Day after day breaks
and gives him
back to us
broken.
Soon the husk of his knowing
won't know even that.
Blood Honey (Chiana Bloch)
THIRTY MINUTES LATER...
To instill zealotry in their troops, Demacia utilizes the Measured Tread and a litany of other sayings that fills one's mind with a sort of relentless altruism until one is able to vomit justice and peace across all of Runeterra- in the case of Lady Luxanna Crownguard, it was rainbows.
In Noxus, there was no need for a constant application of droning chants and memorized lines. Since birth, one is constantly taught- either by the system or by one's choices- that one must adapt or be killed, and that one must be strong to achieve what one wants. These two simple lessons prove true across the entire Noxian social strata from its highest peak to the lowest tunnel. When youths are being educated in military academies across the city-state, therefore, all the instructors need to do in order to trigger the indoctrination towards the philosophy of strength was a little push in the right direction.
It is a well-known fact in Noxus that several of the noble Houses possessed deep-rooted rivalries with each other- for whatever reasons. A lost dog was the reason behind the bad blood between the House of Castellamonte and the House of Montfort for some thirty years, while the reason for the House of Westley and the House of Strongbow's professional rivalry lay in a broken bow and a bit of wounded pride. There were a myriad of other smaller families squabbling over little things like which silk dress was better at so-and-so's garden party, but the biggest players were always the oldest and supposedly most venerable Houses, and these groups played a higher stakes game.
To wit, the House of Couteau has long been at heads with the House of Duplantier due to an accident that involved a poisoned chalice and the wrong person at the wrong event at the wrong time, while the House of Montpelier has always tried to keep its head down ever since an entire generation of their family had been wiped out by the neighboring House of Croix. Behind closed doors; the House of Swain has been biting at the heels of the House of Darkwill.
It could be said that Boram Darkwill allows the rivalries to perpetuate, as conflict would breed innovation and encourage strength in all those who play his games. But of course, with a multitude of influential Houses squabbling over minor things like teacups and racehorses, how does one manage to funnel all those petty jealousies into something conductive for the state?
The solution lay within the military academies, where instructors took all that dormant hatred and used it to their advantage, molding ideal Noxian soldiers by breeding an atmosphere of competition, pitting companies populated with richer candidates against poorer ones, propagating dormant House rivalries with a quick word and a little incentive. To kill more enemies became a way to top a rival House, to earn more glory on the battlefield became a way to rise against the nobility.
Playing candidates against each other was an elaborate skill- nigh a requirement if one was to become a Chief Instructor, and Boram's Point was especially notorious due to the large number of candidates coming from the bickering Houses and from the less-fortunate Wards thanks to the sponsorship system.
Upon finding out that the other members of their training company had been sponsored or had actually worked to get inside the infamous academy, blue-bloods tended to band together quickly. After all, nothing short of a Demacian insulting their ancestors bites at the aristocracy's' dignity as much as the mere existence of the lower class does.
In order to avoid such a thing from happening, it was something of a tradition inside the Chief Instructors' circles to place upstart nobles into companies filled with nothing but sponsored candidates- throwing them to the metaphorical wolves and watching the blood and innards fly into the air. The worst punishment, after all, was one inflicted by one's own peers. However, the opposite also proved true. With the inclusion of more nobles into the academy's walls, the most promising sponsored candidates were slyly transferred into the most toxic aristocratic companies, letting the nobles themselves have a chance at turning the knife.
Unlike Chief Instructors like Suzanne di Castellamonte- she had a rather notorious record of breaking over five hundred scions of noble houses into nothing but sobbing masses on the floor- Chief Instructors like Alexander de Croix pursued the sacred duty of instructorship only to knock what he saw as a plague of rustics back into their holes- he liked to make them beg for their lives before he let his candidates have their way with their targets. Many a sponsored candidate during his tenure had been broken enough to commit suicide in the isolated woods at the edge of the grounds.
In any other place, his practices would have seen him hanged or put into prison, but this was Noxus, and to commit suicide was to admit weakness and defeat. The more candidates he sent over the edge of reason, the more fuel he had in his argument against the method of sponsoring candidates. At the time of Darius' reassignment into Adamant Company, Alexander had already sent one sponsored candidate into a coma. There had been no evidence of his involvement, of course, but suspicions ran deep even in the Cathedral itself.
All that was unknown to Darius- if he had chosen to listen to the whispers that his fellow candidates had been exchanging, he would have known better, but he had not. His aversion towards politics and intrigue would wane in time, but he was still too young, and the importance of listening had not yet been carved into his skin.
As soon as Darius had entered the longhouse, everyone in Adamant Company literally stopped what they were doing-books were left open, scrolls dumped on the floor, chainmail left soaking in oil. It felt disturbingly pleasant for the fourteen year old to see noblemen's children regarding him with a sort of fear in their eyes- no doubt the result of his being sponsored by the House of Swain. He would have basked in the attention if he had been Draven, but instead Darius stood next to his bunk and glared back at them all until he was promptly called into the Chief Instructor's office by Assistant Instructor Mohren.
"Where are we going, instructor?" He had asked. As far as he knew, the instructors did not work within the longhouses.
"The Cathedral." Assistant Instructor Mohren had replied.
He had never been inside the Cathedral before. He had always stared at it from afar, had always wondered what was inside. Now he was being led in like a bleating sheep to the slaughter, the blonde-haired Assistant Instructor Mohren staring at him with something like well-veiled sympathy in his eyes as he nudged Darius into a massive hall on their way to de Croix's lair.
Being inside the Cathedral's Grand Hall, even for just a moment, was as if he had decided to walk into a great beast's torso. The room could have held over a thousand people in comfort. The floor was made of polished marble slabs, a single streak of red carpet cutting the space into two parts. Torches- magical ones from the green color they emitted- lined the high walls. There were rows upon rows of tables and chairs with black paneling and green cushions- the training staff's mess?
The ceiling, already echoing a whale's ribcage, held a single massive black chandelier, and he stared at it in awe as he passed by, appreciating the elaborate carvings on the ebony wood- skeletons dancing in a field of dead men, a hooded Death almost lovingly holding a man's severed head in the air, chains and screaming faces, and demons of all forms taunting vulnerable men.
"It's amazing." Assistant Instructor Mohren said to him as he pushed Darius on the back of the head. "But you have to move now."
They went up a staircase so grandiose that imagining how much it took to make boggled his mind. The skeleton motif continued here as well, and the craftsmanship was such that it seemed the two elaborately carved banisters had been made from a single piece of wood. As a man who carved wood to survive, he couldn't help but be impressed.
The second floor was similarly decorated and designed- paintings of famous battles on every wall, a General's stern marble countenance seemingly around every corner, complete with a brass plaque underneath explaining what sort of battle the man or woman had done to deserve their rank. Mohren led him through several passages before he opened a door that looked to have a whole wing on its own.
'Office' was an underwhelming word for Chief de Croix's rooms- as benefiting a man of his station, he had been given four rooms all to his own, all four spaces decorated appropriately- large windows offering a view of the grounds below, colorful frescos of bygone battles on the walls, beautifully patterned marble flagstones, purple drapes and elaborately woven carpets, bookshelves that lined an entire wall, a massive desk carved with dragons and skeletons, marble busts of past rulers and a single gleaming broadsword hanging over a fireplace, the ebony mantelpiece laden with souvenirs from past deployments. Everything was so clean and neatly arranged that the place somehow managed to feel clinical, even with the supposedly personal things over the hearth.
Mohren took up his post by the door as Alexander de Croix emerged from his library, like a spider wanting to find out what it had ensnared in its web. Upon seeing Darius, a mad light flickered in his green eyes before it was stifled by coldness that seemed to descend on him.
Unlike his father, and by extension the rest of his family, the weatherworn Alexander de Croix was black-haired and green-eyed. He was undoubtedly handsome, with a strong jaw and his family's high cheekbones. If his father had been extremely well-dressed when he had met with Darius' family that fateful day, Alexander was absolutely impeccable- his hair was cut short and to standard, his blood-red cravat was well-tied, his black instructor's coat was spotless and well-pressed and his shoes were shinier than the weapons inside the Pit.
Even if he was absolutely flawless with regards to appearance and personal hygiene, he still somehow managed to give off a certain air of wrongness. He did not stare into space, nor did he talk to himself in the way of mental patients inside sanitariums, no. He talked and acted as if he was not entirely present in his own mind. If any one of his victims had ever survived his torture sessions, they would describe his illness as being more visceral than absurd.
"Assistant Instructor," The aristocrat said in calm, cultured tones. "You may go."
Without hesitation, although he probably did have reservations about leaving a candidate in the man's care, Mohren clapped his closed fist over his beating heart, bowed his head and then left the two of them alone.
"Sit." Alexander gestured to a chair in front of the great desk, one hand behind his back.
Darius didn't move from where Mohren had left him next to the door. Was he afraid? Certainly. Was he refusing an instructor's request because he was afraid? Of course not. He did not want to go through false pleasantries. Alexander de Croix was an enemy, and he was not willing to play the man's game.
Alexander de Croix shifted his hand from his back, and Darius briefly saw the elaborate gauntlet with crawling, strange runes before he felt an immense pressure settle over his throat and he was lifted a good five inches off the ground. Choking, clawing at an assailant he could not see, the fourteen year old struggled and thrashed.
"Sit," Alexander de Croix stated as he twitched his fingers like a master puppeteer. Darius was sent careening into the chair with a loud slam and a rain of splinters. "Please."
Like a five year old uncertain of how people were supposed to sit, Darius was flapped about against his will as the same invisible force that choked him pulled at his limbs and pushed at his chest. Breathing heavily, his nose bleeding and sending droplets flying everywhere, he tried his hardest to fight but it was like going against an avalanche with a shovel. Surrender was inevitable.
Alexander lowered his hand, pulling at an invisible line that only he seemed to be able to see. It seemed that even gravity itself was fighting him- Darius found he could not lift his limbs. Still, he was glaring furiously at the man.
"Are you glad to see me?" Alexander asked him with a boyish look on his face. Invisible claws pushed Darius' head up and down, even as the youth growled angrily at him. "'Oh yes, I am, thank you sir'." The de Croix answered for him in a mocking, singsong voice more appropriate for a little boy.
"Motherfucker." The youth spat at him.
"Oh, it is capable of speech," The de Croix gave a theatrical gasp as his eyes twinkled merrily. "How amusing indeed! It is also amazing how you manage to even speak the same language. Hello, little boy, you've grown, I see."
"Let me go, you bitch." Regardless if he was insulting an instructor, Darius practically was snarling at him.
"Oh, let's not get to that part yet, I want to talk for a while longer." The green-eyed man tilted his head and flashed him a savage smile. "This," And he wiggled his gauntleted fingers. "Is so we can have a nice chat. I do not wish to be punched while I am trying to be a polite gentleman, you see."
"Coward." Darius howled. "You're a fucking coward! Let me go!"
"Strength above all, isn't that what your dear Chief says?" Alexander tapped at his lip; each and every movement seemed to make Darius' invisible bindings tighter. With mounting horror he could see the outline of the magic on his skin. "Why, I am simply playing to my strengths. Will you play by my rules or will you give me the most satisfying pleasure to snap your neck right now?"
Unable to even object, Darius settled on glaring at him instead. Slowly, the invisible force lessened its hold, and although he still could not move, at least it was not painful.
"And it learns!" The nobleman exclaimed as he clapped his hands together. "Oh, how wonderful. It has a brain."
"What do you want, de Croix?" Darius gritted out.
"The most marvelous thing imaginable- the perfect vengeance." Alexander watched Darius with a deceptively casual tone of voice. "I planned it as meticulously as possible, you see- I will take everything you are, and I will destroy what you will become. I will bleed you, and then when you are empty and grey, I will give you a knife, or perhaps a length of rope and you will tell yourself that it is best if you simply… died."
"I'm not going to kill myself." Darius struggled to keep his voice even- it came out sounding hoarse and weak thanks to the beating he had gotten.
"Oh, we don't know that yet." Alexander gave a chuckle and a dismissive wave. "There's still plenty of time before you're transferred out of my care. Plenty of time indeed."
"Why can't you just let it go?" The candidate asked him. Having been hounded for a year, he could not understand why Maynard would never stop. "Your father took the lives of my parents, deprived me of my home and took away my livelihoods." Darius couldn't help but snarl at him. "That is not enough?"
"A true vengeance," Maynard's second son raised a finger as if he was teaching Darius how to spell, his voice dripping with false kindness. "Is definitive, and complete. To truly avenge my brother's memory, the payment for his life must be like that of my House against the House of Montpelier- absolute annihilation. Once you are dead and your weakling brother too- only then will my father say that it is enough."
Any small hope he had of being able to escape vanished. He had to destroy them, before they destroyed him and Draven. "Your entire family is mad-" Darius began, but he was quickly interrupted.
"If I killed your younger brother, you would be as well." The de Croix tilted his head, staring at him with sympathy that seemed more wooden and cold than the desk or the marbled floor.
Darius glowered at him sullenly. It had only occurred to him then. Yes, he would have felt the same way if Draven had died. He would have sought the same methods. Being the target of the abuse and yet understanding his enemy's reasons only made his determination to foil their plans stronger- he would not break. He would not give them the satisfaction.
"Did you really think you could escape? From retribution? From my family? Oh, what I would give to be as naïve, as much of a dotard as you. You, who perceive the world as so simple a thing," And the de Croix gestured here and there. "That this is black, that is white. I am evil, and you are good. I would pity you, if I could."
"Don't insult me with your so-called pity." Darius retorted acidly.
"And do not insult me with your barbarity and petty threats," The aristocrat returned with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "At this point, I hazard to guess that we have insulted each other enough. Perhaps we should move on- I would prefer your capitulation."
"No." Darius informed him flatly.
"Well, as they say-" And Alexander reached out and gently closed his fist. "I did try."
The pressure came down upon him again, and Darius resisted the urge to scream as the malevolent force closed around him. Just when he reached the precipice of consciousness, when he was quite certain that he would pass out from the pain- the hold stopped and he flopped to the ground like a dying fish.
"This," The aristocrat said with a gaming tone in his voice. "Is too simple, isn't it?"
Barely conscious on the floor, Darius felt the man's boot push him about until he was lying down on the ground, chest heaving up and down in weary breaths. His eyes were narrowed to slits in his exhaustion and pain.
"It is a wonder what a little magic can do." The aristocrat said to him as he bent down and gave Darius a sharp cuff on the face. "In a land full of savages such as yourself- all of you struggle like a little worm in my hands and it feels so… empowering."
Violently pulled back into consciousness, the teenager stared blearily up at his oppressor as the man smiled down at him in a parental fashion, cupping his chin in one hand and manipulating his jaw like a child would to a doll.
"I think I should give you a little more time. Would you like more time?" Alexander mused out loud, even if the teenager on the floor couldn't manage anything except a few disjointed words and heavy breathing. "I think you would like more time. That would suit my needs- and yours, of course. It is always a good thing to have a fighting quarry."
"Wha-" The candidate rasped out. "What are you-"
"Ssssh," Alexander said softly as he patted Darius' abused face. "You're tired, of course. You've had a whole day out in the Pit. I will send for Mohren to take you back to your bunk, hm? It is not at all sporting if I terminated you right now- I wish to talk with you a little more when you are not at all exhausted. It might be more interesting."
And then he stood- Darius could dimly hear him walking away to get Mohren.
"Alex-Alexander," Darius managed to say with a beleaguered wave.
Like any good mother, the man was at his side at the mention of his name. "Yes, little savage? What is it?"
"Hope you," Darius said. He had been thrown down a set of stairs, had his nose broken by a woman and had been, after suffering under the heat of the sun for hours on end, thrown about like a ragdoll. Quite frankly, he was beyond caring about what happened to himself as he ran the words through his mind and out his mouth. "Die in a fire."
"Oh, that would be a nice accident." Was the man's twisted response. "That's a very good idea, thank you, little savage."
He must have passed out then, because the next thing Darius remembered was waking up in his bunk, hearing the bustling of bodies around him. He opened his eyes and found that he could not move. Staring down, he saw that he was pinned to his bed by his own blanket- held down by two candidates. A third was in the process of jamming a gag in his mouth. Of course, he struggled, but he was still so tired, and yet again, he did not have access to his limbs.
Palpable fear coursed through his body, making every movement difficult and every limb cold. He could not completely hide the emotion from breaking out of his eyes as he squirmed and twisted under the blankets, kicking and flailing to no effect- the two candidates were too strong, and he was too weak. His screams were muffled by the cloth gag and trying to spit the thing out only made him sick to his stomach as the dry cloth snaked its way down his throat and filled his mouth with an unbearably bitter taste.
"Darlings," Alexander de Croix's cheerful voice filled his ears. "We have another toy. Let's give it a warm welcome- but I would prefer that you not break it."
And as his struggling reached a feverish pitch, the blows began, raining down from all directions and from the darkness of the longhouse- punches and kicks, soap bars wrapped in shirts, hastily made rope knots and balled-up chainmail shirts. There was nothing he could do but scream and struggle helplessly against an endless foe, hoping against hope that all of it would just stop.
The helpless feeling overwhelmed him, and he would have cried if he could, because it that was the only thing that he could do without pain, but he had never been able to cry since his parents had volunteered themselves for the chopping block, and so his eyes simply rotated madly in their sockets, pleading and begging for the punishment to stop.
He had already suffered much that day, but the candidates around him did not care if he was close to passing out again. They continued to pummel him with cold faces and merciless hands, and still thumped away at him when he gave in to the pain and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
"That's enough, darlings." Alexander de Croix said as soon as he saw that Darius was no longer struggling. The candidates slinked back to their bunks like rats, leaving the man standing next to the unconscious candidate.
"He is rather tough, isn't he?" The Chief Instructor said to no one in particular.
"Sir?" Assistant Instructor Mohren asked at the entrance of the longhouse. The unspoken question hung in the air: who are you talking to?
"Oh yes, of course." Alexander de Croix said with an over exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. "It's your turn to watch over the dears?"
"Yes sir." Mohren said slowly as he approached his commanding officer. "How was your shift, sir?"
"Mind-numbing. You're in for a rather dull night." The de Croix sniffed sadly as he walked out of the longhouse. "They've all been precious angels sleeping in their bunks."
Author's Note: Quite frankly, this is the most disturbing chapter I've written so far, but it had to be done. I made myself sick just thinking about what exactly was in Dar's mouth then.
This sort of hazing was popularized with the movie 'Full Metal Jacket', and I tried my best to put myself in those sort of shoes and to depict the amount of fear, helplessness and cold panic that one would feel in that circumstance.
No, I've never been bullied like that, but I have been trapped in a cardboard box before and it's... not a good feeling.