I saw edges of myself being flattened by rain,
could smell the earth too and thought of the years
of rot that made the smell, the rot of my father and his father
and all those who had gone before and how we eat the root
of the earth and then turn into rot ourselves just as
pieces of dirt were grinding away between my teeth and tongue,
my bit of gristle being stirred into earth's stew.
The Grand Army of the Republic (John Spaulding)
TWO MONTHS LATER...
There are many things that could be said of the Noxian military- and by extension, the rest of Noxian society itself. The reclusive warrior tribe of Rakkor at the slopes of Mount Targon regard Noxian infantry as worthy opponents- which is certainly saying something considering the fact that the Rakkor themselves are seen as ruthless and uncompromising by the rest of Runeterra due to the grueling Rite of Kor; the adage 'kill or be killed' taken to the utmost extreme as Rakkor elders essentially force every child to kill a weaker member of their society in order to be addressed a mature adult- with one notable exception in the form of the Radiant Dawn herself, Leona.
The Piltoverians see the Noxian army as a roughhewn club wielded by an ogre. There are no tactics; no intelligence involved in their movements- there is only raw, unadulterated strength and a one-track mind for death and destruction. However, residents of the City of Progress do respect the Noxian intelligence community- which is a valid reason given that Battlefield Intelligence analysts and Tactical Reconnaissance operatives often work hand in hand with the scientists and innovators of Zaun, a neighboring city-state and Piltover's intellectual and techmaturgical rival.
The Ionians, diplomatic and philosophical as ever, largely perceive the entirety of Noxus as having lost its direction in life, steered into irredeemable depths by its war-mongering leaders. The military then is a vehicle of propaganda, and its people a tormented race in sore need of enlightenment and lasting peace. As a patient healer must be to a traumatized child, Ionian ambassadors steadily work on Noxian diplomats during important meetings, coaxing and pleading them away from what the peace-loving people perceive as rash and destructive actions.
The Freljord, still unformed during Darius and Draven's childhoods, would nonetheless consider Noxus as a formidable enemy. The famed 'Barbarian Pacification Campaign' would later wipe out a majority of the northern tribes in the typical Noxian manner: using efficient military stratagems designed by the greatest generals Noxus had to offer, unwavering ruthless soldiers would systematically hunt down and kill barbarian tribesmen by the thousands- women, children, none would be spared. It would be a thorough and clinical way to terminate an enemy, and it would be such a show of strength that even the densest tribal in the tundra would recognize Noxian might.
And then there are the Demacians, a collectivist society and the very ideological antithesis of Noxians. Ruled by the illustrious Lightshield family patriarch, Jarvan III, Demacians see their Noxian counterparts as cold, uncaring beings devoid of any emotion except for greed and wrath. For them, a city-state must do its part and leave no man behind, even at the cost of national greatness and achievement, whereas Noxians perceive the duty of carrying such societal baggage as a sin. Noxus and its personal, individualistic policies are seen as evil itself, in the same way that Noxus sees Demacia's emphasis on benevolence and altruism as a futile effort, a mere bandage slapped over the brutal realities of life.
The two city-states had been at war as far as anyone could remember. And while Noxians would say that their military is more effective, most of the aristocratic families would also agree that Demacians seem to be more determined to win their timeless war, for the lack of a better word. In Demacia, oddly enough, the same perception remains: the Demacian military is more effective, but the Noxians are too stubborn to consider themselves as beaten.
It should come to no surprise then that the military factors greatly in both city-states, but unlike Demacia, Noxians live and breathe conflict and death- out of the other city-states, perhaps only the Rakkor and the Freljordan tribe of the Winter's Claw understand what it truly means for those who live within the foreboding granite walls. Since they had been children, Darius and Draven had been surrounded by death and squalor, by the proofs of life that dictated to them 'mercy is weakness, and weakness is death'. The same would hold true for Talon, the Blade's Shadow, who was born in the darkness of the tunnels, who knew no love and had nothing to call his own. Even Katarina, the Sinister Blade, would grow up swathed in delicate silk and blades dripping with blood. Each and every Noxian alive and breathing won the game that was life within their state- but their position would never truly be secure from interlopers- foreign or domestic.
As befitted a people primed for war, who never felt truly safe even in the walls of their own state, Noxian military academies were prevalent. There was a school for artillery officers, a school for quartermasters- there even were schools for battlefield engineers and logistics officers. The military was a Noxian constant, and like all else within the state, to be commended and acknowledged as a graduate of even one of those academies was a great achievement in itself. Above all those institutes, however, the Military Academy at Boram's Point was the very peak. Largely due to its demanding and perfectionist curriculum, the nation's best and brightest officers all graduated from Boram's Point. Thus, to be considered as an officer-candidate, as Sion had informed Darius all those weeks ago, was proof of one's personal ability.
It was the largest school in the state- easily dwarfing the Basic Infantry School that lay within the southern swamps. Nestled in a large valley filled with fire-burnt trees and deep chasms carved by prehistoric rivers, the school's architecture mirrored the apocalyptic landscape it nestled in: wrought-iron gates and fences, shale grey walls and sharp obsidian steeples, grimacing demonic gargoyles and cobbled stones. Inside, the buildings were cavernous and eerily hollow like the bones of a giant whale, covered wall-to-wall with ancient tapestries of battles long gone, suits of battered armor in every alcove- proofs of the Noxian warrior society as far as the eye could see. The classrooms were a simple arrangement of blackened chairs and desks- the true lessons lay within the gymnasium and the wasteland outside.
The gymnasium, or, as the candidates themselves called it, 'the Wolf's Pit', was a large ring made of sharp black volcanic sand encircled by a grandstand of granite. Various weapons were kept inside a nearby shed, and when the hour for sparring came, candidates would work against each other using real weapons, sharpened to a killer edge. It was not at all uncommon for candidates to behead someone by accident- in fact it was encouraged by the instructors themselves. Only the strong would survive Boram's Point.
Field exercises were held in the scarred landscape, using real weapons and real tactics. Horror stories were plentiful: of being left in the field to be eaten by the crows, of being starved and hounded by instructors for nights on end, of being forced to conduct tactical maneuvers without sleep or water. There was nothing false about Noxian military training at Boram's Point- everything was real, so that when the direst situations ever occurred, the officers would know what to do. Even with the knife hanging above their heads, every single person who had ever entered the infamous campus considered it a great honor to have even stepped on the grounds.
There must have been a thousand of them outside the gates, most of them young men and women carrying a single canvas bag- they had been banned from bringing any more than one. Most of them had looks of wonderment on their faces and curious questions streaming out of their mouths. There were some veterans who managed to gain passage into the school- if it was not obvious from their scarred visage, it was the way they walked and talked. They were sure of themselves, of their abilities and their strengths, more than the wiry youths around them. Darius, on the other hand, didn't feel as if he belonged anywhere. He was fourteen years old, even if he didn't look it, and he was surrounded by both the battle-hardened and the inexperienced. He wondered what would happen to him, like the young did, but at the same time his vision of the future was tempered with what he had gone through, as the old did.
And the future was not bright, from his perspective at least. He had done his best in the two months he had to teach Draven how to live by himself for the next four years. There would be no furlough from Boram's Point- no brief return to life outside the wrought-iron gates. It would be four straight years of the most intense training of his life, and four straight years of Draven doing as he wanted with the stipend he would send back. Four years of rigorous learning, and four years of Draven running amok and doing as he pleased. Needless to say, Darius was not at all comfortable with leaving his brother to his own devices, but this was an opportunity, and he could not say no.
He would have fretted a bit more, though he would never admit it, when the gates of the academy swung open and an entire column of men and women in full polished battle gear marched out to some unseen cadence. Like small fish making way for a giant whale, the mob of impatient youths and impressed veterans let the column of soldiers split them in two. Silently thanking his height, Darius watched over the heads of the other eager recruits as snare drums beat a marching song.
The grey-eyed man's hair framed his dignified face, thick and straight; the color of burnished iron. He had a cleanly trimmed beard and goatee and bore lines around his mouth and eyes. There was a faint scar around his temple, a bizarre half-moon shape the size of a large ring. He was not very tall- his head only came up to the shoulders of his guards. He was of a slight build; Darius felt that he could have jumped on him and broken his back if he pleased. Still, he was clad in a high collared black double-breasted coat, the Noxian crest, elaborate gold and silver braid and five bars on his rank epaulettes indicated his rank to be that of a Major. There was a sword strapped to his side: a deadly white wave-bladed sword laden with black runes that looked like it had seen more battles than Darius had seen summers.
"My name," The man spoke with such a deep baritone that if there had been a god on Runeterra, that would have been his voice. "Is Ignatius, of the House of Montfort. I was given authority to administer to Boram's Point thirty years ago- while most of you were still specks in your mother's wombs. I am your Commander, and the final judge that you must impress if you wish to leave these walls alive."
"I appear weak to you. That is not a question." He gestured to the tall armored men flanking him. "Indeed, I appear to be quite beyond my years- but like all else within these walls, what you initially perceive is not what you will experience."
Commander de Montfort held his hands behind his back, scanning their faces with a pleased look. "I only have one question that I wish to ask to all of you. If even one of you can answer me correctly, then you do not need to be here, because it is the only lesson that Boram's Point has to offer you."
He gave them a secretive smile, and then spread his hands in the typical show of bemusement. "Candidates, what is Noxus?"
Darius stared at him. What was the point in asking foolish questions?
"The city-state." Said one veteran. A few individuals nervously laughed at his wit.
"Yes, if one should choose to answer the question literally," For his part, Commander de Montfort did not seem to be insulted by the veteran's gall. In fact, he seemed rather amused. "But that response is for the foolish and the uninitiated."
"The land." Another volunteered.
"This land is known by another name, but it was lost through time." Commander de Montfort replied demurely. "That is yet another fool's response, and shows your lack of intellect."
"Hell." One ventured bravely.
"That is an amusing comparison, given that we are in such a place." Commander de Montfort gestured to the fire-burnt landscape about them. "If this is what you perceive Hell to be, candidate, I will enjoy breaking you."
Darius stared at the other people around him, wondering what it was that they were thinking. This questioning was making him doubtful of his future within the Academy. He didn't know anything about philosophy, or literature, or art or even music. His father had taught him nothing of that, and his mother barely had time to introduce him to what she called 'classics'. All he knew was the sound of his tortured stomach after another three hours of not being fed, the feel of dirt underneath his fingernails, the rough handle of the axe that Sion had given to him to practice with, and the smell of blood on his scraped knees and hands. How was he going to compete, if the technical lessons of the Academy were going to be on concepts he had absolutely no idea about?
He stayed silent, as the Commander and other, more knowledgeable recruits bantered back and forth.
"Derivatives." Commander de Montfort said after the seventh answer. "All of you, answering in derivatives: the land, the state, the country, the government. All of you are wrong. Look elsewhere, beyond the physical aspects that you can see, that you can feel, that you can touch. What is Noxus? At its heart? At its very core?"
All this talking is making my head hurt, Darius decided.
"Noxus is strength." A voice said. Moving as one, the mob turned to look at the source. He was a young man with blue eyes and dark hair of average height and build, with an aristocratic face and educated tones in his voice.
Commander de Montfort gave an elaborate bow as soon as he realized who it was. "My Lord Darkwill. You've grown."
The youth seemed to flush- what with a thousand eyes staring at him in complete and utter surprise. "It will only be Keiran." He said determinedly. "And I wish for no special treatment- that is why I am here."
"Little boy wants to prove to his pappy and big brother that he's got some balls to go to a school his dad renamed after himself." One of the veterans commented.
As great as the insult had been to his House, Keiran Darkwill did not react. He merely stared at the veteran- perhaps he was shocked beyond belief, or perhaps he was thinking of how to best smother the veteran as the man slept. After a second, the youth cast his glance away, and Darius understood exactly why he did nothing.
It is more insulting to be ignored, rather than to be taken as a threat, after all. Darius thought.
Commander de Montfort was smiling. "Candidate Keiran," He stressed the name now- acquiescing to the youth's request to be treated the same as everyone else. "Is correct: Noxus is strength."
The thousand eyes turned back to the older man, drinking in his pleased smile and his words. "In Noxus, the feeble perish in the darkness, as they deserve, and the worthless are left behind. That is how it has been since time immemorial, and that is why Noxus is strength, given form in its people. Let this be your first lesson, candidates: there is no point in showing kindness or benevolence to others. The weak will remain weak, and cowards will never obtain true strength of character. They will never be strong, and so they must be culled. By showing no mercy, we cut off the tumors of society that hold us back from conquest and glory. By purging our society of those that seek to cripple it with their cowardice and indolence, we prevail. A strong people create a strong state."
Commander de Montfort was talking faster now, his voice giving more weight to his words. "A strong state demands nothing but the strongest officers to lead it, and that is why this institution stands within these forsaken lands, this harsh, demonic terrain, so far from everything and everyone that you know and love. Only through fire can gold be purified, the most valuable elements weaned from worthless rock. We will test you. Most of you will fail. A few of you will be strong enough to survive. This few will be the strongest, the most determined among you-they shall be the most ideal Noxian officers, chosen through trials of blood and steel."
Darius would forever remember this moment as the time in his life that he realized he loved Noxus for what it was: the state of the strong, whose families obtained prestige rightfully in battle, and earned glory and prosperity through adversity. The current hold that aristocrats had over the city-state was temporary. They were not strong. He knew that with Adrian's death, and with Maynard's inability to stop his parents from having a death that they had deemed acceptable. Filled with fervor, he found that he could see clearly now- which person knew that they deserved their House name, which person walked over the bones of their ancestors to hold power under false pretenses- he knew.
Eventually, he would act upon it. The Culling of the Weak, historians would later call his purge, but Darius was still only fourteen years old as of now, and there was still much grief and toil to be had before he would finally bring his plans into motion.
Commander de Montfort clasped his hands behind his back once more. "You have answered my question. I shall not tarry any longer. Go now." The old man said simply as the ranks of his guard closed about him. "Your company names are on your papers, as are your residence halls and room numbers."
And then as quickly as his vanguard had come, they once again formed into orderly lines about him and marched back into the direction of a large and imposing building that lay to the north. Darius joined the nervous throng as they followed in the wake of the armored brigade.
"They're going to the Cathedral." He overhead of the battle-scarred veterans saying. "Finally done with all that pompous talk. Was getting annoying."
"What's that?" Eager to find out more about their surroundings, the nearest candidates grouped about the older man- whose nose had been broken too many times to be recognizable, whose hair was falling in thin wisps down his weatherworn face.
"That's where the Instructors live." The man said. "Them officers in the infantry used to call it the Cathedral because that's where God dwells. Our God now, you understand?"
As he walked, Darius craned his head to look at the Cathedral, with its tall spires and buttresses reminiscent of upturned and shattered bones, the massive glass windows covered with web-like black lines. Idly, he wondered how the candidates' residence halls were going to look like. If the rest of the buildings followed Darkwill's tendency for spikes and skulls, after all, then maybe he was going to be living in a spike-filled cavernous dormitory.
His band came to a stop in front of five instructors, who were holding ledgers and inspecting papers. Darius fell in line easily, and when it was his turn, the Instructor stared at him, and then back at the ledger he held in his hands as if he wanted to check something- his age, maybe?
Darius remained silent. Would they reject him, then? Right at the gates? He had been told there would be no complaint, as long as he could stand the abuse, as long as he remained strong and focused on what he wanted. That was the Noxian ideal- at least, that was what he had been told. If they turned him away now, he did not know what he would do.
But the man did not seem to mind. He merely cocked his head to the right. "Dominance Company, of the 42nd Training Standard."
Unlike what Darius had imagined, the residence hall was an almost-mundane longhouse made of stone, slate tiles and the same spiked architecture. There were no walls inside the residence hall- only beds upon beds in two organized rows. There were two footlockers at the foot of each double bunk bed, for hygiene and personal things. There were names tacked on the bedsteads- Darius found his easy enough: it was the one closest to the bathroom. His bunkmate was a long-nosed man named Lazare, of the House of Richelieu- but as soon as he discovered that Darius had no House name, he had ceased talking to him and busied himself with preparing his things.
That's fine. Darius thought to himself as he stowed his canvas bag under the bed.
A glance about the room showed many impatient faces, but out of all of them- only Darius, a veteran named Seamus and Keiran Darkwill himself were deep in thought. It was odd feeling, being amongst people who never were supposed to be his peers, but Darius didn't care for them. He only wanted to learn. It seemed as if Seamus and Keiran were thinking the same way- they busied themselves with unpacking, and hardly talked to anyone else.
"Form ranks, you worthless bags of meat!" Came a sudden deep booming howl. "Form ranks or I'll flay your hide until you bleed from your eyes!"
Suddenly, everything was moving. Darius clipped another candidate in the eye as he made a mad dash for the front of his bunk, and he did his best to stand at attention by mimicking Seamus off to his far right. They were a ragtag bunch, all of them. Some were slouching. Others simply didn't seem to care- but the moment she came, they all found themselves standing a little straighter- and quaking in their boots.
A woman wearing a high collared black dress coat that bore dual rows of polished buttons with a gold and red ceremonial braid and triple bars on her shoulders entered the longhouse. She wore black knee high leather boots with a single bloody stripe down the sides, - signifying her seniority and her authority. Her hands were covered by imposing gauntlets laden with glowing runic sigils. She was beautiful, in a cold and savage way. Her platinum hair was bound in a neat bun- there were no stray strands on her face. He could tell from the lines on her brow and on her cheeks that she was at least twenty years older than he was, if not more. She did not have a sword by her side like the armored behemoths who had divided the crowd earlier. Instead, two supple black leather harnesses crossed over her waist, holding obsidian daggers that glowed with a red malevolent light.
"Candidates of Dominance Company, I bid you all welcome to Boram's Point." She had a ferocious gleam to her grey eyes and a sort of displeased snarl on her features as she began to pace up and down the aisle. "My name is Suzanne, of the House of Castellamonte. You will address me as Chief Instructor di Castellamonte, Ma'm di Castellamonte or Chief di Castellamonte. Whatever orders the Commander sees fit to pass upon you, I will carry out with conviction. Do not mistake my gender for a weakness- you will die. I have spent twenty-three years here, and I will not tolerate disrespect from any one of you. There are no exceptions to this rule."
Her voice was oddly hoarse. No doubt she had to work to make herself heard. Her hands were at her back so that she seemed to be more than everyone else around her, and she cocked her head to two other similarly dressed but less-decorated men next to her. Her awe-inspiring presence was such that even Darius hadn't noticed the two of them until she had made them look.
"Assisting me is James, of the House of Krieg-Windsor, and William, of the House of Strongbow. You will address them as Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor and Assistant Instructor Strongbow only. I will expect you to show them the same respect that you are obligated to show me."
William Strongbow was red-haired and young but his sharp green eyes showed nothing but frost. He was clearly an archer. If his House name was not an indication of his prowess, his right arm was- in the way of men who have held back seventy pounds of force using only two fingers, his right arm bulkier than his left. He bore an unstrung ebony bow, also shining with elaborate runes, inside a quiver of black-fletched arrows.
The other man, James Krieg-Windsor, was gray-haired, blue-eyed and jagged as the wasteland around them. He had a patch over his eye and a gruesome scar on the left side of his face that twisted the rest of his face into a permanent and disturbing snarl. He was leaning on a battle hammer, and like the rest of the other two instructors, it was made of the blackest obsidian and laden with yellow runes that quivered and glowed like fireflies.
"Make no mistake, candidates." Chief Instructor di Castellamonte said dispassionately. "I am your premier instructor, and within these walls, I am omnipotent. I will be at your side during your waking hours; I will be in your minds during your hard-earned rest. I will be the voice in your head when you think, and I will never, ever permit you to forget the principles that we seek to imbue within you."
She cast them all a snide glance, and Darius found her staring at him as she continued to speak. Out of respect, he kept his eyes straight at the wall. "You will abide here for four years of your miserable lives. By the end of your stay, you will have the ability to coerce strength from troops who have none. You will know battlefield tactics kept secret from the rest of the world. You will be a typhoon of blood and flames on the battlefield, a storm of ruthlessness and pure unadulterated power. You will be ready to dominate those who dare to oppose us: the worthless fools of Demacia, Ionia, Piltover- even the warrior-recluse society at the slopes of Mount Targon- but only if you survive."
Her pacing had reached nigh hypnotic levels as she swaggered back and forth through the single aisle in the hall. "There are approximately a thousand of you hopefuls. A thousand children who dream of becoming an officer within the glorious Noxian military- but by the time your second year ends, I, and the rest of your instructors, will have weeded out the weak-minded, faint-hearted and physically unfit- through a rite of passage here that all must undergo. We call it The Crucible, and like the tool, it shall test you in the most painful and unimaginable ways possible."
Chief di Castellamonte was still speaking, though she was getting hoarser every second. "Forever strong. That is our nation's creed, and if you step out of these gates again after four years here, you will have it engraved on your very bones." She thumped a gauntleted fist to her chest determinedly.
There was silence for a while, as she scanned the ranks. Those who held her gaze were immediately set upon by Strongbow and Krieg-Windsor, dragged screaming outside and thrown onto the sharp black soil. Wanting to remain in the program, Darius kept his eyes pinned at the wall. Three already gone from their little company, and it was only the first day.
"Looking at me in the eyes, as an equal would-" Chief di Castellamonte spat. "As you can see, is a cardinal sin. One of many you may perform- and pay for with your blood. Remember candidates that disrespect given will be disrespect returned, and I must tell you that Assistant Instructor Strongbow excels at punitive measures. I care not for your Houses," She continued. "I care not for eventual retribution at the wave of a quill. I am your Chief Instructor, and I am law. You have read your papers; you have signed your names- you know that you are all utterly mine."
What she would say next would stay with Darius for the rest of his life. "I will not deny that I am from a noble House, but I have earned my right to wear my name. Most of you have not yet been sorely tested. Most of you ride on the bones of your ancestors, on the ghostly whispers of their strengths and their achievements. You will not use their names here."
Most of the people she had alluded to kept their eyes front, but there were a few who glared back at her, mouths twisting in rage at the affront to their family's prestige. Yet again, the two men darted in, hitting offenders with the backs of their gauntleted hands and sending blood on the floor.
There was a smug note in her voice as she stared at the groaning forms on the floor. "Always remember, candidates, that within the walls of Boram's Point, you are all equally worthless until you prove yourselves to your fellow candidates, to your senior instructors, to your Commander, and to me."
Darius felt elated beyond belief. All of them, considered as equal- untainted by House, by affiliation, by origin. He didn't mind that she had just called him worthless- compared to her, he probably was nothing but another name on her ledger, a bunch of letters to be crossed out as soon as he failed their tests. To say that they would be equal, that no influence would be exercised from the outside world- it was music to a hunted man's ears. He must've smiled then, because Strongbow had suddenly appeared by his side, daring him to act in any way that would displease their god. Quickly, Darius stifled the expression, and returned to watching the wall. Seemingly satisfied, Assistant Instructor Strongbow retreated.
"Candidates, I have told you about disrespect. I have told you about arrogance. I will tell you now about cowardice." Her rough voice seemed to bounce off the walls. "What is cowardice?" She stopped in the middle of the longhouse, her hands clasped behind her back as Commander de Montfort had done only minutes earlier. "Cowardice is indecision. Cowardice is the inability to act. Cowardice is to turn your head away, to hide, to run. To give in to cowardice is to insult me, and I will drive my knife into your heart the moment you do."
"How do you succeed then, in a place such as this?" She seemed to read their minds as a master puppeteer would see the strings of his dolls. "Where you are punished for looking back at me, where you are subjected to physical pain at the very first instance?"
"If you are strong," She held out her gauntleted hand and closed it into a fist. The runes on the black metal blazed to life. "If you are driven, if you are obedient, you will pass. You will survive- but what point is there to surviving? What point is there to merely pass? In a place such as this, there is always the longer route, the most rewarding path- and that will only open to you if you give me your soul."
The atmosphere of the longhouse was like a meadow bracing for an incoming thunderstorm. Heavy and absolutely frightening as she continued her speech. "If you give me everything you are, I will give you glory. I will take you and mold you to be the finest warrior on the face of this pathetic earth- but only if everything you do, you will do for me, for your Commander and for Noxus itself."
She let her words soak in their minds. All they had to do, then, was to give everything they had to her.
It was a price Darius would pay, gladly.
"Shall we start today?" She asked them all.
"Yes." He found himself answering. As he filed out with the rest of the recruits, he discovered that Lazare de Richelieu had been one of the people who had stared at Chief di Castellamonte.
Lazare had looked upon the face of a god, and for his transgression, he, and his things, were nowhere to be seen.
Author's Note: There is just so much badassery going on here, I don't even. What I really like about this though is that even though it's conversation-heavy, it still somehow manages to drive the point home: Noxus is a nation of warriors, and as a nation of warriors, they would not accept failure or cowardice in any shape or form.