"Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. Remember thee!" - Hamlet (I.5.102-104)
Four hundred years since I last stood among the flashing fire and clashing steel of battle. Although the players and the field have shifted, I find that the rules have not.
Control. That's what this game requires. In this contest of wills, mindless strength will only reveal me too soon, and excessive trickery will only paint me a fool. Control. Patience. Discretion. These will triumph, even in the last hand of the night. Even in the final engagement.
The Order of the Dragon has worn then cast aside several masks since the century of my birth. A parasite that controls the host, the Lizard gravitates to the powerful organizations of the times. The Church was their main vessel for many years, until the Reformation. The leech tried to jump ship to the Protestant Church, but its leaders were too wary of that reeking corruption on those slimy claws. Instead, the Order turned to commerce. The Hounorable East India Company did not conquer India of its own accord.
There was a great deal of power in industry, and like a glutton standing before a feast, like an alcoholic with a wine cellar open to him, the Order gorged itself. It became fat and comfortable and hungrier than ever. It spread its grasping talons through the business world, latching on to everything that looked promising. In the gleaming reptilian eye of the Dragon, oil shined brightest.
They have placed all their chips in a future driven by slippery black gold, with every engine a currency printer dispensing paper power right into their pockets.
I have been a general and a tactician since the age of 15, and this is a gross error. It is clear the Order has not faced a true challenge since they decided I was too cumbersome a puppet and punished me. That, too, was a mistake. Killing makes fewer enemies. Scare tactics multiply them.
I was raised in a court of masks and lies, the natural environment for cultivating a prince. This modern England is simple in comparison, like playing checkers after years of chess. And I was always very good at chess. The strategies are almost too easy, made more engaging by the limitations of my curse, but also by its capabilities. I capture their pieces one at a time, planning dozens of moves ahead of an opponent who has barely realized we have started to play.
Control. Patience. Discretion. These are my greatest allies.
Yet I abandon them, leaving my senses in a dungeon cell, screaming to escape, for Her.
She strips away my every guard, peels away the layers of masks with a simple look. Her touch is so electric, my heart almost beats. She is innocent danger. In this intricate dance I play with the Dragon, She causes me to stumble when I can least afford it.
All we did was dance.
Nothing could have been more horrifying.
My cards bled just a drop, and for one moment my soul could be seen through the window of my eyes. She is more valuable the me than oil is to the Order, and now She is known to them. I have taught them how to wield a powerful weapon. They will not hesitate to use Her if they find reason; I learned that beside a blazing fire four centuries ago. It was a frustrating gap in discipline and an appalling lack of discretion that slipped valuable information to my enemies, but that was not the worst aspect of that waltz.
The most wonderful part of that evening was when I blinked, and She was Ilona again. Her eyes were filled with joyful trust instead of confused apprehension, and my wife had finally found Her way into my arms once more. The most terrible part was turning away.
AN: I love critics.