found it. To lead it into the next chapter of history. And to be ready to wreck bloody vengeance on the bastards who dared attack Her. The thought seemed to give strength back to his weary muscles as he entered the camp, he would pay the butcher's bill, but he would never give up a single inch of Spanish land to remain under an invader's control. If it was war the enemy wanted, it was war they would have.