Favorite Teachers write poems about students!
Reading them is like listening to whores
talk about clients; however contemptuous they sound,
everybody knows who's selling, who's buying.
I'd like to be able to like them. I sleep. Wake.
Torment (Daisy Fried)
THREE DAYS LATER…
Darius drifted up from blessed darkness when he heard a vague scuffling of boots off to his right. The young lieutenant resisted the urge to grunt as he prayed to whatever merciful god there was in the heavens for the owner of the intrusive boots to ignore him, even as little flecks of dirt and grass fell into his pit and peppered his front.
Someone reached out and shook his shoulder- Darius cracked open exhausted eyes and squinted up at his visitor; one Captain Gerard de Roquefort, a hale and pugnacious looking man who seemed to suck lemons on a daily basis.
Normally Darius would be the epitome of respect even if the man deserved very little of it, but seeing as it was the captain's fault that this was his third grave for the day, he was inclined to be difficult.
"…What?" He said snappishly, and captain de Roquefort made an amused noise in his throat.
"I expected more from the Baton," the captain said dryly, and the insinuation was not lost on Darius at all, even if he was very tired.
"What, sir?" Darius said peevishly, even as he did not get up. Captain de Roquefort pursed his lip, stared about him and then looked down at him once more.
"General de Montolieu," Captain de Roquefort said softly, "is looking for you; I would not presume to keep him waiting."
"What for?" Darius couldn't help but ask. General de Montolieu had shown him nothing but polite curiosity when he had talked to him at Zara, and after that, the older man had not asked for him again. Why now, and why couldn't he wait until he had eaten at the very least?
There was a very long pause before de Roquefort pursed his lip and finally said. "War council."
War councils were simply that- meetings held by the higher ranking men and women of the Noxian army wherein they outlined the strategic plan to subordinates up to two ranks below them. A war council involving General de Montolieu meant that the commanding officers of the 2nd Legion would be receiving its operations order.
An operations order was a plan that directed a unit as to how to conduct a military operation. It would describe what situations a unit would face, and what activities needed to be done in order to fulfill the mission's goals. These orders were normally generated by the Generals themselves, and then passed down the ranks through the use of war councils for commanders and understand what the strategic plan was.
Once these men understood their orders, they would then make their own plan tailored to their unit's needs and capabilities, and then they would pass that down the chain of command. The notion was to maintain the commander's intent in mind, and to achieve that goal by any means necessary.
For example, if a General wished to take a Demacian fortification, he would create a plan to take it. This plan would be given to his subordinates, who in turn would add or remove details and whatever else they felt was needed in order to achieve the overall goal: capturing the Demacian fortification.
By the time that sort of thing reached lieutenants like Darius, of course, the grand strategic plan was more or less summarized to: 'Stand here and look threatening. Kill whatever tries to kill you, especially Demacians. Also the earth may swallow you whole'.
As far as Darius knew, receiving orders from on high and interpreting them for subordinates did not involve lieutenants like him: the captains were the end of the line for that. Why did de Montolieu want him?
Darius rubbed one dirty hand over a mucus-caked eye as he half-crawled, half-felt his way to the side of the pit. The phrase used in his manual at Boram's Point all those years ago to describe this sort of pit was 'fighting hole' and he had used that term also, but since he had heard the men call the shallow scrapings as 'graves', that macabre nickname had stuck.
These graves were only supposed to shelter a man from wayward projectiles as one rested and were never supposed to be too deep or too big. If it were, then it would be called a foxhole or an entrenchment, and if one was not careful, one could also be mistaken for a latrine.
Darius had never dug a grave for himself before; as a lieutenant, he had the luxury of a tent and a cot to sleep in. It wasn't until a few days ago when the Demacians attacked their lines that Darius lost his tent and cot during their fighting retreat.
After that the entire 5th Corps had moved so often that, when Darius had finished gouging out some semblance of drainage for the odd chance that the skies above saw fit to drown him as he slept, he had practically fallen into his grave still holding onto his trowel.
He pushed himself over the shallow wall not unlike a slug would, and with slow hands began to put on his armor as Captain de Roquefort watched him silently, hand over the cavalry saber at his hip. Unlike his bedraggled lieutenant, de Roquefort looked far more respectable; his medium armor polished and his boots shined. His black hair was slicked back with oil, which made it gleam in the firelight, and Darius entertained the thought of setting de Roquefort's head on fire sometime during this campaign; a literal hothead.
"Hurry," the captain said as he nudged at Darius with the edge of his knee. The lieutenant resisted the urge to shout at him as he finally buckled on the last of his equipment. His hands slipped on a buckle, and his finger complained of the ill treatment.
As the pain helped him along to some semblance of wakefulness, Darius became aware that there was a weight pounding incessantly at the back of his head, his stomach equally assailed by hunger pangs. When was the last time he had eaten? Too long ago, perhaps.
Above his head came the metrological equivalent of his dietary woes- a heavenly rumble that matched his stomach's complaints to a tee. The skies had been building up into a fearsome storm above their heads for the past three days, and even now an odd bolt of lightning would cross from cloud to cloud. There was very little light to go by, considering that it was currently the height of Noxian summer by Darius' reckoning, but the wind that came down from the north- from the Freljord- was very cold and pleasant, albeit dry.
His hand wavered over the haft of his axe from where he had put it against a scraggly and not very healthy tree. Did he need it?
"Where are we going?" Darius asked softly, even as he wiped at his eyes again. Neither of them could afford to speak very loudly; they were surrounded by other similar graves, and sleep was a sorely needed luxury these days.
"South and behind, to Camp Adder." came the captain's impatient response. "There would not be a lot of fighting, if that is what you are thinking."
If there was another fighting retreat, he'd be damned if he left his axe behind. It took him a minute to find his harness, and yet another to attach his weapon. All the while de Roquefort rolled his eyes but did not interrupt him.
The two of them quietly made their way out of the Black Watch's picket, and took care to avoid stepping into a grave as the ground was practically filled with them. The entire 5th Corps was on ten percent watch, which meant that most of the men could rest while one man from every company remained awake to watch over them.
Looking down at all the graves, staring at dirt-smudged faces like his own made Darius remember the past three days in better clarity. As a lieutenant he had very little say in his orders, and the call for retreat had come from on high. Even if he had no desire to retreat, Boram Darkwill had ordered the entire Noxian front line to step back some five miles, and there was very little Darius could do except grit his teeth and march.
To bloody the Demacians some, the 2nd and 5th Legions had willingly taken the brunt of the beating during yesterday's retreat. Serving as rearguard essentially meant holding one's ground for a minute, and then moving back ten paces; for heavy infantry like Darius, it was basically standing, beating off the Demacians with whatever they had on hand, and praying that their foes were stupid enough to miss their projectiles.
On that dreadful retreat, both Legions had served as rearguard for the entire Noxian army. Now that they all had time to lick their wounds and take stock of their situation, already word was spreading of the 2nd Legion's new nickname, The Bendovers, as the 5th was appallingly called the 'Dead Dogs'.
Darius had taken comfort in the thought that, compared to the Glorious First, who was now known as the First Suicide Legion from General Halifax's blunder at Jacob's Ford, the 2nd Legion's new name had stemmed from necessity and jealousy, not from foolishness and fear.
They walked for a while. Camp Adder was a good mile away behind the front, and they passed through the rest of the bivouacked Corps of the 2nd Legion as they went all the way to the rear. Some men were awake, polishing their swords or talking of home, but most were napping or trying to catch some rest.
Every now and then the pockmarked earth was punctuated by a tent, and the telltale smell of blood and medicine wafted out from those places. Very few men made their sleeping holes close to such things, and as they came closer to the back line they were joined by several other men.
There was no real regulation regarding rank insignia except for the fact that it had to be displayed somewhere on oneself that people could see all the time, so it took a bit of staring and craning of Darius' already stiff neck to realize that his fellows were commanders, some from the 2nd, others from the 5th Legion. There was a smattering of Lieutenant-Generals, Majors and Colonels, but the Captains outnumbered all of them. As far as Darius could see, no one here held the rank of lieutenant.
He felt much like a felon; that is, he was not precisely supposed to be here. No one else bore the same rank indicator as he did, and all of these people were echelons higher than he was in rank and in age.
To understand Darius' predicament, one must understand the structure of the Noxian military at the moment.
A Noxian Legion was made up of two to four Corps, and it served as the biggest military formation that could ever come under the command of one man. There were six Legions afield at the moment- these were led by the five Generals of the Joint Council and the Grand General himself.
A Corps was composed of two to four Standards, and within these Standards were the Brigades. A single Brigade more or less was made of two to four Battalions. Battalions were composed of Companies, and a single Company could have as many as six Platoons inside of it, or as little as two.
To wit, a Corps was usually led by a Lieutenant General, a Standard was led by a Major, a Brigade was led by a Colonel, a Battalion was led by a Lieutenant Colonel, and a Company was led by a Captain. The chain of command thusly began at the rank of General, and then ended at the rank of Second Lieutenant.
One was called a General Officer if one possessed a General's rank; that is to say, from Brigadier-General to General. These people were at the top of the rank structure, and were not often on the field. They were the tactical sort, the people who made the grand plan, who created the very first operation orders.
One was called a Field Officer when one possessed a rank ranging from Colonel to Major; these were men and women who were given the strategic plan and all the freedom with relation to its execution. Beneath them were the Company-Grade Officers, the regular men and women who were the rank of Captain and below, who were only given orders and were expected to do them to the letter.
To be surrounded by these men and women then, only drove the point home. What did de Montolieu want him for?
"You are Baton." de Roquefort said to his unspoken question. It was clear from his disdainful tone that he thought very little of such a decision.
What in the flying fuck does that have to do with anything? He thought. As bad as he felt, he had no desire to sound like a complainer, so he only responded to de Roquefort's words with a nod.
Camp Adder was very old and so by sheer virtue of withstanding the test of time was much stronger than the now defunct Camp Creepy; the walls were made of proper stone and brick, the top of its fortifications laden with sharpened iron shards. Darius could see arrow slits on the walls, and felt as if a hundred or so eyes were staring down at them all. At the base of the walls were dirt covered blankets, and when he stared at de Roquefort the man only responded with a single word: spikes.
Here then, was a place that the enemy could not simply walk into; Camp Adder was as treacherous as the snake was.
The parade grounds were neat, the dirt very closely packed from years of being stepped on by conscripts. The buildings behind the walls were equally stout and made of stone. Camp Adder served a multitude of purposes: in times of relative peace it was a training ground, and in times of war, it was a veritable fortress.
de Roquefort and the rest of the commanders seemed to know where to go, though Darius could hardly discern a difference from one building to the next. Every single thing here seemed to have been designed with monotony and similarity in mind, and perhaps that added to Adder's box of tricks. Even if the enemy were to breach the walls, their next destination was going to take them twice, even thrice the amount of time to find, let alone subdue.
They all filed into one building, which had a small sign next to the doorpost- command- and then they were going down stairs that went on for twelve steps before it turned right, and went on again for twelve more before once again making a turn. They were going underground.
Darius counted five such turns before they all stopped and went down a branching tunnel.
It felt much like Boram's Point, to tell the truth; the ceiling sloped upward gently, the iron rafters supporting the weight of the world above arranged like bones of a rib cage. The walls were much smoother, the floor polished to a bright grey sheen. Green runic torches crackled merrily above their heads, casting a pale shade of emerald over them all. All the black iron doors were very thick and set into the wall, and when Darius stared at one for too long, de Roquefort pulled him and rolled his eyes.
"Why is it set in so much?" Darius could not help but ask.
"If Demacians use explosives, the blast would be taken by the wall as a whole, not just the door." de Roquefort muttered. "There is no soft point; those things are thicker than they look in places where one would normally perceive it to be thin. You are Baton; shouldn't you know this?"
The motley group filed into a chamber that could have held the entirety of the 9th Battalion with room to spare. Darius could see that it had been a reading room at some point before the bookshelves had been put aside to make room for a massive black table, its surface covered with a very large map.
For the first time after a very long period of being kept in the dark and told not to wonder, Darius saw the battlefield in its entirety. Thick black lines divided the battlefield into neat grid squares but unlike his little map back then, there were no pieces on the surface to indicate what unit stood where, which was very odd.
There were several people already in the room- Darius could see General de Montolieu across the massive table conversing with another man. When Darius put two and two together from his memories, he almost stopped and held up the rest of the commanders behind him in his shock.
Commander du Couteau, or rather, General du Couteau now. Time had been very kind to him, as far as things went. He was tall but not broad-shouldered, his build slighter than strapping. He was not elaborately attired like some of the other Generals; his blood red coat was older but taken care of very nicely, the silver General's skulls on his epaulettes slightly dented but polished all the same. At his hip was a finely made sword and long knife.
He carried himself with a sort of easy and confident grace most identified with predators, as if he knew so much more than the rest of the people in the room. His eyes were a startling aquamarine even in the dull green light of the torches above, and his hair red streaked with a few threads of silver.
He had a neatly trimmed and short goatee, his likeable face only marred by a single scar that crossed from the base of his jaw up to the inner tip of his eye much like Darius' own, and emanated a sort of fatherly energy with every gesture he made in conversation with General de Montolieu.
Darius scanned the crowd and saw a man standing very close to the table, looking down at the arrangement with a militant eye. He was tall, taller even than Darius who already was pushing past six feet and growing still. His hair was very short, cropped close to his skull, his face stark and without softness. His cheeks were very high, his eyes half-hooded and dark. He wore the garments of one of the Raedsel- or at least, something close to it.
Black plumed feathers peered out from the bronze and green canvas-covered pauldrons on his shoulders. His arms and hands were clad in gauntlets of rune-etched bronze. He cradled a plumed helmet in one hand, the face dark and without the Raedsel Guard's trademark blood-red eyes.
He did not wear a robe like the Raedsel did, but instead had a sort of coat with tails that flared out from behind him like wings. His legs were equally covered in armor, and the tips of his covered feet ended in sharp points.
What am I doing here, Darius found himself wondering yet again, and he stared at de Roquefort in askance before the man shrugged his shoulders and pushed him forward.
"General," de Roquefort said softly, and de Montolieu turned from his conversation with du Couteau to look. "The lieutenant, as you ordered, sir."
"Ah, Darius," de Montolieu took him on the shoulder. "Thank you, Gerard, you may go."
Sourly, de Roquefort saluted, turned and joined the rest of the commanders across the table. Darius became very aware that he was the only lieutenant on the other side... or rather, the only lieutenant in the whole room.
The general stared at Darius for a full minute before he continued on. "You look-"
"Shitfaced." Marcus du Couteau commented dryly.
"Sir," Darius said; he had no excuse to speak of. In this company, he could hardly say 'What the hell did you expect? You interrupted my sleep like an asshole'.
General du Couteau's aquamarine eyes probed his own for a moment before the man said in a gentle tone. "You are Baton, so you hold the right to sit with us as we do this; the word was not properly passed to you, I think."
Darius could only stare at them blankly. It made some modicum of sense; to have the most promising and the very best student of Boram's Point sitting in such things, to learn from generals far more experienced.
He had been told many things when he had graduated as Baton, but to have the right to be in the same room with generals and gods above knew what else had never been said to him before.
Perhaps this was a tradition that only the aristocrats kept to themselves, and now that the Baton was a commoner, someone down the line had conveniently neglected to tell him.
"We all thought it strange," de Montolieu agreed lowly. "When you did not sit with us again, you see. Your advice at Zara was greatly appreciated."
"Before the retreat three days ago, we held council and asked after you also, but then we were told by your captain," Marcus said, and he put an unusual stress on the word 'told' and stared at the assemblage of commanders. "That you would not leave your men, so we could not call for you again until now."
Oh. Darius thought, and then it took every ounce of his self-control not to punch de Roquefort and smash his scheming face onto the map table.
Withholding the General's summons? Now that was a first.
"… I am a mere lieutenant, sirs." Darius tried, and his words came out of his mouth about as slow and plodding as he felt; words were no province of his, and Strongbow was nowhere in sight to put more appropriate ones in his ear. "But I will tell you; if I knew that I was being called, I would have come immediately."
Marcus du Couteau's mouth could've been set in a smile or a frown; it was hard to tell with the light.
"Take care to remember," The man clad in armor akin to the Raedsel Guard's commented off to their side. His eyes never went away from the map table. "That the entire world does not revolve about the Baton of Boram's Point."
"I can scarcely imagine such a thing, sir." Darius replied, though he did not know who this man was.
The man lifted his eyes off the map table now, and stared at the Baton of Boram's Point with something akin to detached curiosity. After a while, he made a small snort, shook his head and said. "You are every inch the man Keiran said."
Keiran Darkwill?
Which one of Boram's children was this one now?
"… Sir." Darius said, for lack of anything to say. "You have the advantage of me."
"Yes, of course. You are stupid, thick and not at all intelligent," The man clad in bronze armor went on, his dark eyes searching Darius' own for something that the lieutenant knew not. "But… you are very obedient, and that quality may outweigh your failings."
An insult and a compliment at the same time.
"I am what I am, sir." Darius replied, and he hoped his meaning crossed to the other man with as much conviction as he could bring to bear. He would not change for these sorts of men; he would fight in their manner, and would not keep his head low, but he would never change to suit them.
The other man smiled thinly; whether he was amused or disgusted was utterly beyond the lieutenant.
"I am Lieutenant-General Draythe Darkwill," He said by way of introduction, and let the implications fall onto Darius' shoulders. "And I will tell you: you are not very impressive, for a man who took the Baton away from a Darkwill."
By the gods, a small part of him wished to have never been named Baton in the first place. He felt frustrated with their expectations, and it did not help that his temper had already been stirred up by de Roquefort's machinations.
To add to the coals, he was hungry, he had only slept for an hour or two in the past day after being shot at and beat down again and again, and he was surrounded by people who outranked him in every way. The only way all of this could have been made worse is if he had forgotten to wear his trousers.
"Perhaps," Darius said cuttingly, injecting all his ill will into his tone. "He should have worked harder."
The entire room seemed to stand still, watching- waiting. One could not simply say such a thing to a Darkwill. Having said what he thought, and knowing full well that he could be magicked off the face of the earth if Draythe so wished, Darius stood his ground and stared back.
Draythe's eyes shifted, and the lieutenant found open amusement, instead of ire.
"Yes." said Boram's eldest, and the room collectively released the breath it had been holding back. "Yes, he should have. I was very disappointed- and Father was too. Bare your fangs more often, little wolf; you will find that much easier. May we begin, Marcus?"
"Of course," Marcus du Couteau said, and he cleared his throat and waved at the map table. "To business; commanders of the 2nd and 5th Legions, this is our order of battle tomorrow."
With a lazy stare, Draythe flicked his hand and a magical copy of the battlefield projected itself onto the table, and now Darius understood why the map table had been deliberately left without any sort of indicator at all.
With hues of blue for Demacians and hues of green for the Noxians, little boxes marked in the style he had learned all those years in Boram's Point appeared on the map. It did not include any formation below that of a Corps, so it was fairly clean and easy to comprehend with smaller units already included in the count. There were roughly seven hundred thousand Demacians on the field, versus a million or so Noxians.
Every single asset was marked out from supply convoys to naval fleets, with little arrows that indicated paths the troops were likely to take. The wispy villages were detailed down to the very roof tiles and the magic even mimicked the density of the fog in some places over the Howling Marsh.
Instinctively he searched for his parent unit, the 5th Corps of the 2nd Legion, and found it where it was supposed to be, billeted next to the 7th Corps. As far as Draythe's conjuration went, that was correct.
How does he know this? Darius found himself wondering as he admired the display. More to the point- is this all true?
"For those of you who are familiar with the concept," Draythe began, as if what he had just done was child's play. Considering the Eternal General and the feats of magic he had done even before this campaign, it probably was.
"There are fourteen Demacian generals on the field at this moment against our five; they have arranged their Divisions into seven Task Forces, and form a shield line that stretches from the foot of the Freljord down to the old gates at Mogron Pass. The only way this line can be broken is if we force it to direct its strength somewhere else so that we can flank it."
"To that end, the 2nd and 5th Legions will command Lightshield's attention here." General de Montlieu pointed at a Demacian township labeled 'La Forbie'.
"At the same time," Marcus du Couteau added. "We will take the 3rd and 4th Legions to force his hand here, at the village of Blackvale. If he does not answer us in the north, he must answer us in the south."
Darkwill's eldest flicked his wrist, and a ball of light above the Howling Marsh twisted into the silhouette of a man. "My father stands with the 1st and the 6th, close to the Howling Marsh, the former in full view of the Demacian army, the latter underneath a veil of magic. The moment we begin our assault, he will press the Legions forward, and catch Spiritmight unawares from his flank."
Darius looked down at the map. There were rectangles with simple dots in the center- artillery icons- too, that hinted some sort of shore battery installation along the Demacian coast. A Noxian fleet was close by; fifteen first rates, with a flotilla of frigates and sloops. The Demacian fleet, true to the Demacian doctrine of defense, was nowhere close enough to provide aid if the shore batteries were to be attacked. Their priority, clearly, was the city-state itself.
"Are those shore batteries along the western coast?" Darius queried.
"Demacian shore batteries," Marcus du Couteau supplied at once. "Somewhere between fifty to a hundred Paixhans guns pointed seaward; they are eighty pounders, with an effective range of two miles. Those would make quick work of our ships of the line, and Admiral Inglefield has said he would not go near the coast, for as long as those batteries should stand."
Darius considered it; if the 2nd went northward two or so miles, they would be able to take the coastal batteries with very little trouble. Once those shore batteries were disabled, it would allow the Noxian army to use naval artillery to soften the Demacians' positions along the line, in addition to threatening their capital with bombardment.
"May I offer a suggestion, sir?" Darius looked up at General de Montolieu for confirmation. The General stared at Draythe, and only gave his assent when Boram's eldest inclined his head only very slightly in response.
"If the 2nd marches northward still, it could reach these batteries and capture them; then the 10th Fleet may slip past, and we may yet have complete access of the western coast."
Draythe made a very low hiss, much like a cat would. Darius had heard of the rivalry between the Army and the Navy, but he personally cared very little for whoever had the most accolades and victories. An asset was an asset for him and he did not want to waste it at all, but perhaps Draythe was the sort to indulge in rivalries instead of victories.
"Only if we are able to take La Forbie," Draythe said at length, tapping the tips of his gauntleted fingers against the wood as he confirmed Darius' suspicions. "We shall see."
Darius sought out his parent unit. The 2nd and 5th Legions had been divided into their respective Corps on the field, and he could see the 5th Corps going against the Demacian's 10th Division. He could not remember much, given that his mind was currently to escape out of his ears and was smashing its face against the walls of his skull when it could not, but he knew the 10th Division's nickname was 'Diehards' and it was well earned as far as he could tell. Unstoppable force meet immovable object.
Without a doubt, the grand plan was aggressive and sounded very definite, but then again they were the ones at a disadvantage, not the Demacians. Even with such an overwhelming assault and with numbers apparently on their side, they would not be able to maintain the push; not with morale at an all-time low and most of their men hungry and tired from having fought a fighting retreat across five miles in the past three days.
"I do not think we can-" Darius began, but Draythe cut him off.
"Are you a coward, lieutenant?" Boram's eldest challenged him, and Darius became very aware of the room and its many eyes.
He was no coward, but surely- there was someone else here who saw this move as folly? What was so cowardly about waiting a day, about spending twenty-four hours to catch their breath, to sleep, to eat?
Given that most of the army was made of nothing but half-conscious shambling creatures, it would do so much good. Why couldn't they see that all of this was best done when their men were ready for such a thing and not when they had barely enough energy to stand?
He did not feel sorry, only- all of this was such a waste, and he became acutely reminded of Scraps and the boy's death. He had spared the child from the field in order to make better use of his skills. Even though he had died horribly, the boy had managed to do so much more.
"I am no coward, sir. I only wish for a day," Darius said with barely withheld disgust. "A day's rest would help us achieve this goal."
"We cannot give ourselves even a day," Marcus du Couteau's voice was gentle, but very firm. Perhaps he had thought the same, but circumstances behind the shield line had made him assent to the unsustainable plan. "This line will only press on, and when they entrench, we can do very little but flee."
"If we do this tomorrow, then Lightshield must answer," de Montolieu added, with a strain in his voice that Darius' sleep deprived mind interpreted as desperation. "He cannot be everywhere at once. His numbers will not allow for it. He will fall somewhere, and there we will regain ground that we sorely need. We cannot let them dictate where and when we should strike."
Darius looked at them all in askance. "But to fight tomorrow would be folly and nothing but placing a wager using the lives of a million men; that somehow, somewhere along the line, these Demacians would simply bend to numerical superiority. Sir-"
"I would not gamble with anything else." Draythe said sharply, and he was not at all sorry as he continued. "The men are here because my father told them to be here, and these men will die when I allow them to die. If you have any other plan, Baton, I would hear it now."
Him? Make a plan that would somehow placate two Generals, Boram's eldest and the rest of the army? He hadn't the faintest idea what could suit them. His mind was twisting itself into knots trying to think, and his body was all for collapsing underneath him.
"I do not, sir." He said finally, when the silence had become too much. He could not stop himself from flinching when Draythe slammed his hand on the map table.
"You do not, sir." Boram's eldest hissed back. He did not scream or raise his voice, but the weight of his words and the sheer acidity of it were palpable in the room. "You do not. You have the privilege to sit here and to suggest possible courses of action, but to decide and to question High Command and its decisions, you most certainly do not. While at council you are nothing but a privileged observer; you still are a lieutenant and your words hold no weight here. Do you understand?"
It was a very bitter concept to swallow; not because he was chastened in front of all the commanders and generals in the room, but because he felt there was no point in asking him to come in the first place.
After all, why call him here if there was absolutely no questioning the strategic plan? Why ask for his opinion if he was merely going to be told to shut up? Why hear him out, if he was only going to be ignored?
Perhaps, there was some point in all of this, but right now he was very tired and all he wanted was to eat something hot, to take a bath and to sleep on a bed. He did not want to bicker like a child; he had no energy for it at all.
"Yes sir," Darius said with gritted teeth. "I understand."
"You have your orders," Draythe shifted his glance from him to the rest of the commanders in the room. "I expect nothing but the very best from all of you."
With that, the war council adjourned. The commanders filed out of the room whispering lowly to each other; no doubt discussing their chances on the morrow. The Generals stood with Draythe for a while, speaking to each other and gesticulating to the map table; it felt much like they had never come to any sort of satisfactory plan even before calling all the commanders to the map room, and instead had to content themselves with a risky gamble that could either end in an outright massacre or a victorious push.
Darius understood the necessity of making a choice as he had often been told back in the Academy that sacrificing innumerable lives was part of victory- but knowing it could happen and being the target of such were two different matters entirely.
He could very well die tomorrow, and no one would care. Those who did know him would probably be disappointed instead of crushed. Draven on the other hand, would probably celebrate by jumping up and down on his corpse.
He had never wanted to ruin Draven's chances, but if he had stayed silent, he would not have a brother any longer. He had gone through so much to keep his word, and had taken on the pain and responsibility willingly so that Draven could prosper. There was no doubt in Darius' mind that he had done his duty as a brother, that he had kept his promise to his parents with that act.
Draven would not be an officer, but at least, he would endure. That was what he had said to his brother, the moment Draven had cornered him. Barely five minutes had passed since the pit fights had ended when the lankier, younger man had taken his blade to his older brother's throat. It was not very hard, as Darius was not in his armor.
"I FUCKING HAD IT UNDER CONTROL, YOU FUCKING MORON!" Draven's words had been so heavy with vehemence that the younger man could hardly stop himself from shaking. "I WAS PLAYING HIM. I WAS MAKING A SHOW! ISN'T THAT WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO?"
"A show," Darius had replied snidely as he glared at Draven. "That is not what you do in a war."
"Don't you fucking get it yet?" Draven had snapped irritably. "I'M NOT A FUCKING CHILD! I know that's what you don't do in the battlefield! That was a fucking pit fight, and people expect to have a show! I gave them one!"
That had given Darius pause. To act like a dotard and to deliberately prolong a fight for the sake of… giving a show?
Why? What point was there in doing something like that?
Darius was no stranger to pit fighting. Even before he had been cut for the Crucible, the training staff had them fighting each other, spilling blood onto the black sands of the Wolf's Pit. The only thing that mattered to the officer-candidates then was to put their opponent down in the best, most efficient way possible.
Chief Instructor di Castellamonte and the rest of the training staff had never told them to make a show, had never told them to perform- they had simply ordered them to beat their assigned sparring partner, and the how had been left to the officer-candidates themselves.
But Korovino, and the culture of the men who were trained in it, was markedly different. Now he understood why this camp was frowned on by the rest of the officers, now he understood why Strongbow had been so demeaning and acidic. This place made nothing but butchers and disgusting showmen. He couldn't understand how his father had survived this with his mind intact.
Or maybe he didn't, his pessimism had sneered. He named you after the man who cut off his leg, after all.
Perhaps he had been in the wrong. Perhaps he had been stupid. Perhaps Draven had planned it all along. His younger brother didn't know much else, but he obviously knew how Korovino worked and how its training master molded them all. Darius had acted in the way that he felt he had to, but he had never thought that Draven could know more than he had at that moment.
Feeling the crushing misery and guilt in his gut, Darius had bitten his lip and had stared at his brother. He didn't know why he couldn't put his trust into the younger man- perhaps it was because he had spent so much time watching over him that he could scarcely imagine any other way.
"Lower your blade," Darius had finally said, when he found that he could speak. His throat had bobbed against the edge of Draven's blade, nicking his flesh. Out of the corner of his eye had seen men gathering and watching the two of them with marked interest. This was yet another scene he hadn't wanted. "I am willing to speak to you, if that is what you wish; there is hardly any need for this."
"What if I don't fucking want to?" Draven's jaw had set, and he pressed the blade closer to Darius' throat, drawing blood and staining the edge of the officer's collar. "What if I fucking want to see you beg, huh? You fucking ruin my chances, you embarrass me in front of every single fucking marshal and now you're telling me you're ashamed of being seen with me?"
"No, not that." Darius had corrected. "I… I know I am wrong. There is no reason that we cannot settle this like sensible men; lower your blade."
"Beg me for it, maybe I'll change my mind." Draven had replied petulantly. His eyes took on a wicked light that Darius did not like at all. "Or maybe I'll just keep my blade right here, at your throat. Ain't this a sight: the Baton of Boram's Point- fucked over by a maggot from Korovino?"
The beast of Darius' temper had stirred then for the first time in years, yawning against the chains of his self-control. He had been very easy to make angry when he had been a boy, his mind taken over by absolutely consuming and righteous rage.
That unquestionable anger had driven him to Adrian's house all those years ago to make his point, and when his parents had been executed for his lack of control, he had kept the beast in chains, ignored and behind so many walls at the back of his mind as rationality overtook emotion.
To wit, these days Darius was a man whose anger was not easily roused- but the blow to the Academy was not one he could simply let past him, and besides, there were people watching him. He could not let this slight slip past, even if the one delivering the remark was his younger brother.
He absolutely could not.
Darius' eyes had narrowed briefly before he moved around Draven's blade, lowering himself to the ground and slamming the flat of his arm against Draven's knee. The younger man gave a howl of pain as the cartilage of his knee snapped, and then he fell back into the mud.
The beast had hissed its approval as his frame began to shake- not from guilt, but from sheer fury. He would not let this pass. He could not. Draven had to answer for his words, and Darius was going to beat the answer into his stupid bones.
"I fucking raised you. I went into Boram's Point for you." Darius had spat down at his brother. He had reached out and had taken Draven's wrists in his hands, clamped down hard enough that the younger man was forced to let go of his blades. "I fucking gave you everything I had, and when I did only what I thought was best, you still think that I wish nothing but ruin for you?"
"Why the fuck not," Draven had bared his teeth, still conscious and cocky despite his disadvantageous position. "You've done it already- twice!"
Darius had only a second's worth of warning before the younger man had pulled him down. Curling on himself like a spring, Draven had launched his remaining leg at Darius' groin. The blow to his privates had made the lieutenant give a low shout, and he had let go of Draven as he had stumbled back. A second later, he had crumpled to the ground, blinking and twitching as the unholy pain spread upward.
"This only makes the third!" Draven had said as he took a handful of his brother's hair in his hand. Pulling Darius up even as the lieutenant resisted, the younger brother had curled his hand into a fist and smashed it against his brother's face.
As far as punches went, it was not very painful compared to what Darius had suffered many times before, but having been kicked in his parts added to the pain that was assaulting his senses.
"You fucking put me down for getting a job; you put me down for getting ahead, and now this!" Draven had slammed his working knee against Darius' chin. The Baton of Boram's Point had tasted blood as his teeth cut into his tongue. The world spun as he had found himself on his back, and then Draven had blocked out the sun, straddling his brother and punching him repeatedly. "WELL FUCK YOU!"
At that point, Darius had become acutely reminded of three events in his life when he had still been an officer-candidate in Boram's Point: his first night in Alexander de Croix's training flag, the moment in the Crucible when Hawklight was trying to choke him to death, and the Instigation.
Memories of solitary confinement, of being bound and tortured for the sake of loyalty had filled his senses. The bitter taste of being incapacitated and beaten had filled his mouth and had mixed with the cold panic and sheer frenzy of a trauma not completely cured. His eyesight became stained with tinges of red. Sounds had become dull and distant. Pain had been muffled.
He had reached up despite the punches, had taken Hawklight's throat in his hands and squeezed. The man's arms were longer compared to his, but Darius was stouter, stronger. As his brother had beaten away at him with palpable panic, he had remained and maintained his hold though he was near blind with pain.
He had to take back control; he had to dictate the tempo of the fight. He could not let Hawklight set the pace. No one could keep him incapacitated, no one. He never, ever wanted to be held under again-
He had felt Hawklight shift, and when the man's weight went off to the side, he had rolled with it. The world rightened and through the blood and swelling of his face, he could barely see Hawklight- his eyes were rolling in his head, his tongue popping out of his mouth. His face was practically purple. A minute more, maybe two, and then this thing would be dead and he would be-
There and then, he had felt a sharp pain in his gut, but he was too deep in memories to bother. In his mind, it had felt like the Crucible again; it was him, or Hawklight, and he was going to kill Hawklight to make-
"UNHAND HIM, CANDIDATE!" came the sharp howl to his left. The tone had been familiar and authoritative, so like any good officer-candidate, Darius' head had snapped up, his hands moving away from Hawklight's throat.
He didn't know how many minutes he had spent, staring blearily down at the man underneath him, before his mind finally understood that this was Draven, not Hawklight. It wasn't raining, but the ground was muddy all the same, and-
"GET OFF!" Strongbow's voice had been full and loud, and Darius had meekly and quietly stood up. He had looked down at his shaking, bloodstained hands then, and had shifted his gaze to the brother he had almost choked to death.
Strongbow was by Draven's side, two fingers on the side of his throat.
Carotid, his mind had said, and it sounded very sleepy and not at all focused. If cut, exsanguinates in two minutes.
He had known then that he should feel remotely disgusted, and he had almost broken his promise to his parents- but it had felt so very right, to choke Draven for what he had said, to punish him for placing him at a disadvantage. Confused, he hadn't known what to think or even say, and so he had stayed silent and watched as Strongbow had breathed a sigh of relief and sat down next to the unmoving Draven.
"Oh thank the gods, he's only unconscious," The archer had mumbled as he rubbed at both eyes with his palms. "Ugh…"
Darius had become vaguely aware that it should've been him by Draven's side, that he should never have tried to choke his brother to death in the first place- but then again there was the slight and he felt so angry that nothing else had mattered except for retribution.
It had scared him to his very bones. He had lost control of the beast and he had thought very little of his brother. Nothing truly kept him by Draven's side save for his promise, and even then, there was still no guarantee. And then he had been seeing Hawklight, not Draven, and that fact disturbed him more than the rest.
His throat had felt very tight, and his stomach had roiled in his belly like an unbound barrel in a ship's hold. The world had felt closed. In the silence that followed, he had become acutely aware of the fact that he was breathing very hard and very fast.
Strongbow had pushed himself up from the ground, and made his way over to Darius. He had lifted a hand- perhaps he wanted to touch him on the shoulder- but then thought against it.
"Come on," The archer had said, and his tone was so familiar that Darius had felt bound to obey it. "Come on, let's go. Let's… let's not stay."
"Sir," Darius had said dumbly, and he had felt very small and child-like again. "… Yes sir."
Back then, at the very peak of the Noxian advance a month ago, returning to the front line across the Serpentine River and deep into Demacian territory from Korovino Redoubt had taken them two days' worth of marching. Darius had spent the rest of his liberty and the road time thinking about what he had just done.
In the end, he had told himself that he couldn't renege on his promise to his parents, and that was the moment he made an agreement with a provost marshal to inform him of his brother's movements and unit assignments. He had told himself that distance, the hectic frontline and the loss of his runner necessitated such an arrangement, even though deep down he knew full well that it was guilt.
He stood in the hallway for a while; long enough for de Roquefort to notice that the lieutenant was not with him and to turn back and see if Darius had gotten lost somehow. The corridor was empty, the Generals seemingly still in their deliberations, as de Roquefort reached over and shook him on the shoulder.
Darius looked up, and the older man cocked his head to the side. His face- somewhere between a smirk and a snarl- reminded Darius of his slight. Despite his exhaustion, he turned and quickly had the captain up against the wall, arm twisted and almost at breaking point.
"Do not think that I forgot what you have done," Darius said as he pushed de Roquefort's arm up uncomfortably.
"What have I done, hm?" de Roquefort spat back, disadvantaged as he was and reminding Darius of Draven's defiance so much that he felt the beast of his temper hiss and snarl. "Messages are lost all the time."
Darius would have literally pulled de Roquefort's arm off his body and beaten him gladly with it, but at that moment, a nearby door slid open on oiled hinges, and Draythe Darkwill was the first to see them.
Boram's eldest merely rolled his eyes. "If there is blood on the floor," He said over his shoulder as he departed. "I expect it to be cleaned."
The next to see them- they were too shocked by the Lieutenant-General's response to even move- was de Montolieu, and the General looked at them for a very long time and in silence before he too rolled his eyes and walked away.
Army regulations normally would see the two of them flogged, but evidently, the punishment of insubordination and the enforcement of rules were not high on the list of priorities within the Noxian army as of the moment.
Marcus du Couteau was the last to leave, and the General looked down at them as if they were nothing but two very young boys scuffling with each other about toys that never belonged to them in the first place.
"Stop that nonsense right now," Marcus said with a disappointed look at them both. "You are officers, not children."
"Sir," Darius said. "He stopped my messages-"
"Sir," de Roquefort said. "Messages are lost all the time-"
"Enough." Marcus massaged his temples. "I know full well what has occurred here and I will tell you; the motion for tribunal and the office of High Executioner exist for this. One can only rely on speculation for so long."
That brought de Roquefort into a panic. "Sir," He said very quickly as he reddened and quivered. "Sir, I-"
"Release him, lieutenant." Marcus looked at him. Darius did not do it kindly; he twisted de Roquefort's arm up enough to make him think twice about doing such a thing, and then shoved him to the floor with disgust.
As de Roquefort padded away, cradling his poor arm, Marcus du Couteau seemed amused now, rather than disappointed.
"Sir?" Darius broached out of curiosity.
"Your mother would have slit his throat weeks ago." Marcus pointed out. "And your father would have torn him apart with his bare hands right there in the council room the moment he found out; but you? You waited until no one was around to see, and then had your way with him but the moment you were interrupted, you actually listened to me. That would be a first."
Darius didn't know if he was being insulted or complimented, and so he merely gawked at the General.
"Execution," Marcus said. "Rather than intervention; that would suit you better, I think."
"Sir," Darius said, still very confused and wondering if there was some sort of code that he had to know before he could make head or tails of this conversation.
"A word of advice, lieutenant," Marcus said with a twinkle in his eye as he turned and left Darius as well. "Threaten spiteful fools in public if they irk you, so that you can say you are man of your word when you kill them."
He was alone in the hallway again, and was all the more confused for it. At length, his stomach decided to remind him of his failing obligations toward it. He pushed all of that to the back of his mind to think of much later, when he had the time and the energy to do so, and took the stairs two at a time.
They had started the meeting at the fifteenth hour; he had not eaten for a full day now.
Camp Adder's mess was not very hard to find; given that his mind mostly resided in his gut now rather than in his head, he followed the scent of food blindly. The skies made it seem as if it was nine o'clock rather than six, and he tripped over a rock or two along the way.
The mess hall was brightly lit, with two doors so filled with light that his befuddled mind equated it to the gates of the Hereafter. The sound of companionable laughter and cheer only added to the effect, and Darius went straight for the doorway that emitted the most noise.
It was the conscripted men's commissary.
"OFFICER IN THE MESS, YOU WORMS! STAND TO!" A voice hollered to the side of his head.
Darius reached up and massaged his poor ear- the speaker was the Sergeant Major for Camp Adder, and he had been standing next to the door as was his wont. The man was staring at Darius expectantly. Hungry and mildly surprised, Darius looked at him, and then at the conscripted men and women standing at attention, their evening meal half-finished on the numerous tables. The food that the trays held were not much: grey meat vaguely reminiscent of chicken swimming in an ocean of thin soup and rough rice.
They all looked as harried as he was, even worse, and it was clear that he had interrupted a time that gave them some measure of joy. To wit, there was a very short, thin-faced and brown-eyed youth in the hall that looked straight at him and seemed very disappointed, his hair tucked underneath a large leather cap, his body covered with clothes too big for him.
Was he supposed to- oh.
"As you were," He said softly, and the Sergeant Major nodded in satisfaction as the rest of the conscripted men grumbled and settled back into their meal. The eerie silence gave way to low talking; whatever merriment they had was obviously out of the question now that Darius was here.
Slowly, awkwardly, Darius turned around and left the conscripted men's mess. The other doorway was much quieter, the scent of food stronger, and when he entered he was surrounded by better attired men and women who were talking in very smooth tones. The décor was much better also, with tables and chairs more suited for a restaurant rather than a military mess hall. A band was even playing across the room, and he stood confused for a moment before he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Have you seen Paradise at last?" came Strongbow's joking tone.
"Food." Darius said blearily. "Sir."
"You're supposed," Strongbow led him over to where he had been sitting close to the band; he had been dining with no one in particular. "To be able to keep your head when you're under duress; that was the whole point of starving you back in Boram's Point."
"Never dug so many holes in my life," Darius mumbled back. "Or spent three days showing my back to be fired on."
"Oh, the woes of heavy infantry." Strongbow said with a laugh and a roll of his eyes. "Wait a bit for Greyson; he'll put you to rights."
Darius blinked as a man approached them, and soon there was a tray in front of him divided in four segments; he had cheese, biscuits, ham and grapes and stewed lamb and vegetables on the upper portion, while there was a healthy mound of mashed potatoes across and a siding of beans in some sort of soup on the lower portion.
He gave Greyson a thankful nod, and then applied himself to the meal with such speed that he was asking for seconds when Strongbow uncorked the bottle of port and held it out to him.
"No," Darius said, feeling much better and in control of himself now that he had just eaten. "I'm not drinking. And you shouldn't either."
"Just one," Strongbow said with a nudge. "We're allowed one; given what happened before, I shudder to go beyond."
This did not satisfy the Wolfman's son, and he glared at Strongbow for a while before the archer gave a dramatic sigh and poured for himself. "Suit yourself."
Darius ate his second helping in silence, which Strongbow did not interrupt at all but for the odd remark towards the band for their playing. Eventually, Darius pushed his second empty tray away, and then said. "Do you know our orders for tomorrow?"
"To throw ourselves at the Demacians' spear points for very little profit? Yes," Strongbow lifted the bottle. "This is why I'm doing this. Gods above, I am all for dying in a blaze of glory; may it be literal or figurative, but I would prefer to not die from sheer stupidity."
"Willingly achieving a hangover is stupid, and it kills people," Darius commented.
"No, a stupid man who drinks will have a hangover," Strongbow said confidently, though all of that sounded quite impossible to Darius. "I am not stupid."
The younger lieutenant resisted the urge to snort. But didn't you drink yourself silly only a few weeks ago?
"Where are you headed tomorrow?" Darius asked instead.
"To La Forbie, with the rest of the light infantry," Strongbow shrugged his shoulders and said unrepentantly. "And into the gates of the Void, after you and your fellows have died already."
"Comforting thought." Darius replied dryly.
"The Chief always said I was the most optimistic one in the whole Academy." Strongbow said with a laugh.
"Where are they now?" Darius couldn't help but ask; the training staff of Boram's Point had reputations of their own before they had gone behind the walls.
"General du Couteau, as always, embraces his own." Strongbow said at once. "So the Chief- ah, no, Captain di Castellamonte is with the 5th Legion, under his say-so. Comm- ah, blast… Major de Montfort is off with the 6th Legion- Boram's special request. I am with the 2nd, as you already know. Nikett had been with the 1st at Jacob's Ford, as were ah- Clausen and Krieg-Windsor so ah, they are dead, along with everyone else in that blasted place."
That made Darius start. "Most of the training staff is dead?"
"Yes, they were with the 1st." Strongbow said very quietly, and he looked down at the bottle in his hands. "... Well, I was not the youngest, and some of them more or less ignored me because my House is half and half; but they were a sort of family all the same, you understand?"
Darius massaged his temples as Strongbow shook his head and slammed the butt of the bottle onto the table, interrupting the other officers as they dined.
"Well, war is war and it is done," The archer said very quickly. "We cannot linger on such thoughts, not with tomorrow on our heads."
"We cannot," Darius agreed, although the Battle of Jacob's Ford had been five months ago. Strongbow had never once said that most of the training staff was dead.
"Who else is dead?" He asked with grim humor; he had not really expected an answer. Strongbow looked down at his fingers, and began to mumble. Darius didn't recognize the names, but it was their rank that struck him as very odd.
"Majors," Darius said with a shake of his head. "Majors, all of them."
"Yes, well, the Demacians took all our border camps; the ones that couldn't hold off a fly, much less a Demacian division, that is." Strongbow replied. "Kalkreath and Bardenheuer; I taught those two back at the Academy. I do not believe, for one second, that their men would simply desert those two."
"One could believe all one wants and still be wrong." Darius replied severely.
"Well, I think they desert because they do not want to die." Strongbow said. "… I cannot imagine what else would motivate me."
"How about disbelief or disgust?" Darius pitched in, his ill will all the more apparent. "Or… stupid politics?"
"Or those." Strongbow said with a shrug. "How are we to know the workings of a deserter?"
"Or," grumbled a voice to their side. "The simplest answer: fear."
The two lieutenants hurriedly made room for a hulking shell of a man, whose arms ended in iron rings instead of hands, whose legs were nothing more than wooden stumps.
It was Urgot, the incumbent High Executioner, and from the look and smell of his bloodstained and slightly muddy apron, he had recently come in from work. Darius, whose armor was peppered with grime, was also not very presentable. Compared to the both of them, a pig happily wallowing in mud was absolutely immaculate.
Strongbow self-consciously reached over and pushed a few breadcrumbs off the table and onto his front.
"Urgot," Darius said, and Strongbow elbowed him sharply.
"High Executioner," The former instructor corrected in a half-cough.
"Sir." Darius added hastily.
Urgot settled himself on the table, and without hesitation he extended his ring-hand and stared at the bottle of port pointedly. Strongbow filled him a cup respectfully, and then placed it carefully in Urgot's right iron ring.
It took Urgot only one swig, and then he held his cup out to have Strongbow pour for him again.
"Ya grown a bit," Urgot said to Darius with a rheumatic wheeze.
"Sir," Darius said again; today was clearly a day in which he did not know what else to say to people who seemed to know more than he did.
Strongbow poured another cup. It went down the High Executioner's throat twice as fast. Urgot patted his considerable belly for a moment before he gave a loud belch, and the rest of the officers in the mess threw their table the nastiest looks they could possibly give.
"Ya know about the deserters then?" Urgot hiccupped lowly.
"Yes sir," Darius said grimly. He had three deserters that morning- Lash, Anders and Dover. He had reported the missing men to de Roquefort as standard procedure demanded it. If the three chose to return, they would be executed. Only now did he realize that Urgot would be here at Camp Adder to do just that.
Urgot was looking at him strangely. Darius bore his stare with as much patience as he could muster.
"Then ya know," Urgot said finally, his voice barely audible with the way he went about it. "That Sion is dead."
Strongbow would have fallen off his chair in alarm if Urgot hadn't reached over to support him with his ring-hand. For his part, Darius was sitting very still; the shock had washed over him very quickly, and now he simply was… thinking.
Sion was dead?
"… Ya must've been talking about other deserters then." Urgot said, almost but not quite contrite. His tone was still low, though he seemed happy to be able to share his grief. "Not supposed t'say anythin' 'bout it, but I wen' an' said it; an' now ya know."
Urgot was not an eloquent man, but he told them of Sion's death as he had heard of it from the mouths of the three deserters he had executed a day ago. The two of them stared at him in silence born of mortification and absolute disbelief. Even after he finished, none of them spoke, and Urgot took his time to wet his parched throat with another cup of port before he broke the silence.
"Ya ain't listening, but tha'fine," Urgot slurred around his wooden mug, the alcohol dulling his tongue even more. "'s fine, even I'm not listenin'."
Darius could scarcely believe it. His father's other friend was dead and hardly anyone knew. Three men had been executed for desertion, the rest of the two hundred or so men were still unaccounted for. What had happened at Camp Endurance for Sion's men to simply… leave him to die?
It was a disquieting thought, to know that the men he led now could watch him die, to know that these men would do nothing if they were given the choice.
I will not die like that, Darius decided silently, furiously. His hands closed into defiant fists. I will not let myself become a wretched thing.
"I… well," Strongbow began cautiously. "It… it seems to me that he was a poor leader."
Urgot leered down at him.
"I will not mince words; I think you know this as well as I do," Strongbow went on, despite his clear anxiety with speaking against someone as famous as Urgot. His normally level voice was unusually quick. "If you make a very poor leader, you naturally cannot be trusted by those you claim to command; no one will follow you. If you inspire them to do more, then they will go with you to the very end of the world, I think."
Darius could scarcely imagine such a concept; to trust someone with his life, to believe, with all his heart and mind, that that person would take them through hell and back.
He had once been so very naïve, but he had squandered his parents and now- he could hardly trust his own brother to take care of himself. There was very little room in his heart for trust, and he found himself settling more into his disquiet.
Urgot reflected on the archer's words for a while, and then he said morosely. "I trusted two men, once. They be dead now."
There was a palpable silence afterward. It was painful to be in Urgot's shoes. He was now the last of three once glorious warriors who delighted in every day spent on the battlefield. His compatriots the Wolfman and the Juggernaut of Noxus were dead- the former willingly sacrificed himself for the sake of his child, the latter throwing himself into battle for the last time despite overwhelming odds- while his own extensive injuries had forced him to take up the trade of a glorified butcher and to plod along what remained of his life.
After the fifth minute, Urgot gave a brisk laugh that made his sides blow out and fall back like sails.
"Well," said the High Executioner as he took the bottle of port for himself. "In th' end we are all going to die. It doesn' matter when."
"What matters," Darius said lowly; memories of his father's words all those years ago moving to the surface. "is how."
Author's Note: A LOT OF PLANNING! Horrible internet aside, it's a miracle my mobile data is letting me post this. This would be part two of the monster Chapter 19 was supposed to be.