Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
Say amen. Say amend.
Say yes. Say yes
anyway.
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (Ocean Vuong)
THREE HOURS LATER…
There was a very sharp scent in the air that evening close to the burnt out shell of a farmhouse; the sort of pungent and invading tang that crept into one's nostrils and stayed there. Thirteen year old Garen couldn't tell if it was blood or something else entirely.
He stood outside the wreck with the rest of the Dauntless Vanguard; five thousand men and women surrounding the house in square formation, with two ranks of men standing between the current occupants of the shell and the rest of the world.
There would be no sneaking past this line either; mages were positioned at strategic points, their arms raised to the heavens, incantations on their lips. They maintained a magical veil that shut out the rest of the world. If the stories of Boram Darkwill having eyes and ears in every shadow were to be believed, the Eternal General would find no purchase in this little place at all.
Inside the King and his generals were talking of tomorrow's strategy, but as Lord Spiritmight had dismissed him earlier from his side saying that he 'needed a father's education before a general's guidance', Garen was with his father Marcus, and his mind was wandering as he tried not to let the senior Crownguard's crushing disappointment affect him.
His instructors at the Royal Academy often said that Noxians went through life with nary a regard for the man next to them. Despite having been raised to know that Noxians were irredeemable and absolutely despicable, Garen often found himself pitying the enemy; they had spirit and heart to match the Demacians aplenty, but were not as well off or as well treated. Perhaps, if people had been kinder to them, their valiance could have done more good.
The young Crownguard forced himself to stop thinking then. His father wouldn't want such thoughts.
This, and the surrounding area, had once been the homestead of a Noxian family. The family had burnt the place down to the ground instead of allowing the approaching Demacian shield line to use it as a sort of fortification, and had fled long before the embers had gone cold.
At least, that was what Colonel Gainsworth had said earlier that day to his father when the man had ridden to the Commander of the Dauntless Vanguard in order to give his report three hours earlier.
Given what he had seen at the sad camp at the edge of the Howling Marsh, it would not be unusual for Gainsworth to have ridden up to the homestead asking for the Noxians to flee if they valued their lives, and for the Noxians to have responded with violence and defiance instead of bending knee for the sake of practicality and self-preservation.
For all Garen knew, he could be standing on top of blood and ground up bones instead of ashes and burnt bricks—but he was thinking of things that were unacceptable again, and it was with a minute sigh that he tried to stand straight and still, kept his eyes to the distant darkening horizon and ignored the rain as it fell.
Inside the burnt out house, King Jarvan III stood at the head of a folding table heavily burdened with maps and little figurines that stood for troop formations and fortifications. The little things meant so much to those who knew what they stood for: seven hundred thousand men arranged in seven Task Forces —Justice, Amity, Honor, Lucent, Shield, Majesty and Valor.
To the King's right was his brother-in-law the Duke of Endurn. Across the table were the Generals Wendelin Esslin and Bayard Cardigan of Task Force Honor, General Florin Berell of Task Force Justice, General Kennard Lesauvage of Task Force Amity, and all the proxies who stood in for the rest of the generals positioned farther to the north and south.
All in all, an artillery strike would see the entirety of the Demacian army bereft of king and commanders, but given the defenses outside, they were not entirely vulnerable.
Like all meetings that involved the highest echelons of Demacian military hierarchy, however, no one but the King, his brother-in-law and the Captain-General could speak freely; the rest would have to seek permission if they so wanted to be heard.
Captain-General Ivar Purvis was not here, however; the head of all the Knightly Orders was to the north where the King believed he would do the most good guarding the young Jarvan IV. The Captain-General's proxy, Lord du Fontaine, was here in his stead, but as he was only a deputy to him was not accorded the right of free speech.
"We've given Boram a good licking thus far," The Duke of Endurn said as he indicated the much reduced Noxian line on the map. "Another battle and we could well see the very gates of Noxus ourselves. Constantly on the run, Darkwill would be hard pressed to keep morale, and would be bleeding men at every encampment."
"How fare our supply lines?" King Jarvan III mused out loud as he tapped a gloved hand on supply depots two days away from their position, and at the little pencil lines that ran away from the Demacian front along the plains.
Where the Noxians would instead live off the land they found themselves in, the Demacians were the sort to maintain supply lines and depots across their territory, where there was at least one depot to be found every ten miles. However, the Demacian army was now a good five miles across the traditional city-state line.
The farther the army marched from Demacia, the longer it took for their supplies to reach them, and for their wounded and dead to return home. Being reasonable creatures, they did not want to leave their dead behind, and so went through much trouble to ensure that every one of their fallen returned home to the city of light.
If there ever was a problem with how rations and ammunition were making their way to the men who needed them, it would be a severe blow to the Demacian military—so it was with full seriousness that the men looked to Esslin as he was the Quartermaster General, and the man cleared his throat like a schoolboy preparing to answer a stern mentor.
"I have just received the reports from the divisional quartermasters. There is no supply issue but for materiel; the aid stations and commissary tents were pitched this morning two miles behind the foremost unit for each Task Force. With the oxen occupied with carrying ballistae and trebuchets, the engineers and sappers are not certain who or what should be carrying their ordinance, if it should be carried at all."
"If?" The Duke of Endurn's eyebrow raised slightly. Probing, testing him. "Are you suggesting that the batteries are not worth the trouble, lad?"
Esslin shifted from one foot to the other; he was not certain of this new technology himself but he did not want to say it out loud. Trebuchets and ballistae were easy to shift about, but these new cannons were not. There was the matter of keeping the black powder dry, and safe from anything that could burst into flame. The cannons themselves were not easy to move, with some weighing over eighty pounds and needing a full team to push them about.
'Horse artillery'— teams of horses hauling sixty pounders— was still a laughable word among the men, but they would never say so in the King's face. The King felt that this new technology was worth trying if it would help them defeat Noxus, but so far the cannons had not been able to prove themselves—the Noxians had been defeated even before the batteries had been rolled into range. Most of the army did not think it was worth the bother but the King's word was the law. If he wanted to haul tubes of brass about, he would find no complainer in his midst.
The look on King Jarvan's face—inquiring, with a little quirk of his brow that suggested he would not like to hear what Esslin was thinking—made the Quartermaster General hurry to speak. "I am not saying that it cannot be done; I have written orders for the appropriation of one or two cavalry regiments across all divisions to begin hauling caissons of ammunition and cannon limbers. I merely am concerned with the… conduct of the cavalrymen-"
Most of the nobility of Demacia were cavalrymen in the army—only they could afford the horses, arms and armor. They gloried in the charge, in trampling the enemy underfoot. They would not like it if they were told to haul batteries like a common team of oxen, but this was war and their opinions did not matter. Mobile artillery was what they needed, not men who would not give infantry a fair fight.
So the King resists from grumbling, and instead replies with a firm tone. "It is not the sort of battle that these men would like, but it is what must be done. Do the men need training to use the artillery they are carrying?"
Esslin bowed his head as he spoke. He did not feel comfortable in demeaning the status of the cavalry any more than he should. He did not want to have bad blood with most of Demacia's nobility. "There is no need, my King; the artillerymen can ride with the cavalry. They will manage the guns, and the cavalry will hold off any attempt to dissuade them from doing so."
"Very well; you have permission to do such." The King stared down at the rest of the map. He spent a minute in silence before he reached out and took hold of a figurine in the shape of a knight; an indicator for the Knightly Orders of Demacia.
"Do you have anything to report, Lord du Fontaine?" The King queried.
"The Captain-General sends his regards," The Captain-General's proxy said simply. "And wishes to advise you of distant lights he saw off the coast yesterday evening; it was moderately difficult to see them through the fog that lay over the sea but he managed all the same."
"We live in a strange world and see peculiar dancing lights in the Howling Marsh's fog also, but I will wager those lights cannot be anything but ships," Lord Spiritmight said at once. "How many lights, lad?"
"At most, forty-five, or so the Captain-General has informed me." The young lord said. "That was the most he could count before the fog and the encroaching night made it too difficult."
General Lesauvage raised his hand, and at Lord Spiritmight's behest, the King gave his assent for the former sailor to speak.
"If we are to consider that these lights are ships, they would likely have black hulls and black sails, so as to remain out of sight during the night." Lesauvage said as he pieced together his memories of his service at sea. "Adding the consideration that they are possibly using weather magic to hide that fleet, they must've been so confident in their deception to the point that they did not even consider extinguishing the ships' lanterns-that is why the light could make it across the sea and to our dear Captain-General's eyes."
"Forty-five," The King mused. "If those are ships, then how many ships would that make?"
"It depends how the lights are arranged, Sire, but given prior intelligence on the location of the 10th Noxian Fleet, it could possibly be five first-rates or a fair number of frigates." Lesauvage broached. "At the very worst, it is ten first-rates and more."
"We have ninety Paixhans guns along the coast; they will not go close if they give a damn for those first rates." The King said with a derisive snort. "We need only warn the men stationed there, and there will be no trouble for them."
"We may trust that to Cardigan and young Lord du Fontaine," said the Duke of Endurn with a glance and a nod at the aforementioned men. "Tonight, send word for the northern shore batteries to be put on readiness. Magic or not, we shan't be caught off guard."
General Cardigan and Lord du Fontaine nodded at once. Now, General Berell raised his hand. He had been silent thus far. After a moment, King Jarvan III gave a nod and bade him to speak.
"Are we expecting an assault on the morrow, my King?" Berell asked. "Has the Spymaster spoken?"
"Yes, he has already given me his report," The King said with a nod "I will not lie; if he speaks truth, we face a hard pounding tomorrow, and yet we cannot give them even an inch. The Spymaster believes that the Noxians will batter our entire shield line throughout the day; they will begin here at La Forbie, with possible confrontations in Blackvale and in the south close to Mogron."
There was no need to say that it would be immensely difficult to hold fast against a tide of frothing desperate warriors, but when the King had mentioned that the Spymaster had given his report everyone in the room seemed to lean forward, eagerly staring at the King and thinking of his phantom informant.
Noxian doctrine prior to the Ionian War could often be compared to a school of sharks in the sea; a constantly swirling cloud of gnashing teeth with thousands of men shifting from flank to flank with unnatural speed thanks to how their chain of command and their formations were divided. The first assaults were nothing but nibbles testing the mettle of the defenders holding against them, and if and when the Noxians smelled the metaphorical blood in the water they would mobilize and assault the wound with as much force as they could bring to bear.
In contrast, the Demacians were the type to analyze the lay of the land and to divide it into defensive lines—digging, building, damming and destroying what they felt was needed in order to funnel their opponents towards exceedingly fortified and designated bulwarks. Even years after the cessation of hostilities for the Fifth Rune War, these Demacian defensive lines and the fortifications that formed them would still remain standing as a testament to their builder's expertise.
However, this ultimately meant that the Demacian military moved significantly slower than their Noxian counterparts, and they were far more vulnerable to gaps in their defenses than the Noxians were. A soldier was only strong as the man next to him, and the same proved true for the Demacian divisions that composed the shield line. If any position along the line would fall, the rest of them would fold quicker than a house of cards.
The tried and tested Noxian tactic, therefore, was to assault the shield line before it could properly entrench, and if the Noxians were facing a fortified position they would bring down the wrath of their entire city-state upon that unfortunate garrison. The Demacians could do very little against such raw power, and given the nature of the Measured Tread they could not and would not retreat unless the King himself bade them to. Thus, the garrison often delayed as much as it could before their inevitable demise, and then the Noxian war machine would be hindered for a day or more. It was not very fair, to trade a whole garrison in exchange for mere time, but until recently, they did not know a better way.
Since the Spymaster had involved himself in the war, however, the Demacians had nothing but victory after victory. The rest of the army moved as slowly as ever, fortifying the land as they went, but under the command of brave marshals several brigades took on the role of sharks, probing the Noxian line and relying on the Spymaster's intelligence to find and destroy the Noxians' forward camps.
These same brigades kept the entire Noxian line on their heels once the camps were taken, forcing troops away from valuable resources like water or farmland and beating back foraging parties trying to resupply. If any Noxian formation thought to linger, then the rest of the Demacian army would fall on them and utterly destroy those who did not surrender.
Any word from the Spymaster these days was a blessing then, even though the man's role had absolutely nothing to do with Noxians at all; his solemn duty was to find and eliminate elements within Demacia that could threaten the King, his family or the stability of the city-state itself.
To deal with Noxians and other such external concerns was the Captain-General's duty, and he had complained in the early stages of the Spymaster's proposals that his counterpart did not fully understand the enemy—but it was their fifth victory now and the Spymaster did not seem to run out of plans at all.
Of course the man's name and identity were unknown to anyone else but the King, as was custom, but that did not stop the Captain-General from spending most of his time in sullen silence whenever the Spymaster would be mentioned.
Lord Spiritmight drummed his fingers on the map, thoughtful and grim. "Let us hear it then," The Duke said with finality; he glanced sideways at his brother-in-law. "What does the Spymaster intend?"
The King replied only after a very long time spent in thought, in which all the other officers could do was stare expectantly at the Lightshield monarch.
"It is a heavy risk, and it will demand much from all of us; he has proposed to shift the Dauntless Vanguard to the north under my son's command, instead of following me to the south as is their wont," The King traced the movement onto the map with a pencil, animatedly drawing arrows, circles and crosses on the surface of the paper where he felt there would be fighting. "Once the Vanguard has bolstered our northern forces we may yet have a chance of repelling de Montolieu and du Couteau, and if we succeed we shall have brought two Legions to their knees. They will not be able to aid the rest of their Legions in assaulting our shield line."
"Those two formed the rearguard, didn't they? I do not think that they would be very robust or tenacious when they assault our shield line. 'Tis not wise at all to send the Dauntless Vanguard away to fend off a bunch of tired sprats that Task Force Justice and your son could handle by themselves." Spiritmight noted loudly, and from the stares of the other men in the burnt out farmhouse they shared the same sentiments.
"Think you that your wisdom exceeds the Spymaster's, brother mine?" The King broached wryly.
"T'would be rather discourteous of me to think so, don't you agree?" Lord Spiritmight replied wryly. "No, brother—I merely am concerned for you and my nephew; you have Darkwill to contend with."
"So do you." The King said amusedly. "Albeit the younger."
"Draythe is hardly of any concern to me; the boy is far too eager to prove himself and will make a mistake earlier than I." Spiritmight said with a ready scowl. "Should he strike, I have my magic. You, dearest brother, do not."
The corner of Jarvan's mouth lifts. There was some truth in their House name, unlike others in Demacia. Spiritmights were well-known for their magical prowess and exceptional blood—many of their family had gone into the College of Magic, and had returned to the school at the end of their conscription to teach the next generation how to properly harness their gifts.
Lord Spiritmight was his family's reputation distilled into the form of a man—magically talented and outstandingly honorable. If the King went on with his concerns, he would be insulting his wife's brother, and that was something he did not wish for.
"That is true; I shall withdraw from the field then, and keep my distance." The King proposed, tactfully stepping down and granting Spiritmight his pride.
"Take my lads with you," Lord Spiritmight offered back—the gift of the Blues of Cresson was not lost on the King. His wife and the Duke of Endurn's sister, Catherine, was not a woman to cross. If the King had incurred some sort of accident, she would hang her own brother. After kicking at the King's cold and bloodied corpse, of course.
The King made an amused noise in his throat. "If it pleases you, brother, I will accept." All of this was pure ceremony, of course; putting up resistance whilst appearing to be gracious in defeat was considered as a talent given the fluidity and craftiness of Demacian politics.
"I would not presume to direct you," Spiritmight returned politely, as expected. "But we must keep you safe. You are our King."
The King nods, and their little game ends. He looks down at the map and thinks of all the men he would lose tomorrow. In the future he would curse himself for following the Spymaster's advice, but this was the present and he feels that the Dauntless Vanguard would be enough to protect his only son.
There are many ways for plans to go wrong, and one of them involved the personality of the person being protected. Jarvan IV was not the cautious sort, and having been raised to be the next King of Demacia, he was not particularly inclined to care for how much trouble other people went to secure his life.
This sort of bad behavior would not be corrected until he would be inches away from Urgot's guillotine hand, but that moment would not come until later. For now, Jarvan IV was the King's heir, and as the King's heir he would be loved and hated at the same time for being what he was and for not considering what he meant for others.
"What time is it?" The King asked, and all the men in the room reached into their pockets to check the hour. This was mostly a formal effort; no one but the Duke of Endurn and the Captain-General could speak out of turn, after all, so all of them were forced to wait until Lord Spiritmight had brought his watch out to say the time—it was close to six o'clock.
"Well, we have made our plans as best as they can be made," The King said once the Duke had put away his pocket watch. "The Dauntless Vanguard will march north to La Forbie to bolster Task Force Justice there, while the Duke's Own will go with me to the south. Task Forces Lucent, Majesty, Amity and Honor are to hold their current positions as best as they are able. You are all thinking men; I trust all of you to enact strategies appropriate to your present circumstances, and to send word if you require aid. We cannot give ground tomorrow and yet we cannot advance either; do not let fervor affect your judgment, and know that these orders are unquestionable. Do what must be done, and do not hesitate. Light be with you all."
The officers salute in the usual style—fingers extended and placed parallel to the side of their brows or caps and hiding their thumb—before they leave. Only the Duke of Endurn stays with the King. A glint of magic about the Duke's hands pressed against the eroded walls and muted their words to the rest of the world.
"Tomorrow will be trying," The Duke broached to his brother-in-law. "Do you trust me—not as your Spymaster, but as your brother?"
"Why are you asking me this? I am supposed to trust you." The King replies uncertainly, all formality dropped as the world was muted. "If you do not think that is sufficient, you have not wronged us thus far and I hold to the hope that you will continue to do what is best for us all."
The Duke stiffens slightly. He did not like being trusted on principle or by law. He preferred being trusted for what he was, but this was Demacia and here, people were trusted because they had a good name, not because they were good people.
There is something that is lost when one becomes Spymaster, and that something is called a conscience. Good people have consciences. The very best spymasters did not. The Duke of Endurn no longer thought himself to be 'good people', not after what he had done and what he was about to do.
"Jarvan," He says, and the use of his name without his title makes the King tilt his head in mild surprise. "Something will happen tomorrow and it will not be pleasant. You must trust in me. You must know that I have a plan, and that I only seek the best for us all."
Jarvan the Third chuckles. It is no lie between them that he preferred the days when his brother-in-law was not so serious, but only Spymasters chose who their successors would be. The Duke of Endurn did not ask for his newest post and the King of Demacia did not want to make his brother-in-law feel unwelcome in it. "So many plans within plans… and all of them for Demacia?"
Maximilian Spiritmight smiles slightly in reply. He does not say anything. The look in his eye—that of a man who was given a painful duty in life—is enough.
"You need not ask again. I trust you." The King pulls on the mantle of authority and strengthens his voice as he places his hand on the Duke's shoulder.
"I do hope you remember that tomorrow." The Spymaster replies, voice tinged with misery as the King's hand falls.
The magic fades from the walls. They rejoin the world again, as King of Demacia and as Duke of Endurn, but the liege's eyes are uncertain of what he had just heard, and the vassal's eyes are unhappy with what the future would bring.
Garen Crownguard watches the generals leave and makes no noise, wanting to be obedient. On the other hand, Marcus Crownguard privately wonders why Lord Spiritmight leaves last. He does not say anything. He does not even look at the Duke, but he suspects.
The Duke of Endurn looks to him, almost as if the Spiritmight could read his thoughts. Knowing what magic can do, however, perhaps the man could. The older Crownguard stands up straighter when the Duke walks to him, and keeps his stare over the man's shoulder instead of his eyes.
"Vice Marshal Crownguard, the Dauntless Vanguard will be with the young prince on the morrow," The Spiritmight somehow manages to make him meet his gaze, and all Marcus Crownguard can do is stare back and hope that his eyes do not broadcast his own thoughts. "Do be careful with the King's heir. T'wouldn't do to lose him."
"I will, my Lord." The older Crownguard salutes him. Spiritmight stays for a minute—perhaps debating with himself if he should say anything more—before he gives a satisfied nod and walks away.
The Demacian camp is neat beyond the farmhouse, all pitched tents and orderly picket lines. Camp fires were few and far between because of the black powder's proximity, but the flames that the soldiers were allowed to keep were large and communal, illuminating smiling faces and shining eyes against the coming night.
Unlike the Noxian encampment, the soldiers all knew they were the winning horse. They had been given victory after victory thanks to the Spymaster's machinations. Many were dancing or playing improvised instruments. Most were talking of their families, or what sort of scandal afflicted the Demacian capital at the moment. Some even allowed themselves the pleasure of discussing what they would do after the final war, and how the supposed be-all-end-all League would affect their lives.
It was almost funny, because the Institute of War was not their concern and they were not important enough to be a part of it, but anyone with half a brain could tell that this League of Legends was going to become a Very Important Thing™ in the future, and they understood enough that they would be affected by it even if they did not have much of a say in it.
'To prevent the use of magicks that would decimate them all, and to ensure that future wars do not occur through the use of proxies in an objective battleground'—there were more phrases to the mandate and more still in the various reservations that had been discussed between the participating city-states, but the average man did not care for more than that. All they wanted was peace and the pleasure of being able to run through a field of flowers without being consumed by the undead.
Sometimes Lord Spiritmight envied their simple lives—but only sometimes. He had a great number of honors tucked in his belt even without his sister's wedding to plump him up some. One could say he was nothing but an arrogant, manipulative and greedy man— but no one could say that he did not have a hand in the creation of this new League.
Lord Spiritmight had been the Demacian representative back then, so he knew exactly how hard it was to bring everyone to an agreement over the course of five years—and the negotiations alone took five years to do. Having everyone sign and ratify their own end of the Institute Accord was still an on-going effort despite the war.
Draythe, the incorrigible and unapologetic Noxian representative, was not an easy man to converse with—it was only when Marcus du Couteau replaced him that they could have any headway at all. Bilgewater's representative kept changing because their politics were not very stable—the only person he could truly remember was a man named David Fortune.
The Zaunite representative, Magnus Dunderson, would tell them all that they had to focus on economics and the 'particular freedoms that scientists require to achieve progress'. Of course the Piltovian representative, Howard Huxley, would object, crying foul at 'human experimentation' and wanting 'scientific and environmental responsibility'.
At that point, everyone would throw a great fuss and then eventually they would all be gently prodded by Ionia's ambassador, Elder Kang, to return to the matter at hand, which was saving the world. For such is the fate of the 'greater good'. That is, it is often forgotten in favor of closer, more mortal and achievable goals, like a good fiscal year or making sure that a lab in Zaun would not get sued by a Piltovian harbormaster.
The Ionians had no desire to be part of the new League, but they had still sent a representative because they wanted all wars to end. Ironically, they would later become the new target purely because they held no interest in becoming part of this League. It was a pity, because if it had not been for Elder Kang, none of them would be able to come to any agreement.
Eventually everything was said and done. Names were signed and promises were made, but because of the nature of treaties and how long city-states could drag in their heels in the application of the Accord's stipulations it was hardly surprising that, eight years after saying 'yes, we agree to have peace' they were still fighting and trying to determine who would win the very last war and who would be held accountable for a great number of ills, much like children bickering about who wet the bed. That is—not me but them.
This was a massive, pointless war and those who knew more of the Institute Accord than just 'world peace' were simply waiting for a side to bend over. Fortunately, Lord Spiritmight had a very good idea of who would win and when they would win. It was not just the fact that he was a spider in the middle of a web made from informants and whispered truths. It was the fact he was working with another spider to move things according to how they felt everything should move.
Any reasonable Demacian would cry foul. They would say he was consorting with the enemy, that he was playing with an endless number of lives for his own advancement. They would not be far off from the mark. Lord Spiritmight had called himself a traitor and worse in his most private thoughts—but ultimately he reasoned with himself that he was doing what he felt was best. He was ending the Fifth Rune War, and he was doing it in such a way that no one could say 'Demacia should have done better'. He was also doing a very good job of maintaining his House's prestige.
Quite a distance away, most of the Noxian army gathers for what many consider to be their last night as people, because tomorrow they turn into numbers and letters on a ledger as they throw themselves at an unyielding wall because a few men said they should. It is no secret in the army that a great many soldiers were unimportant and worth only for throwing away.
The aforementioned people were welcome to complain and to be violent in their protestations, but as with all things Noxian they would eventually be met with an equally violent and decisive refusal by those in power, unless someone in the advantage made sure that their complaints were acknowledged.
Some men were of the nature to dive into cups, going into their doom insensate and deadened to pain. Others played with gold and incurred a significant amount of debt never to be repaid. The thought was this: why should they care for the future at all, if their present would ensure their demise?
Darius was almost of the mind, if he did not have a brother to look after he would be throwing dice and drinking himself. But the lieutenant did have a brother, and because of his childhood he was the doubting sort. He did not want to risk himself or his assets just because the world was apparently going to end the next day. He had no desire to upset his potential future because his present was being unpleasant.
So he was not with the rest of the officers when they passed around the flagon of spiced wine and dealt with cards and dice. He was not with the rest of the men when the quartermaster gave out cups full of brandy—an uncommon generosity from General de Montolieu—to help them achieve their goal to get hung-over in the morning so that when the Demacians stabbed them like pincushions they would not care at all.
He was sitting in his little hole and polishing his equipment in the very literal sense, and he had taken a swig of the brandy anyway because it was not watered down and it was from a good year. With that warmth settling into his belly and into his hands and feet, he went about his preparations with the speed of a sated sloth. He allowed himself that much—to go about his chores with his normal speed would mean that he would run out of things to do very soon.
He did not want to die. Like all men who felt that they still needed to stay on the surface of Runeterra for various reasons, he was not at all happy with his orders to 'go and impale yourself on a shield wall, thank-you-very-much', but there was nothing to be done about it.
It would be very easy to desert, to get up and leave the army. All he had to do was walk away. The sentries were already drunk and no one was going to care if he did not show up to give orders the next day. In fact, his men would like it if that happened, because then they could desert themselves without anyone taking their names down on a ledger.
But Darius was a boy raised to like obligation and to feel guilt if he did not actually like it. He needed obligation much like a snail needed a shell. If he did not have any duty towards anyone or anything he would feel lost and would drift to madness. Freedom was not a pleasant concept for people like him. To be given choice was like jumping in the sea without anything to buoy him up.
But even self-imposed chains are not forever, and one day he would come to like having a choice. He would come to like choosing for himself instead of fulfilling an obligation towards something or someone. He would one day make the decision to place his wants over other people's needs, and for a time it would make him happy to simply be Darius instead of Commander, Draven's Keeper or Baton of Boram's Point. But that would not happen until much later.
Slave to his obligations as he was, Darius was resolute in staying in his sleeping hole and to prepare properly for his doom. Unlike his brother, Draven was not content to go quietly. And so it was around eight in the evening when activity in the Noxian camp had reached the very bottom that a gendarme from the Dead Dogs made his way to the side of Darius' grave.
Contrary to popular belief, Noxians were capable of disciplining themselves, though the subjects of summary military justice were, more often than not, those who could not actually afford to avoid the rule of law.
Gendarmes were the quintessential policeman within the Noxian military. Organized in Disciplinary Battalions—one in each Corps— they held the power to imprison or to jail someone until it was time for the customary tribunal, but were never allowed to convict or inflict a punishment upon their charges.
Those latter rights belonged to the criminal's immediate superiors—the company commanders and those above them. Many gendarmes were corrupt and mostly served as enforcers for the officers they were assigned to, threatening imprisonment or worse in the right amounts. If an officer hated someone enough, they could pay a Gendarme-Commander to imprison the man or woman indefinitely—and such things did happen. This was Noxus after all.
Finding a gendarme who was well-versed in Noxian law and keen on upholding it was almost like finding an untainted unicorn in Noxus' Underground—that is to say improbable but imaginable—much like hoping for something good to happen.
The man shook Darius on the shoulder, and had to narrowly avoid the right hook that would have caved his cheek in. The Wolfman's son was not in the best of moods, and besides his trauma was still fresh in his mind.
"What do you want?" Darius' tone was an irritable snap at first, until he realized that the man was a gendarme from the hastily painted badge he had put on his breastplate.
"Oughta jail you." The gendarme replied with some measure of spite. "But you're not the person I'm after—it's your brother."
"What has he done now?" Darius pushed himself up in his grave.
"I'm with the Havercakes." The man replied, and he did not wait for Darius to laugh at the nickname of his company. "Captain Dufour has orders to receive him, but your brother isn't cooperating. This is, of course, your only warning."
Darius knew about the Havercakes—who didn't, with that sort of nickname? Every company had their own culture. Popular belief held that the provost marshal for that particular company had a habit of marching in front of his men with an oatcake stuck on the blade of his sword, and that was why the rest of them were doomed to carry a quaint and not-at-all frightening nickname as long as they were with the unit. It was said that they overcompensated for their silly name with their grisly behavior—that is, taking men's right ears as bounties.
If the non-commissioned conscripted were expected to do their job as expendable soldiers, the officers were expected to keep to a certain standard based on the varying military histories of their units—the more prestigious the name, the more it became a priority for the commissioned conscripted to upstage their rival units and to maintain such a reputation.
It was not a strange practice within certain corps to have officers rewarding their men additional coin for grisly trophies collected from the corpses of their victims, though that strategy tended to backfire in more enterprising units where a thousand men would literally stop in the battlefield to collect fingers or ears before moving on with the rest of their orders.
The Havercakes and the rest of the units that indulged this practice were seen as largely unskilled and as nothing but opportunistic and savage butchers by their fellow units—after all, how hard was it, really, to march into a Demacian village and cut off all the villagers' ears for money?
There were some units—like the Black Watch— whose officers kept some semblance of culture and warrior's dignity. These units almost always had an aristocratic commander at some point in their long pedigree and would often say that they had 'more civilized' men in charge. Commissioned officers in those units were expected to uphold certain traditions, to keep a good table and to treat their men with courtesy and respect as was due to them.
However, the common rib at these units was that there was no profit to be had, and that obtaining a commission was largely a 'dancing affair', which is to say that in order to obtain captaincy, one had to dance in ballrooms with other aristocrats—manipulating one's way into the unit was largely preferred instead of fighting to merit a position within the supposedly glorious ranks.
Darius had no desire to be known as dancing captain. He only knew one dance, and besides he had no desire to take things he did not feel he deserved. He did not want to be the Black Watch's captain, but de Roquefort obviously felt him to be a sort of threat.
In Darius' firm opinion, no provost marshal had looked pleased that day, and given Korovino's reputation, no one in their right mind would take him. Draven was too much of a showman and not enough of a soldier. His brother was belligerent, self-indulgent and filled with delusions of grandeur—hardly the best kind of man to put on a battlefield. Knowing the Havercakes wanted Draven only made sense. Of course, they would want him—he was from Korovino. Birds of the same feather flocked together, and his fellow butchers wanted his company.
"When does he ever cooperate?" came Darius' wry response. "I am not sure what you want from me; he does not listen to me either."
The gendarme gave him a very patient stare, as if the real meaning behind his message would penetrate Darius' skull telepathically. In the face of the gendarme's silence, Darius resisted the urge to massage his temples. Even after resting for a while his head still hurt and his eyes still wanted to close of their own volition. He was not hungry anymore at least.
"… No one else is willing to talk to him, I assume?" Darius asked, and at the gendarme's nod he grudgingly pushes himself up and rises from his grave. Old men say there is no rest for the wicked, but the Wolfman's son did not think himself to be wicked enough to deserve this.
He follows the gendarme through the dismal camp, past men drunkenly calling for camp followers and men who looked to have seen better days. They were all bone-tired; afflicted with the sort of exhaustion that hinted at death as being the next stage of existence. One day of rest would have done them all good, but the generals had decided their deaths for them.
They arrived at a tent that had been patched one too many times—the white cross that hinted its nature as an infirmary was painted on with diluted paint that gave it a faded and droopy sort of look. The ground around it was stained dark.
The little thing was full to capacity— there was hardly any space for him and the gendarme to walk, so the man had deigned to stay by the tent flap and to watch Darius carefully navigate the living bed of men and women who stank of blood and looked ready to die. The numerous losses of the 2nd and 5th Legions meant that those who would not survive the night would be culled. Every now and then two Noxian medics would come in—one of them had a knife— and then they would depart with a body wrapped in cloth.
Draven did not have a luxury of a cot, or even space to put his good leg. His injured leg was allowed to lie straight, but because the tent was filled with the wounded his working limb was folded up. Darius eyed him with pity for a moment, but all that vanished in favor of cold rage when Draven saw him and then made a disgusted noise in his throat.
"… Here to fucking laugh at me?" The younger man gritted out.
"I am here to collect you," Darius replied with an instinctive sneer. "On behalf of Captain Dufour of Endeavor Company, who is willing to take you as one of his conscripts. Why have you not asked a healer to see to your limb?"
"After you fucked up my chances with the provost marshals—" Draven interjected bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.
"I did not." Darius replied, voice drifting into a dangerous low. "You had lost them before I lost you the match."
Draven glared at him. If looks were capable of setting men on fire—and in the case of Vel'koz that was entirely possible—he would have. But Draven was no creature from the Void capable of eyeballing people into ashes, so he settled for grumbling under his breath and looking away from the man who, in his mind, had gone out of his way to ruin him.
Of course, Darius had not meant such a thing. The bitter point of all this was that the failed match was still a fresh injury to Draven because he had wanted to be chosen so much, but his hurt did not matter at all to Darius, who felt himself in the right to have called his brother's attention, who did not consider what his little brother wanted for himself. Both of them were very wrong, but both of them were from the same stock—proud, unwilling to waver, to admit they were wrong. So they stayed in silence for a while, until the gendarme poked his head in and made a very loud and impatient cough.
"… I will pay for the healer, if you cannot afford one." Darius offered. He did not think Draven would accept, but the younger man grudgingly nodded his head.
"… You fucking did it, so you fucking pay for it." Draven muttered.
Darius stiffens. He does not like to be reminded of that— he had lost control that time. He had not seen his brother as he should have. He had seen no one but a tormentor—but he could not tell his brother this, because he did not want Draven to not believe in him. The younger man could hate him, but he could never see him weak and afraid. Big brothers were never afraid, never cowardly or murderous, but that last point was something else entirely. He felt very sorry now, but he did not know how to apologize at all. His parents had never raised him to be repentant. They had taught him to own up to his mistakes, not to speak words of comfort or condolence.
"… I will." Darius replies. His apology, in a way. "And I will talk to Captain Dufour."
"What the fuck now?" Draven leers at him.
"You have very special needs, I should think." Darius responds dryly. "I will make the proper number of inquiries."
He tries not to think of what the next day held for him as he gives the offer. He could die in the battlefield tomorrow, and who would care for Draven then? Arrangements had to be made, even if he did not know anything of Captain Dufour.
Draven laughs—bitterly and mockingly. "Just fucking pay a provost marshal to mark my conscription as finished. Would do better than magic."
"That, I will never do." Darius rumbles. His brother was treading in dangerous territory. "Our father served, as did our mother. The least you could do is to finish your years, as they did."
Draven does not reply. It bites at him that he had forced his brother into silence, but it had to be said. He would gladly pay for Draven's life, but he would not make it easier for him. Whatever it was his little brother wanted to be—it had to be earned.
"I will have a healer brought to you." He states again. Perhaps Draven hadn't believed him the first time. "The gendarme outside will collect you and take you to your new company. Do behave."
Draven spits at him. The glob of saliva misses by an inch. He feels too tired to explain himself further. If his brother wished to hate him for doing what he felt was best, then Draven was welcome to wallow in his anger. He had a battle to fight tomorrow, and he needed all the sleep he could get. Feeling sorry about how he had treated Draven was not particularly high in Darius' list of priorities at the moment—not only did he have de Croix to contend with, he had de Roquefort and his impeding death to consider. He had no energy left in him to worry if Draven was going to slit his throat.
Darius fulfills his part of the one-sided agreement and finds a healer. He tries to stay, but when he hears the bones of Draven's knee reset he loses his nerve. Spiteful red lights and taunting white warmth flickering in his eyes, he tells the gendarme to collect his brother and leaves.
The Havercakes were camped not far from the tent, and he finds Captain Dufour easily. Endeavor was composed of light infantry, and their captain exemplified his men. He was a dirty blonde with a slight build, possessing a ruddy face and dark blue eyes. His hands were long and tapered, and he spent most of his time as they talked with his palm placed on his dagger's hilt. Obviously, a man who knew which was the business end of the knife.
"I will not mince words," Darius says plainly, the moment Captain Dufour receives him. "I need you to watch over him. I want him to stay alive. Whatever luxuries he asks for, I will pay. You need only send me the bill."
Dufour smiles. The man's eyes do not reflect the same sentiment his face shows. Here was a man who would kill his own mother if he had to, and he would have liked it. It almost frightens him, this company, but as he had gone through far worse, Darius does not show his fear.
"I'll take care of 'im for you, Baton." The cutthroat replies easily. He does not say anything else.
Of course, Darius would probably wind up paying more than he ought to, but this was Draven, and he could not spare any expense. Having achieved some sort of understanding, Darius bids him a goodnight and leaves.
Though Darius tries to ignore it, the popping noise of bones snapping back into place prickled at the back of his head like a sound echoing through a cave as he walks back to his grave. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn't know where his feet took him until after he had almost fallen into someone's grave himself.
He caught himself just in time, grabbing onto the nearby spike barrier and nearly chafing his hand raw. The occupant—or rather, occupants—of the grave stared at him with wide eyes. Judging from their sizes, these were children, and with protective arms curled about them all was a thin-faced boy with hazel eyes in clothes too big for him.
Feeling every inch the stranger he was, Darius pushes himself out, even if it hurt to lean on the spike barrier to do so. He looks down at his hand—no real injury here, nothing that would hamper him in the field considerably—before he looks at the grave he had nearly fallen into. This was none of his business, but it piqued his interest. Why so many children, and why here of all places?
"… Do they," He struggles to find the words. "… Where are… Are they—"
"Not mine but no one cares for the young'uns." The boy says, voice oddly high pitched. Perhaps he wasn't old enough yet.
"No one?" Darius echoes in bemusement, though he knew this truth himself. "Surely—"
The boy shakes his head, and the children near him cling tighter to his clothes.
"This is the front line." Darius can't help but say. He hopes the words would mean something. Given the boy's harried tone it was a familiar argument.
"Is the only place I could take 'em," The boy scratches the back of his head agitatedly. A few locks tumble out from under his cap, strangely silver in the nearby torchlight. "No one else wants to keep 'em."
Scraps' death nips at his conscience—he had spared that child a death here, only to send him dying elsewhere. Should he even take these children then, if there was already blood on his hands? Where would he even take them? How could he be so sure that they would be safe, if he did try? He couldn't go out of his way to save everyone—nor should he.
The strong survived. The weak were left behind. That was the adage carved across his throat. He knew he would not be held accountable if he left them to their own devices, to let them die because they were clearly weak— but these were children, not even men. He could not expect the same understanding, could not even think of imposing the same standards. They deserved more than this, better than this.
"Are they… are you all with the army?" He breathes out. "If they are not conscripted they could go elsewhere… in the back lines, perhaps?"
"My company's here." The boy replies hesitantly. "And… I don't wanna let these lil' scrappers outta my sight. They get into trouble without me. They needs a keeper."
"The battlefield is no place for children." Darius tries to reason, but the lad doesn't look to hear him. "Tomorrow, especially."
"Don't tell the captain." The boy pleads instead. "I'll have 'em out of the way tomorrow, I promise. Just… I wanna keep them warm and out of trouble tonight. No one needs to be bothered…"
Darius would have left then, if it wasn't for the gnawing rumble that reached his ear. The lad stiffens for a moment, and then lowers his gaze.
"… You gave them your dinner, didn't you?" Darius says it only because he feels the need to. He knew how it felt to give someone else his food, if only to keep that person sated and warm—never mind that the object of his sacrifice currently hated him.
"… They're not soldiers," The lad mumbled around his collar. "So the cooks don't give the squeakers any. No parents either. No one feeds 'em but me."
Maybe it was because he honestly thought he was going to die tomorrow, or because he understood the duress that one went through in order to take care of younger children. Perhaps Scraps' death had affected him more than he thought it would, or Draven's hatred had made him feel as if he had to make it up somewhere, somehow. Whatever it was, he felt unusually generous that night.
At the nearest officer's mess tent he asked if the children could be fed. He was told he could eat without paying, but as the children were not officers they had to be paid for. Naturally, Darius gave the gold and let the six thin children eat as much as they wanted, but because they were not welcome in the officer's mess, all of them were forced to eat outside and behind the tent, where the butcher was currently beheading chickens and shoving dismembered poultry into a nearby pot for tomorrow's breakfast. Every now and then they would get flecked with blood, and then the grizzled butcher would make an apologetic-sounding grunt in their direction.
They were a strange sight—five ravenous children, one lad buried in clothes and one ruffled lieutenant sitting at a rickety table and eating with mismatched cutlery. The children were emitting all the joy and noises associated with beings who suffered from starvation having at last been granted a reprieve. Darius was content to sit quietly in their company.
Even with Darius paying out of his pocket, the boy did not eat as much, preferring instead to place more food into his charges' plates. Darius found himself maneuvering plates in front of the boy out of habit. He would have been content with staying quiet—he had never been much of a conversationalist after all—but the lad was keen on talking.
"You're the Baton, aren't you?" The boy pipes up the moment Darius sits down across from him.
"Does it matter?" Darius replies none-too-kindly. Color rises to the boy's cheeks.
"It's just…" He babbles. "I wasn't sure if it was true. A commoner becoming Baton… you don't hear that sort of thing every day."
After having everyone judge him purely because he was not the average Baton, it was mildly refreshing to find someone who doubted his achievement. He chuckles, and the lad takes that to be a sign that he was not particularly insulted.
"Then you are Baton." The boy quips, excitement palpable in his strange voice.
"I don't see how any of that matters." Darius replies as he casts a weary eye at the boy. "I am a lieutenant now, like any other."
"But you're one of us," The boy smiles at him. "That sorta news gives the rest of us hope."
"I give hope," Darius repeats dryly, with all the exhaustion and melancholy expected from someone who had very little of it. "Really?"
"That we can be." The lad beams at him. "That we can do things and that they'll see we're worth it."
Of all the things Darius had thought he would become, he hadn't expected to become a sort of ideal—a man that people aspired to be. He feels uncomfortable in the lad's gaze, and thinks of how he had not been good enough. He does not know what to say to this surprisingly positive boy. He feels himself too jaded to agree completely, but at the same time he did not have it in him to crush their hopes and dreams. His parents had never told him what he could not be, after all. Ultimately, he settles on ignoring the words.
"Work hard, and you'll get where you need to go." The lieutenant grumbles as he shoves a plate filled to the brim with mashed potatoes in the lad's general direction. "But first, you need to finish your food."
As expected, the lad pushes the dish towards his charges. "Only after the squeakers finish." The strange boy says kindly, and Darius thinks he has found a metaphorical unicorn. It privately amuses him, how he seemed to have drifted in company from the dregs of humanity to the foam at the top— all on the same day. Perhaps this sort of revelatory thing naturally occurs before one's death.
The rest of the meal is spent in relative silence. At last the children stop and start to yawn, and Darius rises to excuse himself. It was the twentieth hour, if the number of bells he had heard in the distance were to be believed. He had roughly four hours left to rest before High Command sent them all to die. He had wasted a lot of time here and he kicks himself mentally for his kindness.
"Thank you again," The boy tells him, bowing low and respectful. It is the first time anyone had ever thought to show him respect without having an ulterior motive. Naturally, the jaded lieutenant finds the gesture uncomfortable.
"I would be careful tomorrow," He says in lieu of saying 'take care'. It seems to him a pair of soft words. This was Noxus and no one used those words without wanting something back. He did not want anything from this lad.
"I will," The boy gives a nod. "Try not to die tomorrow." He closes with a grin. "We still need a symbol."
A symbol—for what, he wonders darkly as he walks away. He was hardly the happiest man alive, or even the most hopeful one.
It is not until Darius goes back to his grave that he realizes he did not ask for the boy's name. Ultimately, it didn't matter because they were all going to die tomorrow. Over the course of the day he had accepted that. Now all he wanted was to die as a warrior his father would have been proud of.
Anyone with a sense of history would know that Darius, the Hand of Noxus, would not die at the Battle of La Forbie, but the young man of the present did not have the luxury of foresight. All he had was hindsight, and as anyone will say—it was both a beautiful and a terrible thing to have.
Author's Note: I KNOW I AM WAY OVERDUE. But as you can see, I am still working on this even after a lore reboot.
I had stopped, because apparently cannons did not canonically exist in those days (pun unintended), but since Rito basically cleaned their table I have allowed myself the freedom to also be grossly un-canon. There are a lot of things going on in this chapter, most of it is foreshadowing and a (probably) subtle reference to both Marcus du Couteau and Riven. I will leave it to you to see where and how.
I have a timeline all plotted out, and that is what I'll be using here in lieu of the new lore. I'm still ? about everything, because Darius, Swain, Riven et al. have not yet been rewritten, but anyway. It goes without saying this fanfiction is now an AU. Or rather, as AU as one can get. I hope you enjoy the chapter. Been a long time.