Finally find the time to get back into this after more than a year of hiatus, most of which was focused on me finding a job I wanted to do post Uni. With the virus and work reaching a semblance of a routine, I managed to turn my attention back to this story and the world I think about building in it. Stay well, stay safe, stay healthy, and please enjoy.
Finding Overlord Arkin was not an issue. More to the fact, it would have been a great challenge to miss him.
Arkin was quite the caricature of pampered nobility. He was surrounded by a retinue of loyal servants, bootlicks, guards, and one of his many bastard sons at all times. He dressed elegantly with fine wool and imported silks that held an assortment of militaristic medals and chains made from precious metals. At his side was a ceremonial blade, though not far from his reach was his more preferred halberd. Both were inlaid with leaf and etched with the fine detail only the richest lords could afford.
In this, one could fall into the pit and assume that he was also a man who had never used those weapons beyond training and had his attachés dirty their hands.
But every lord and overlord who had lived for the past twenty years knew never to underestimate Arkin with the veil of luxury for softness. Cold steel was hidden under that silken scabbard, sharpened and dripping with vitriol.
Even though he was the first born child of his family, Arkin removed all other challengers to his throne. His five other siblings that made it past childhood were exiled or killed on pretenses that were grave and easily accepted by his close friends, King Ramon and Queen Sylvanias. He personally put down three peasant uprisings marching at the front with his soldiers, and carried out many of the death sentences handed down from his court at his own leisure.
Arkin was a man that should never be considered less than dangerous. He had never been placed on the back foot before, and even the weakest mouse would fight like a wounded lion when its back was to a wall.
Marek considered these thoughts as he spied Arkin away from the feasting. The Daeins always brought copious food, drink and entertainment to their diplomatic visits. It was one of Michiah's reforms to distance the martial traditions of Daein under previous rulers to include her country's culture to the other nations when visiting another court. Marek grabbed a chalice of deep red wine from a serving man and drank as he moved through the grounds of the garden.
Arkin alone with only two individuals who appeared to be lords or highborn members from his domain. Both of them were too young to be Erebus, that much was clear even by the distant light of the bonfire from the bohemian Daein gathering of souls behind him. A faint silver and viridian shroud of moonlights covered the ground around them all. They stood on an elevated stone platform, designed to provide a greater view of the garden.
Marek had donned a cloak over his sweat soaked fencing shirt, simple yet elegant in the design, lined with deer fur. It was a chilly night, one of the last ones before summer began in earnest. In the light of the moons, he saw his breath in tiny whips at the peripheral of his vision. This far away from the visiting royals, where drink, song, their conversation carried.
Mia, sworn to protect Marek by Geoffrey's orders, kept her distance and stayed to the side to avoid him catching her in his eyes. She knew why he was out here, but she held back. If his life was truly in danger, she had Alondite to defend him. But if what was to happen would have any significance, Marek had to be the one to handle it.
Marek didn't announce his presence. He stood on the outskirts, and he listened. Arkin was speaking when he arrived, his voice bombastic and full of unbridled emotion. "What do you mean the queen of the Daiens spoke to my lesser lords without my permission? One lord or two I could forgive, but twenty at the same time? For what reasons?!"
"I… do not know my lord. Neither guard nor servant were allowed entrance for some time until whatever business they wished to conduct was finished." The speaker sounded as if he had been gelded early on in his life, Marek thought. "I imagine it must be for reasons that would serve them better than asking out Queen Crimea directly, perhaps the focus was more on expediency."
"We have a position that will shift the balance of power in the realm for the future as we know it, Sangra. Everything that has happened here so far threatens to undermine us; nothing will be taken to chance." Arkin waved his hand dismissively, trying to regain that air of calm he desired to be seen with. "I take it the Michiah has not been forthcoming with telling her peers of better breeding what the meeting was about."
Marek, and Mia who remained in the shadows of the stone walls away from all, rolled their eyes at the comment. Of all the kingdoms found on Tellius, Crimea should have been the one to overcome the silly notion that the nobility and even the royal families were decreed by the heavens to rule and were somehow better than the others who they oversaw. Perhaps it was because of the circumstance Marek found himself in that reinforced the idea that it was a combination of skill and luck to be where he was, older families believed themselves to be halfway between heaven and earth, demigods so to say.
A noble who believes his blood gives him power over the realm of nature will be scarcely found on the field of battle. They often find that their blood is the same shade and potency as the conscript who runs them through with a pitchfork. Bastian's words echoed in Marek's mind, one of the better pieces of wisdom and advice he had been given by the Count.
The younger man with them, slightly older than Marek and doubtlessly one of the bastards born to this lascivious family spoke next. "I would not be too concerned with it, father. The boy is unlikely to gather more support than he already has. Even though Elincia favors him, I do not think that he is sympathetic enough to the Laguz or martial enough to impress the easterners. Despite that show of force this afternoon against Goremann, it is unlikely he will remember it come the morrow once he is finished consuming his copious amounts of wine."
"I have heard that she refuses to speak to those who were not in the meeting. Those that went do not discuss what happened, not even Lady Kendra who your lordship may remember quite fondly." Sangre continued
"I remember her full well, and she will have to answer for it once we get back to a climate that doesn't seem to drift between pissing on us with rain or the cold biting trough our clothes." He slammed his fists into the stone. "Goddess above, why did our ancestors chose this filthy piece of land to build our capital instead of somewhere stable in culture and weather?"
"Fortification, abundance of natural resources, a natural hot spring that heats the castle in the coldest of winters, and it's position along a major river to allow easy access to the north sea." Marek announced as he gave a curt bow of his head before taking a drink from his glass of wine. "My lord."
The three men turned and looked down at Marek, who stared back up at them with indifference, masking his emotions well. Sangra bowed deeply, the pitch offset of his voice even more apparent when he was speaking directly to another. "A pleasure to see the young lord. Though one should announce their presence, it is seen as quite inconsiderate to eavesdrop."
Marek returned the bow, having never met this lord before in his life and as a result could not judge the full character of the man. "Indeed, forgive me but I had only just arrived." He turned to Arkin. "I wish to have a conversation with the Overlord of the South. Alone. I am sure you will grant me it, it does focus on tomorrow."
That drew an eyebrow from Sangra, not from Arkin or his son. Sangra bowed deeply to Arkin and then to Marek again before he moved away.
The son, Quinton, waved his hand. "If you wish to speak to my father you can do so with both of us."
"If I wanted to speak to a bastard, I could just visit a brothel after one of your betters has visited it nine months later. I want to speak to one of the guests of the castle, a guest for an event I oversaw assembling every pleasure to satisfy your needs, real and imagined. As the host, I wish to speak to a guest alone, and such a request should be granted." Marek said with a venomous smile, enjoying the opportunity to let loose in some of the built up frustration. "I don't know if traditions are kept well in the South, but here it is quite rude to deny a host a request to a guest, a reasonable one at that. Now, can we leave it at a request or do I need to use my greater breeding over your half-blood heritage to make it an order?"
Quinton paused for a moment, his jaw moving but with no words coming out. His father gave him a pat on the shoulder, giving the nonverbal command to leave. He did so without complaint, but shot Marek a venomous look as he moved past him, spitting on the ground behind him. Arkin narrowed his eyes. "If you come wishing to gain my support, that outburst was not wise."
"I am sure even if I did the opposite; the response would have been the same." Marek responded as he finished his glass and set it on a pedestal next to a flower vase. "We are, however, long due for a conversation."
Arkin nodded, and gripped his halberd. "Indeed. I hear the rose garden is lovely in the evening."
Bastian looked down from his window at the festivities that had played out on the castle grounds, finishing a drink as a small fire crackled in the place. He watched the dancers, heard the muffled notes of music reach through the glass. He had been asked by many in the castle to come down and join them in making merry. It would have been perfect for the attitude he had displayed, they said.
Bastian was always seen as an eccentric. From his speech mannerisms to the fact he often played games of skill against himself such as chess or three simultaneous games of solitaire, almost no one saw him as the refined and level headed noble that was often seen advising monarchs and nobles. They viewed him not as a master in the art of politics, but a jester that got few laughs outside of it.
But few knew, often when they made the mistake of underestimating him, that while his mannerisms were no pure fictional creation, Bastian was aware of his title and monikers and played them as well as he could.
While he gave long winded speeches and declarations, he listened. As he played his strange games, he watched. As he brokered an agreement with foreign heads of state, he plotted his next move. It was all part of his persona he had built up for his own security, a trait he was taught by his master, the late lord Machiavelli of Stavasta.
Bastian smiled as he fondly remembered his dead master. Machiavelli was the dusk to Bastian's rising sun for the long time the two served together as diplomats for the royal family. Machiavelli was an old creature, known as The Gnarled for most of his life due to reasons of appearance and character that were not lost on any who knew him. He had served alongside King Ramon and the queen before him, Katherine, on the field for decades putting down the numerous rebellions, bandits and whenever Begnion got uppity.
Machiavelli's body was truly gnarled; bones broken a dozen times over, a missing eye, misshaped hands that were not set properly when they were broken, and a crocked back when he was unseated by a knight during a tourney. He had more than earned his rest back at his modest estate, but rose to the office of Foreign Advisor when it was offered. There, the mind of the broken warrior was shown to be sharper than any blade.
Bastian poured himself some more drink as he moved to recline in his cluttered observatory as he enjoyed the momentary lapse into memory. The Gnarled was excellent at his job, forged many treaties and policies that lasted more than a generation before they were broken. Bastian could still feel a shiver pass down his spine as he thought about the depth of his master's knowledge and abilities in the art of politics. He advised the monarchs faithfully, telling them the truth as he saw it and planning for every circumstance.
The truth as he saw it… Bastian took a swig of lemon schnapps, even though Mist had advised him to avoid alcohol with his new succor, and frowned. The truth, that idea all monarchs say they wish to hear, was the undoing of his master.
Machiavelli was an honest person to a fault, at least in the realm of advising monarchs. He was candid, blunt in his appraisal of any circumstance, and his tongue was sharp with his retorts. He did not hesitate to insult or degrade a poor choice or chooser when appropriate. Comebacks and statements of inflammatory nature drove his points harder than his arguments of logic. Bastian had compiled a tome of many of those retorts, and he frequently found himself reading them in the spare time that he had.
One had been stuck in his mind since yesterday, one he wished to tell Elincia if the circumstances were better. It was not long after the burning of the Serenes Forest, thirty years ago, when Machiavelli stormed the Kingdom of Goldoa to speak with the Dragon King.
"We will not be involved in the affairs Tellius, lest we awake the dark goddess. It does not matter that one kingdom has fallen, another will rise to take its place."
"How convenient. I envy you, dragon. To view time and lives as nothing more than smoke in the wind, must be easy to sleep with the lack of a soul when you lose your grasp on what it means to be a mortal."
"You overstep your bounds-"
"I do not even come close to my duty, to denounce your inactions. The worst tortures in hell are reserved for those who did not make a choice. When you die, a day I will unfortunately not see in all respects, may you die as all the herons from your decision to not take a stand. Broken. Weeping. Afraid."
His master was right. That was how Dignishia died.
It was a wonder his master was not killed then, though from his recounts after the fact, Machiavelli wished Dignisha had struck him down. Machiavelli would crack a toothless grin, and say that in that moment a dragon would have done the impossible and made a choice.
When Ramon selected Bastian to be the apprentice to Machiavelli, Bastian knew he was being crafted in conflict to replace his dying mentor. When he learned the art of diplomacy and brokering deals, his master slipped further and further into the haze of an aged mind. Stories would be recounted dozens of times, often in the same hour, and the memory of his master would not be as it once was, often forgetting the simplest of tasks.
What was never dulled was his tongue. He spoke plainly and honestly with Ramon, chiding the monarch the way a parent would chide a disrespectful offspring. The king was always adamant to be told the truth, no matter how unpleasant it was.
What Ramon meant to say was he wanted flattery. Machiavelli offered none.
Bastian remembered all the conversations he was privy to with the two titans in Crimea. Most ended in shouting and raging against each other, but one could not live without the other.
When death came for the old man at last, at the age of nine and eighty, Bastian inherited everything from him. Spy networks, loyal informers, even the adamant trust of Renning, who used his position as the second born son to keep a close eye on his brother.
And Bastian failed to protect the king. Not only from the invasion, but from himself.
He sat down in his lonely suite, surrounded by the remnants of a life lived in service to the crown. Where he had failed with Ramon, he would not fail his daughter. Even though he took actions that she disagreed with, perhaps rightfully so, he would not fail her.
He looked down at the regicide board, the pieces moved through the day as he played both sides of this imaginary conflict, testing his knowledge of tactics when his politicking failed. He moved the white rook three squares, cornering the emerald queen.
The argent boar against the iron rose.
For now, it was only a work of fiction. If he failed and Marek turned out to be like his brother, a very possible reality.
Sephiran tightened the bandages with skilled hands, eliciting a grunt of pain from Ludveck as the white cloth bound his wounds closed. "Oh, quiet. This is hardly as painful as it was receiving these wounds."
"The spirits you soaked the bandages would disagree." Ludveck said, his voice muffled as he tongued the cracked tooth that Lucia's blade opened. He was stripped down to his loincloth, sitting on a simple, but smooth bench as the former prime minister of the Begnion Empire worked as a chirurgeon, though with no staff at hand. Cauterized needle and alcohol cleaned threat bound muscle and flesh close while the linen ensured that they would remain in place and insure that any infection would be hard pressed to take place.
"Your body will accept the natural process of healing itself with physical assistance more readily than healing biomancy." Sephiran stated simply as he washed his hands in a basin of warm water with lye and wood ash nearby. "The more you use magic to bind your wounds, the more your body becomes reliant on it. What follows is more and more power to create the initial result if used too frequently. I was loathed to use my staff unless it was absolutely needed for fear of fostering such a dependence on the empyrean arts."
Ludveck shrugged his shoulders, conceding the point and regretted it when he felt the sore muscles flare up in protest. Sephiran returned his attention to Ludveck after drying his hands on a scrap of wool cloth that was stained with seemingly decades of various liquids and blood. "I was amongst the first outside of Crimea to hear of your failed uprising." Sephiran said as he pulled out a tacky paste that was white a sun bleached bone. "I have been wondering about some-."
"I don't wish to continue this conversation." Ludveck said with an even tone, betraying none of the annoyance he had at such a subject being raised so casually, as if one was asking what the time was. It also struck him as unusually irreverent because he knew who was in the next room over, having both Agatha and Triton tending to her wounds.
"Entertain an old curious man. Also, if you wish to remain tight lipped about it, that tooth will have to be removed by week's end." He held out the vial of substance and casually played with it between his fingers. "A small price to pay, I would say."
"You must not be familiar with some of our sayings. Let a sleeping dragon lie seems to be an appropriate one right now." Ludveck said as he continued to tongue the cracked molar tooth.
"I can clearly see that it is causing you pain. I am not asking for why you did it, I would hardly be the person to degrade another for the actions they took in their life." He clenched the vial in his hands, just shy of breaking the glass into a thousand smaller pieces.
"Fine… ask. One question." Ludveck said as he felt the cold air seep into his skin, and looked for some clothes to wear. His armor and cloak were being washed and his blood soaked underclothes had been burned, beyond help of repair.
"I will not ask why you raised your banners in revolt, which is something only you will truly know and understand why, but what I do not understand is how you would keep power even if you had succeeded."
"Tell me, Sephiran, what do commoners look for in a leader?" Ludveck asked as he rose carefully from his seat, wincing as the pain from his wounds made each rise in height a trying endeavor.
The raven haired man paused for a moment to think the question over. "One tempered with wisdom, strong at arms, piety, and approachability."
Ludveck bit back a chuckle. "You should have known that the common folk do not care for who rules them so long as they leave them alone. Most of the people pray for a full stomach, a heavier coin pouch, a roof over their heads that doesn't leak, and lasting health. They care not for which family or person rules so long as they can live in peace." He moved across the room to where a steel gray habit awaited him , hanging from the lip of a hook.
"Maybe. But you were the one who turned a village into a charnel den, set fires to forests and besieged forts filled with common folk. If I recall correctly you said that the commoners' lives were like grass." Sephiran
Those were his words, but Ludveck still winced hearing it. "In the grand scheme of things, that might not be true. But when the nobles wage war, there seems to be an unlimited supply of small folk to rise up to fight for you. I had no idea so many were willing to fight in my failed revolt and Elincia underestimated how many would have taken to her side if they had to make a choice between the peace they knew from her and the uncertainty I would have brought."
Sephiran smiled, "But how would you have kept power?"
"Authoritarian measures, absolute monarch without the bindings of the council." Ludveck said bluntly, but shook his head. "How long I could have kept that power is another matter entirely. I was so focused on winning that battle, that war, I lost sight of the end and what comes after." He snarled as he thought of something. Perhaps Erebus, the deceitful worm, would have been more than ready to tell him how.
"So have thought and suffered many rulers and heads of state. I erred in the same way."
"Here we are then. Two former heads of states on the fringes of the known world, exiled by our queens for crimes we are truly guilty of. Whatever you have done must have been greater than my actions. I brought shame upon my family name, I deeply hurt a woman I grew up with and loved for a time, left three brothers alone in the world, and will ultimately be regarded as a foot note, a distraction of the time when the histories have been written long after our bones have been reduced to dust." Ludveck shook his head with a mirthless scoff. "My actions affected only myself and those I held close."
It was Sephiran's turn to shake his head. "You are wrong. Your actions were more than just a diversion from Begnion and Daein's conflict to the annals of history. When the senators heard of your failed rebellion, they were afraid. They were scared that your actions woke the young queen from her stupor of naivety. They had been planning to march into Crimea like it was their summer estate to deal with the laguz army. They might have even been so keen as to imagine Elincia dressed as a maid tending to their every need."
The image that formed in his mind made Ludveck release a short bark of laughter. "Goddess, their ego was worse than mine."
"Indeed. But your actions, brutal and underhanded though they may have been, turned her into a queen that deserved to rule the kingdom, one bold enough to stand against the empire with the laguz at her side as companions, not as saviors. You turned the war, though she may not have realized she was fighting one." Sephiran stated. "And after the war, look at what she has done, who she married, what she plans to do. The actions of dead and exiled senators may have more glamorous effects that can be seen in the pages of the histories but yours still had as powerful of an impact on the country and the world we know."
Sephiran rose, and faced Ludveck as the latter tied off his habit with a simple sailor knot. "What we do has echoes that we cannot see when we take action." He held out the tube to Ludveck, a genuine smile gracing his features for a moment. "We can't take it back, no matter how much we want it. All we can do, all we can strive for, is to ensure that there is something worthwhile from our misguided actions."
Ludveck looked at Sephiran, then at the pearl substance. "I do not know how long you have lived, the way Triton speaks it has been for a considerable amount of time beyond what should be possible. I will be lucky to reach eighty. Your extended life offers a greater perspective." He took the vial and looked at the contents. "It doesn't excuse what I did to Lucia, Elincia, or my brothers. You may speak the truth, but like the bandages you gave me, offers no balm or succor."
The smile was still there when Sephiran spoke again. "It wasn't intended to give you relief nor does it excuse your actions, merely to give you perspective." He patted the vial. "Apply that to your cracked tooth once a day, at about the same time. Try to get some rest as well, I cannot speak to Agatha's capabilities but Triton knows how to save even the most grievously wounded. Lucia will live."
Ludveck nodded, and Sephiran gave a short bow before heading off, out of the lodge and into the cold windy night.
There was a hum coming from the satchel that held his clairvoyance stone, which he used to communicate with Volke. He had been meaning to speak to him, tomorrow if he recalled correctly was the decision for his brother, and he needed to know where things stood and how the scales could be tipped if needed.
He placed the vial aside and tossed the stone down, reciting words of power. Hopefully, this would take his mind off of the past and look to the future to where the memories would not burden him as they did when he reflected on his past actions.
When he saw not Volke looking at him but a small child with light blue hair and deep piercing eyes looking at him with an accusatory glare, that same hope left in a hurry.