The room was vast, regal and magnificent. Carved right out of the rock in the heart of the mountain, it had the aura of the stone from which it had come: Solid, unyielding, unbreakable. If Noxus was the embodiment of strength on the continent, then this room was the heart of Noxus. And never more so than today, for today all of Noxus's leaders, the strongest of the strong, were gathered here.
And at the far end, standing atop a high, massive stage, was the mightiest of them all.
If only that were true, the officer thought. And many in the crowd would have agreed. For the figure that stood on the stage looked woefully out of place—short and lightly built, balding, with hair that was a dark yet pale grey, and clutching a cane in his right hand, he was singularly unimpressive. An eyesore, it could be said, a blot on the greatness and majesty of the chamber.
The figure turned, and his eyes, red and black like burning coals, swept the audience. Earlier contempt dissipated instantly. Those eyes, the only thing left exposed by the simple cloth mask, were utterly and absolutely terrifying, as was the massive six-eyed raven perched on his shoulder, also surveying the audience. Together, the two quickly made one wonder if looks could kill. It was just too bad the rest of the figure was nowhere near as impressive.
The newly crowned Grand General of Noxus eyed his people and remembered that he was supposed to say something.
"The world has changed…"
No kidding, the officer thought, Five years ago no man like that would possibly be standing there. He's hardly even a man.
"We live in an era where the power of the sword and the rifle has lost its supremacy, where strength at arms is now not a reason for glory but something to be hidden and concealed. We live in a world defined no longer by actions but by words. And most disturbingly, this new world seems determined to see our downfall.
Our enemies are everywhere. And now they are stronger and more united than ever, and they have weapons against which we have never had to fight before. It is ironic that in this period of peace Noxus is more at risk than it has ever been in war."
Yada, Yada, Yadah, the officer fought the urge to sigh. What on earth is this scarecrow trying to say?
The general began to pace, his voice ringing out across the chamber and, fortunately, sounding stronger than one might expect from such an unimpressive figure.
"But we can rise above this. We can beat our enemies at their own games. And even this time of intrigues and hidden dangers we can use to our advantage."
I sure hope so.
"But I must warn you all that change is coming and will continue to come. We will survive only if we change ourselves, and adapt to suit our circumstances. But I assure you of one thing, of that which matters most: whatever comes, even if the sky falls and earth breaks and the sea engulfs the land, we will survive, and remain, and endure; a people without weakness, a people without fear. Forever free, forever mighty, forever strong!"
And the general slammed his clenched fist against his chest in a classic Noxian salute.
"Forever strong!" the crowd echoed, returning the salute.
The general nodded at the crowd, then raised his arm, palm open in a welcoming gesture. "Let the celebrations begin!" he proclaimed.
His speech done, the general limped down from the stage. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he turned and gazed up at it, thinking of all the many times he'd stood on it. His free hand, the one not resigned to holding his cane, fingered at the many medals that adorned his chest, not too few of which had been awarded here, on this very stage. Still watching the stage, the officer briefly recalled the missions, battles and campaigns that had brought the general those medals.
The Ironspike Mountains—his first posting and the one he'd first distinguished himself in. His contribution had been mainly to make suggestions to a commanding officer who probably hadn't needed them, and to fight one particularly nasty battle against an enemy force that had been pretty suicidal anyway, even if their concept of suicide had entailed causing an avalanche, setting an ambush, and taking half a Noxian company with them. Even so, his superiors had been impressed—impressed enough to give him an actual field command of his own.
That had been during the Barbarian Pacification Campaign in Freljord, of course, where, he'd quickly found himself cut off from the main Noxian force. He'd led his troops back to safety, and, oddly enough, managed to strike a pretty big blow against the enemy along the way. Needless to say, his superiors had been impressed again, even though the officer had always felt that he'd simply been in the right place at the right time with the right troops, and a seventy percent casualty rate was nothing to be proud of.
And then there had been the last war with Demacia, assuming one didn't count the Kalamanda Incident as a war. A string of battles fought back and forth between the two city-states over a three-year period—Kaladoun, the Howling Marshes, Morgron Pass, the Serpentine River, Fort Selsey and Fort Dempsey and Nashor Hill. There were many more, of course, more than the officer cared to count. But he remembered the major ones, the ones which had propelled the general to his current position and left his tunic gleaming with honours.
But how much were the honours worth, really? Did medals mean much when you were decorated after every battle you fought, or were they just part and parcel of fighting those battles? More importantly, did you really deserve them if you'd won the majority of those battles by luck?
People said this general was a genius, a master tactician and strategist, a powerful mage and a good leader. His soldiers, it was known, trusted in him with total conviction. They would follow him anywhere. On several occasions, higher-ranking officers had requested transfer to his unit even at the expense of demotions. He was, in all ways except appearance, a hero. And perhaps, just perhaps, the officer mused, that appearance was more truthful than appearance tends to be. Because in spite of the successes, the achievements, the triumphs against the odds and the fact that he'd never been defeated in battle, the fact remained that the general had been lucky, extremely lucky. Perhaps not in the sense that the odds were always in his favour, but certainly in the sense that somehow, things always seemed to work out for him. If he gambled, he either won or managed to salvage the situation when he lost. He had done things that should never have worked but had.
So was it genius or power or mere good fortune that had led to those victories? Who knew? But the officer decided that he would not be surprised if he found out that the general was overrated. And indeed, that in itself was a worrying thought for anyone concerned with the future of Noxus.
With a sigh, the officer began to head for the small doors behind the stage. As he walked, a fact crossed his mind, realistically frivolous but important as a matter of protocol.
It wasn't "officer" anymore. It was "Grand General" now.
Author's Note:
So, let me know if you get the twist at the end. (Hint: A general is technically an officer, but is not normally referred to as such.)
I also know that Swain was supposed to have a helmet and staff at his coronation, but I'm taking some creative liberties, I suppose.