A/N: Edited for clarity. I always thought that Slaine was a tragic character, to be honest. He's done reprehensible things in the name of devotion; and in the end, his devotion itself becomes incredibly skewed as he loses sight of his true goal. At the end of the series, I feel that control is a major point of contention with him. Everything falls apart and Slaine tries to keep it under control; but he can't.
A glimpse into Slaine Troyard's mind a few scenes after Asseylum wakes up. I recommend listening to "Troyard" while reading; its the string version of Slaine's character theme. It can be found on soundcloud.
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The hallway is silent. Slaine's posture is still perfect. After all, he has this under control. He has the chessboard in his hands. He has all the pieces he needs to win; he just needs to move them at the right time.
He's risen so high in this space-filled world. Outside is emptiness, where far off battles rage, connected by the colorful shimmer of electric screens and commands. He is the center of it all. He is in control.
Except he isn't. Today another thread of his plan unraveled, and he knows exactly where it leads to, if he chose to follow it to the source. But it's pointless. His pieces are dropping away from him, gaining flawed dreams and ambitions of their own. Part of him knew that some form of this was inevitable; he wasn't perfect. He isn't perfect and pawns – even pawns have a will of their own. He knows this better than anything else in vast, cold Vers, had it whipped into him while suspended between metal and air, blood pouring down his back - he knows that there is nothing to commend him except what he has gained and held within his two hands.
This is all he has in the end: his loyalty to the princess. His absolute, desperate need to win, to cling onto whatever scraps of victory and power he could to haul himself up. The Count gave him a chance and he took it; he didn't look back. It has brought him far.
Now he is dressed in the blood of his enemies, and he wears it like the royal uniform it is. Now, in everyone's eyes, he is king, emperor by his scarlet-tainted clothes. Whatever is not his by achievement will soon be his by marriage. Lemrina had suggested the union, and he had accepted it. It was a good move; it would make him unquestionable, undeniable. He will become true royalty in blood and marriage; he will powerful beyond measure.
In the end, everything came back to blood. The blood of his mother's womb as her life leaked out, the wet of her blood sinking into the moist soil of the earth. The sharp burst of sound from his first kill, red speckles blown all over his face. The invisible blood spilt in-between the shards of gray kataphrakts. The blood of his two fathers, innocent and guilty apiece. Versian blood and spit in his mouth and lungs, and soon, perhaps, he will ease himself into a Versian womb, his by all rights, by the rights he does not care for but cannot convince himself to leave. Lemrina would let him. She is so desperate, needy for comfort, for a person to call home. Slaine does not have the heart left to deny her in this matter; it is an advantage for him, even. They will take whatever they can of each other's bodies and try to be satisfied with it.
It will never be enough. Slaine holds all the pieces and it is still not enough, he hears his own voice in his darkest dreams, a pitiful boy crying out: Is this enough? Do you see me; do you see what I have done for you, my princess? May I call you that? May I one day fulfill a simple whim of yours; may I ever lead you to see the birds?
On good nights, she is smiling and laughing in his dreams, and he points at the birds and calls them by name. She is delighted. He has done something for her that she will remember for the rest of her beautiful, white life. On bad nights, she shies away from him in horror, and his reaching hands stain her dress scarlet.
She's beautiful. She is absolutely beautiful and far, far too soft for what he is doing for her, and he will do everything he can to shield her from the brutal reality he is shouldering for her. He longs for her to wake up, but he is afraid of ruining her dream.
But it doesn't matter anymore. She's no longer asleep. She's not awake, not quite yet, but he is so, so, scared in his heart of hearts, in a corner of his weak past self he hasn't quite stomped out yet. He is breathlessly counting down the days, until she recognizes him; he lives for that moment when she will turn to him with recognition. He wills away the day that she might turn around and see what he has done to her peaceful legacy while she dreamt away. But it is all for her; always for her.
Asseylum is an ideal and a curse; she is an excuse and a reason to fight. She is the foundation his house of cards has been built on, and now the stakes are high. That's fine. Slaine has always been good with high stakes. But they have never been this precarious, have never had bitter sweetness aligned so closely to success, oh, Slaine should be worried but he isn't. He's got this under control. He's mastered the Versian way, the right niceties, how to spar with words and metal and fight with visions of the future in front of him.
Pieces are dropping out of his hands but it does not matter, he still sees everything on the board, he can still win this.
The details are getting fuzzy, though. Why is he doing this? What is the prize? The rug has been pulled under his feet, he was supposed to win this and then present it at her feet, give her the new reality, lay down the carpet for her delicate feet to tread upon as she feasted her eyes upon the painted blue sky and sea.
No, there was more. He was doing this – he was getting power to reform the system. He remembers now. He promised Harklight, he was destroying a world in order to give birth to new one. To help those who suffered like how he suffered. He was tearing down the planet to give people a better life.
No, that's not right; he's not doing it for either of them anymore. He's not doing it for anyone. Or maybe he still is. It's been a long fight, and Slaine is getting tired. He wants throw everything away but its too late, he can't turn back.
An image taunts him: Lemrina, declaring their marriage, and Asseylum's foggy eyes as she traced her fingers of his face, repeating his name like a charm:
Slaine….Slaine…Slaine…
His fist slams into the wall. It is not bruised hard enough to bleed and he hates himself for that.
He closes his eyes. Thoughts swarm like frenzied birds, a multitude of feathers and shrieks that threaten to drown him. I can still win this, he repeats to himself, over and over, a litany of desperation. It's not over yet. Not everything is lost.
(but everything that matters is already lost to him)
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Critique and reviews welcomed.