XXXVI.
"Lamont—a word?"
Monty gulped. He'd been in trouble enough to know when he stood no chance. Vayne stared at him steadily, his use of the boy's full name adding weight to his expression, and Monty obediently walked past him, through the open door to the unoccupied cargo hold beyond. He silently cursed himself for not thinking up an excuse to leave the bridge sooner, for Vayne had no doubt received the report just moments before he had planned to leave and disappear into the labyrinth of the Bahamut's depths. A soldier had pulled him aside and whispered something to him; emergencies—unless critical—were always kept secret from the majority of a ship's crew for the sake of preventing panic. Vayne had excused himself, bidding Monty come along, and now that he closed the door at his back, it seemed as though all the world had collapsed upon them, and only the finality of truth remained.
Vayne stilled his breathing, gazing calmly at the bland surroundings, noting the second door across the room and the third high on the balcony above. Wire mesh closed off the upper floor, the lights behind it casting faint shadows over the wall below. Only crates and machinery accompanied them in the steel chamber.
"It seems an unfamiliar ship has docked on the fourth floor…" Vayne said dryly. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Monty lowered his face, glancing up at his brother childishly. "…I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are."
"Vayne, you haven't been yourself since Father died." He fought the intrusion of doubt as he straightened his posture. "I'm just worried you're going to do something you'll regret."
Vayne met his eyes with a challenging glare, gesturing slightly more than Archadian etiquette allowed of royalty. "So, you decided to compromise the entire Imperial Air Brigade?" he demanded. "Has your logic completely abandoned you?"
"Me?" Monty bit back. "You're forcing a defeated fleet into battle! They're only going to hate you more."
He broke eye-contact for a moment. "If I let them off easy, they'll simply regroup and rise up again."
"Not if you grant them their sovereignty."
"And leave them to wreak their retribution on Archadia as they see fit?" Looking back to the boy, he quickly regained his composure, his tone growing from an accusation to a scoff. "You are full of hope, Little Brother, but you lack foresight—not everyone is as forgiving as you."
Lamont stepped forward in a candid attempt to close the unusually expansive gap between them. "Maybe not, but if you'd just try to lead by example—"
"It's not that simple!" He drew away, beginning to pace. "Even were their vengeance quelled, Rozarria has been waiting years for such an opportunity!"
"Rozarria is only so protective because Archadia has become the greater power in this war."
"Rozarria started this war!"
"Then Rozarria is our enemy, not Dalmasca—and not Nabradia or Landis, either!" The strength of his voice caught them both off guard, and as Vayne stopped to look at him once more, he softened his tone to a forceful plea: "Release them from occupation and Archadia will only be half the threat."
"All the more reason for them to attack," Vayne countered, shaking his head.
"If they do, it will be without merit. As we stand right now, you're inviting it."
"As we stand now, I can handle it." He, too, strove to lighten his tone, unwilling to berate his brother in the same soul-crushing way that their father had so effectively bullied Vayne himself into worthlessness and hate. "Without Dalmasca and Nabradia, our borders will be a nightmare," he said forcefully.
"Ashelia is willing to ally with us if we make her Queen," Monty replied, equally calm and compelling. "She will aid us if Rozarria attacks."
"She's lying."
This retort got a slight rise out of the boy, and for a moment he resembled his grandfather with startling clarity. "You barely know her! All she wants is freedom for her people. You're the one dragging this war on for your own pathetic ego."
"So, you're against me, too…"
Vayne trailed off with a knowing nod of realization and acceptance, but Lamont stepped forward yet again, nearing him bravely—or perhaps desperately; Vayne could not tell for sure.
"Of course not!" he replied. "How could I be? We're brothers!"
Vayne turned away, walking slowing toward an empty corner of the cargo bay. "Half-brothers."
"Vayne…"
The shock and helplessness conveyed in the wounded voice spurred the emperor to anger once more, though in struggling to suppress it, he found only a choking surge of heartache poised to take its place. "I am bringing us peace, Lamont," he growled quietly. "All it takes is a little patience."
His tone flattened: "And a little bloodshed."
"We have offered them amnesty; they chose violence."
They met eyes as he said this, but Lamont refused to succumb to defending a perspective for which Vayne held no empathy, instead turning to the only subject he felt certain the emperor cared to heed: "Even if you destroy all of Dalmasca, Rozarria can still match our military."
"But it won't have any need to once you marry into House Margrace," Vayne insisted.
Lamont tilted his head slightly, trying not to smile, for he could not bear the cruelty of it. "…A marriage treaty?" he scoffed, standing very still and puzzling over what logic his brother could possibly see in such nonsense. "Do you really expect that to work? The emperor has been planning the same thing all along—I marry one of his daughters, and he gains influence over Archadia."
Vayne huffed, turning away once more. "Hardly."
"The conflict will worsen, Vayne," Monty went on, again following him, drawing nearer to him. "You'll kill her, he'll kill me—either way, the war goes on."
Vayne looked on him with searing rage, his eyes savage and his mind tangled with thoughts of resentment and fear, and for an instant he could see the boy's mother, frozen in perpetual teenage youth. He had had this same conversation with her, hadn't he? He could recall what she wore that day, the jewels at her throat, the elegant plaiting of her hair, but her words eluded him. Had they even spoken at all? He had seldom said more to her than etiquette required. He never knew what to say to her—never. Gazing down at his little brother, noting the staunch glint of victory in his eyes, he pondered the soundness of a marriage treaty, and indeed the soundness of even granting the boy continued life. This unfortunate child had been a threat from the moment of his birth, and for no fault of his own. Vayne's elder brothers had let him live, and the consequences had fallen on them in perfect accordance. He tried to speak, to conjure up some excuse or apology or inquiry—anything that might bring peace to the argument—but he found with mounting horror that he didn't know what to say.
Monty's expression remained deadpan. "How's that for foresight?"
Pausing, turning away, Vayne composed himself and spoke into the empty corner in which they now stood trapped. "…You're too cute to play at treachery."
The boy glowered, cocking his head with fierce indignation, fighting to unclench his fists and suppress his urge to shout. "Why is everyone so fixated on how damn cute I am?" He spoke clearly, his voice a low growl that only barely kept Vayne from laughing at the question. "This is serious," he went on. "You'll bring the world to ruins just so you can rule it? What logic is there in that?"
"What do you care?" he snapped back, turning to face him, to meet his eyes. "Don't you hate politics?"
"We never appreciate the things we do well."
The child's calmness shook him, and his gaze fell to the floor gravely. "How bad is it?"
"They know about the troops in the mountains." A moment of silence, and he added, "…And the navy."
With a disgruntled sigh, Vayne shook his head, struggling to cast out the images of what he feared he may yet have to do. "Then now is not the time to bait Rozarria. We'll eliminate the marquis and stabilize Dalmasca and Bhujerba, and once the world is—"
"No!" The little interruption startled them both, and although Lamont respectfully lowered his voice, he did not miss a beat. "Vayne, Ivalice is not your property—don't you understand that! I know it's not my place to argue, but I can't let you do this."
"You mean you won't let me do this."
"Perhaps I do, but that doesn't make any difference."
Vayne shook his head again, forcing the thoughts from his mind only to feel them creeping back from the shadows. Images of his elder brothers surfaced, foggy and taunting, and Judge Ferrinas and his unfathomable daughter—both wiser than any others Vayne had ever known—their words swarmed him, unintelligible, but somehow cautioning and consoling. Venat, too, tapped at his consciousness, but he beat her back with the others, looking down at the little boy who challenged him, trying to invent some manner of regaining his unwavering trust. Would he have to go through with it after all? Would Monty make him do it? Surely, his little brother was neither so conceited nor so stupid to think he wouldn't kill him to protect his throne.
"Ivalice may not belong to me, but it needs me," he insisted. "I don't want this war anymore than you do. If all the world is one empire there won't be any need to continue stirring up conflict."
"Can you even hear what you're saying?" Monty replied.
Grabbing the boy by one arm and pulling him closer, he stared him down authoritatively and shook him. "Why do you always have to be so contrary, Monty? Just listen to me."
He went rigid in Vayne's grasp, gaze intent and strong. "Just agree with you?"
"Yes!" he flared, pushing the boy hard against a wall. "You have to—please! I don't know how to make you understand. You're all I have left!"
He knelt before him now, both of them small and trembling in the dim metallic corner, and Monty stared at him uncomprehendingly as his iron grip on his shoulders relaxed.
"You're scaring me…"
"I have gone out of my way to let you live," he groaned with a heavy sigh, "but you just can't keep yourself out of trouble, can you?"
Monty shook his head. "I'm sorry. You know you haven't been yourself…"
"I thought you knew what I was—that you accepted it or at the very least forgave me for it. But it's never been like that, has it?" The boy tried to slip past him, but his grasp tightened, digging into youthful muscle, bruising half-grown bones. "You've only ever loved me because you didn't know any better."
"What?"
The confusion on his face pained Vayne, but he could no longer blindly accept its authenticity. "You never knew what I really was all those years, did you?" His voice stayed low and steady, and he raised Lamont off the floor, rising to full height, slamming him against the steel wall panel so that a shudder echoed through the miserable chamber, ringing in Monty's ears. "You turned on me the moment you saw the truth…"
"…Vayne, come on. You don't have to do this."
He moved his right hand to the boy's throat and squeezed. "You give me no choice."
Monty choked quietly, feeling as though his neck would snap long before he would suffocate. He gripped his brother's wrists, but could find no strength while burdened under such a lack of air, not that he would have had the power to free himself to begin with. In a desperate act of instinct, he gathered all the energy he could and kicked Vayne directly between the legs, causing him to release his hold and double over in pain. Monty dropped to the floor and immediately seized his father's sword from its sheath at Vayne's side, then scrambled to his feet.
"I've been fencing since I could walk," he warned weakly, backing away with the blade readied.
"So have I," Vayne replied, drawing his own sword.
"I beat you in practice."
"I let you."
Vayne struck quickly, not quite so hard as he might at any other opponent, but hard enough to gain a bit of ground. Monty parried the blow and threw it off, parting their blades and continuing to back up warily, his expression mired with pale horror and childlike desperation. Confusion continued to flood his eyes, seemingly pure to Vayne, and indeed the boy did not feign it, but rather felt it wholly and deeply—but Vayne had raised his guard and would not be easily persuaded to let it back down. Like a slow trickle, Lamont's fear and bewilderment gave way to devastation at the realization that his brother truly believed the terrible things he said, and though he kept his sword raised, he struggled to steady his voice and speak reassuringly:
"You're still my brother, Vayne." Another strike answered him, swifter and heavier than the first, but he deflected it with great effort and continued. "I don't care what you think you are, alright? You're my brother."
Still more blows fell upon him, and while he blocked every one, he could not match the increasing ferocity, tripping up as he backed away and nearly falling in such a manner that would open a deadly gap. He persevered, however, and put a fair distance between them, allowing Vayne to circle slightly, edging him around and backing him slowly toward the corner once more. They had sparred for play often enough, but he had never seen the boy recover so well and knew that holding back as he usually did would get him nowhere.
"I knew from the first time I saw you you'd be the end of me," he said slowly.
"So why didn't you kill me then?" Monty asked in reply.
"I deserve it." He seemed to nod a bit with this—nearly imperceptible—and a faint smile threatened to break the intensity of his countenance, revealing only briefly the distraught pang of panic within his heart. "I know you'll never understand, Monty, but you're the worst punishment I could have ever received."
Monty hesitated—stilled—looking into the emperor's eyes with a wavering compassion that bordered on pity. He had despised futility for all the days of his short life, but he would not fight his brother any longer—even for his country, he would not sink to this level of betrayal. "…I do understand." He dropped his father's sword, letting it clang gracelessly against the metal floor. "I've done all I can do here. Go ahead and punish yourself to your heart's content."
Vayne's perception seemed to slow then, the words moving listlessly, yet hitting him with overwhelming force. This little brother he had cared for so deeply for so many years had always possessed more wisdom than he himself could hope to attain, but for the first time in his life, he refused to believe it. Monty talked big, but he was only a boy; Vayne, an adult—an emperor in his own right—knew what was best for his brother and for his country, and he would not let the ambitious naïveté of his only remaining rival ruin the great work he could do for Ivalice and its inhabitants.
Thinking back now to the months preceding Lamont's birth, he struggled frantically to recall a conversation he had had with the boy's mother concerning such things as succession and monarchy. Hadn't they spoken of this once? On second thought, did they ever speak at all? He recalled the balcony, the gleam of her black hair—the only time they had shared each other's exclusive company, save for the dreadful day when he had sought her out to tell her of her father's untimely demise at his side. They could not have talked about Monty then, or any matters of state, but that day on the balcony…
No, they had never discussed anything of this caliber; indeed, they spoke so rarely that they never received the chance. The calm resign of Lamont's countenance roused Vayne's memory, and he knew that on that day, two weeks before the boy's birth, they had talked of nothing consequential. The sun had neared its height, and she wore pink—delicate and pale against the gentle blue of the sky as she stood on the balcony off the fourth floor drawing room. The white expanse of her private garden sprawled below, and she smiled congenially as Doctor Cid chased his wife through it, their coy laughter floating upwards on the breeze. Vayne had come to fetch her—his father had some business about which he sought her opinion. Drace stood watch silently, and Zecht remained distant at the back of the room as Vayne approached his stepmother, and all three wondered at the strange elegance she managed, even in the heaviness of pregnancy—she did not stoop or waddle as other women needed, and from behind she appeared as trim-waisted as any other girl. Vayne could not look at her belly—even at seventeen, the thought made him blush.
"The emperor has been looking for you," he said plainly, lingering a few paces behind her.
"Something about the new library, I suppose," she replied.
"I believe so."
She did not make to leave, and his throat seemed to stick as he searched for something more to say. His late protector, Judge Ferrinas, had always possessed a dignified manner of speech that allowed him the gift of saying exactly what each conversation called for—no more and no less. His daughter followed closely after him, but Ferrinas had understood Vayne's disposition and Vayne had understood his; he had no bearing on this woman by which he could adjudge what she wished to hear from him. At heart, he feared she hated him, for he had brought about her father's death in the field of battle. Had he not behaved so repugnantly young and brash and foolish that day on the border of Landis, Ferrinas would yet live and she may never have met Gramis, much less shared his throne. But somehow, it seemed fair to Vayne: he had killed her father and she had married his.
Hearing the shift of armor as both Judges behind him sensed his discomfort, he turned to leave, taking only a single step before she called him back:
"Vayne?"
"Yes?"
She faced him now, a small smile briefly crossing her face, and she continued a bit awkwardly, "That's strange. I have never called you Vayne before."
He nodded. "I suppose it's your prerogative."
Now something changed in her expression—a seriousness that overcame her as she tilted her head a bit. She seemed uncommonly bright somehow, the sun above her and the wide blue sky at her back, but he thought perhaps that from the comparative darkness of the room in which he stood, he could not hope to escape such an illusion.
"…You think I'm—greedy, don't you?" she asked, eyes sullen and tone soft. "After His Majesty's power…"
"I—beg your pardon?"
He nearly drew back as he said it, and she quickly spoke again: "Please don't hate me—my father couldn't bear that."
Shaking his head and chancing another step forward, he met her gaze as intensely as he would have met her father's. "I don't hate you, my lady," he insisted. "I would never think you were out for the throne…" He halted then, minding his boundaries. "It's just that—forgive me, but I have trouble understanding you…"
Lowering her head momentarily in a demure gesture of curiosity, she asked, "…Really?"
"I understand that it's none of my business," he stammered quietly, "but you hardly knew each other when you married. I can see that you don't love him."
"Not as I should, perhaps—I can't deny that. But he's been so kind to me. I do love him in that way."
"And that's enough?"
She glanced off to the side, long lashes batting in contemplation. "…A marriage is a contract," she said slowly. "And no one ever talks about what exactly is exchanged. I was poor and your father was lonely…and I suppose I was lonely, too, for that matter. We didn't agree to love each other; we agreed to care for each other."
"Is it really so simple to you?" he pressed, fighting to keep his tone respectful—truly, he asked out of genuine curiosity rather than contempt. "Just that easily, you settled for a husband who could just as easily be your father?"
"Settled?" she asked back. "Haven't you seen the way your father treats me? Even were I not an empress, I would always be one in his eyes."
"But you don't love him…"
"He knows that. He's given me someone to love." A faint smile lit her face, and she did not draw a hand to the swell in her gown, but her voice made the point clear. "In all truth, I didn't have much say in this marriage, but I don't regret it."
"But you would never have even met him if I'd just kept my head about me—" Looking away bitterly—just briefly—he straightened and calmed. "God, I'm sorry. That's not for me to say."
Her eyes grew gentler, though her face lost all emotion, and he averted his gaze like a scolded child, studying the countryside in the distance before glancing down to the fine stone tile of the balcony's floor. She had cried when he told her of her father, and it had seemed as though everything he said to console her went unheard—she only thanked him. Nothing had changed now, he thought, and cursed himself for daring to breach the subject again.
At length, she left the balcony, walking swiftly past him. "…I shouldn't keep him waiting."
No suitable phrase of apology or solace came to him, so he bowed his head chivalrously and turned only halfway as she retreated across the room. Drace awaited her at the doorway, but she paused before leaving, turning back to Vayne with more compassion than he ever felt he could deserve.
"You shouldn't feel guilty, you know."
Facing her, he could grant her only a puzzled expression in response.
"That he died protecting you," she went on. "My father considered you the son he never had. He was happy to die for you; I know it."
His eyes rested on her sedately, his mind devoid of words. She appeared too sincere to smile, though her tone expressed her honesty, and she turned then and left, the train of her gown fluttering lightly behind her.
Perhaps they had spoken of his trials that day—perhaps brotherhood, too, was a contract, and neither he nor Lamont had succeeded in holding up their ends, though he could hardly fathom just what exactly they had promised to exchange. But Monty could not possibly care for him; no one could—not even he himself. He had never managed to face it over the past ten years, but somewhere in the depths of his heart he had always known that Monty would grow to hate him as all good men must, and now that it came time, he could only do what best served the boy's interest: relieve him of this all too cumbersome load. He could not kill himself, for Ivalice needed him—to leave Lamont with that burden would surpass cruelty—but he could spare Lamont the pain of betrayal. Surely, the empress would understand this.
Indeed, if she had known him for his true self, she would never have trusted him—never have borne a child into his House—but she, like Lamont, and like Judge Ferrinas before them, had fallen victim to ignorance of his true wretchedness, and he would not allow such deception to continue to plague his family. Perhaps he might have grown to love her as family, if only she had lived but a little longer, but fate had wrought its brutality full force, and in two weeks' time she left the world—and now he meant to send her son after her. Somehow, the boy lied unconscious at his feet; he had knocked him out, he recalled—with the hilt of his sword, rather quickly after Lamont had surrendered.
More and more frequently, his mind played such tricks, but Venat assured him he would adapt to it and it would serve him well as ruler of an empire. Still, he stepped back from the motionless boy, then to the side, and then to the other side. His sword grew heavier, he thought, and time slowed, and finally he knelt down at his brother's side. Heavy, steel-laden footsteps fleetingly drew his attention as Gabranth entered the room, calm and alert as a herding dog in search of a wayward sheep, but he did not bother to acknowledge the approaching Judge, training the rich brown depths of his eyes on the unconscious child before him.
"…God, why can't I do it?"
Gabranth glared at the emperor critically, his voice a low and calculated growl. "Vayne…"
"I thought…He wouldn't be awake for it—it would be less painful this way."
Seeing that Vayne neither released his blade nor backed away from Lamont, Gabranth at last drew his sword.
"Hm." Vayne almost laughed. "The hound strays. Treason carries a high price."
"One I'll gladly pay."