A Shadow So Great

by NorthernHarrier

How does one become the Hand of Noxus? Nearly two decades before that fateful day he displayed his loyalty to his chosen candidate by beheading Keiran Darkwill- Darius was one of many soldiers trying to survive in a place that held no regard for the weak and the unworthy. [Old Lore/Alternate Universe; Pre-Institute Era; Eventual DariusxRiven; Ft. Swain & Draven; Rated M]

25. Jus In Bello

It was true: the boy lived.

He lived for a very long time. The toxins

were an oil slick: contaminated, cleaned.

But just as soon as the women

kissed redness back into his cheeks

the boy began to die again.

He continued to die for the rest of his life.

The dying took place slowly, sweetly.

The dying took a very long time.

Snake Oil, Snake Bite (Dilruba Ahmed)

---

FIVE HOURS LATER…

Flickering images poured into his consciousness, and if it were not for the fever that was setting his mind aflame Jarvan IV would've been able to tell if all that he was seeing was true or not.

Jarvan IV barely saw anything beyond his arm, and he couldn't properly keep his eyes open. His leg pained him terribly, the exposed bone peeking out of his skin was enough to turn his stomach—and it did, but he had nothing to expel. He had vomited once or twice before and could hardly remember anything without having his brain rebel against his skull.

It wasn't until a yellow blur of a man did something to him—a little prick not unlike an insect bite, that was all he could feel then— that the captive Prince of the Realm began to feel better. With time and a bit of sleep, he began to look at things more lucidly.

He was in a wagon and it was rocking back and forth with the terrain, and his prison was very small—about four feet by two. The walls and the ceiling were made of iron, with space enough between each bar for a woman to stick her slender arm through. His hands were bound behind his back and they had used a pair of iron handcuffs to do it; he could feel it chafe against his skin. He could feel they bound his ankles with chains too and it hurt because every movement sent waves of pain up his leg. Jarvan needed only to look down in order to see his piteous limb—pale, bruised beyond belief, with a bit of bone breaking through the skin and oozing blood down to his calf.

When he had been newly captured he had been all pluck and fury, and he had spat and cursed at his captors. He had demanded to be set free, or at least to be given better quarters because he was a Prince of the Realm and not just any captive. The Noxians had ignored him—moreover, they had laughed at him, and they had poked him through the bars of his cage with the pointed end of their pikes just to see him try to move out of the way.

But he couldn't move very well. He was hobbled, and his leg was useless and broken, and so he had caught the end of a spear more than once. He had no armor on him to soften the blow—the points went straight to his flesh. It was a lucky thing that they had only wanted to goad him like a penned beast, because if they had wished to kill him they could have done it when he had collapsed on the floor of his prison, wheezing and bleeding from superficial cuts. The crying started soon after that, and then the fever had torn at his head and tricked his mind.

Now that the haze had been lifted, he spent the first hour of wakefulness ruminating in the dark and shifting wagon on what had happened to him. He remembered every detail of the battle that had gotten him captured, and he feared the next person he knew would visit his prison.

The Captain-General had called the Dauntless Vanguard towards the rest of the village. Ivar hadn't explained why. The Royal Guard and the Knightly Orders led by the Deputy Grand Master of the Valor Knights had been left with him, and after some coaxing Jarvan had gotten Tobias to let him out of the cottage. And it was fortunate too, because then a bolt of verdant green had struck the building and had set it on fire, and Jarvan had helped to put it out.

He didn't remember what time it was when the Noxians had gotten over the town's walls, but they were there soon after the last timber of what used to be the cottage was doused with water. The Noxians were all lightly armored—he should have realized they were only skirmishers for the rest of the army—and Jarvan had defeated them easily with the Royal Guard and the Knights at his beck and call. He had felt alive, a being fueled by rage and pain. He loved to see a Noxian at the end of his telescopic spear, and even twisted the haft so that the unlucky soul would cry out as their innards were ripped into shreds.

And then the Noxians had run away from him—him, the Prince of the Realm. He had felt as he did when he had gone hunting in the south. There was prey to find, and he wanted to go after them. The Royal Guard and the Knights had accepted his command out of duty, and he told them to charge.

Like a braying hound, he had gone out of the town's protective walls, but like a game hare he had fallen into a Noxian trap. Once he had ventured far enough, Noxian cavalry and then heavy infantry formed a wall to cut him off from La Forbie. Then he had been knocked into the mud and trampled. It was unfortunate his armor had kept him whole. If the cavalry had killed him, it would have been a kinder fate, much preferable to his current circumstances.

The Royal Guard and the Knights had been slaughtered, and when the Dauntless Vanguard had arrived to bolster the ailing Demacian forces, the Noxians had fresher troops come to form a screen. The Dauntless Vanguard and the rest of the Knightly Orders had fought tooth and nail to try and get to their Prince, but the Noxians had more men. To make matters worse, when Jarvan had finally managed to stand up, he had been disoriented enough to run into the Noxians instead of the Demacians. From there he had just been pushed and shoved deeper into Noxian lines like some object that no one wished to hold.

By the end of it, the younger Jarvan had found himself bound and taken to the Noxian commander—a man he couldn't recognize very well given the rain and the shroud and hood. All he had been able to see was a cane and a very large raven on the man's shoulder, but the voice that emerged from his mouth was what had thrown him back into the past.

It was Jericho Swain, assassin of the Queen of Demacia. The moment he had realized who the bastard was, Jarvan had launched himself at the man in a rage, but the chains about his wrists had tightened and pulled him back like he was a toy. Nearby soldiers tore at the enchanted armor protecting his leg, and then Swain had gestured off to the side. Someone from the army went forward, and to the army's haggard cheering and Jarvan's pained screams, the brute had beaten savagely away at his leg with a war hammer until the bone had showed.

After that, the Prince of the Realm had been stripped of all dignity—the rest of his armor had been thrown away and his weapon had been disassembled and tossed into the mud. Only wearing his drawers, he had been bound hand and foot, and thrown into the wagon to await his fate.

Up until that moment the prison had been rolling along, and no Noxian thought to bother him. Now the wagon ground to a halt, and soldiers were placing stops on the back of each wooden wheel to stop the prison from rolling away. They looked to be making camp for the night—Jarvan could see them starting to dig trenches, pitching tents and lighting torches.

He sat straighter in his pen, and looked around for someone to talk to. There were soldiers everywhere, but none of them looked as if they were paying any attention to him except for his compulsory guards—one at each corner outside of his agonizing box. The Noxians were talking and joking to each other, smiling and laughing as if all was right in the world. Jarvan felt himself growing angry and indignant—how dare they be so carefree—when he remembered that these were Noxians in his company, not Demacians, and he was their prize.

Dejected, he sat back and tried to wiggle out of his restraints, but they were close and tight against his skin. If he had a means to hack his hands off, he probably could make an attempt at escape, but then there was still the door of his prison to consider and he was hobbled.

Further inspection yielded a bowl of water within his reach, but he couldn't use his hands or his feet. The only solution was… unspeakable, and he told himself he would rather die from thirst than quench it—he hated even the idea of it, bending over and drinking from it like a dog. The Noxians would probably laugh at him then.

So he did not drink, even if he felt as if his throat would dry up and turn into ash, and he did not make any attempt towards the bucket in the corner either. He still had his dignity as a Prince of the Realm, and he had no intentions of demeaning himself by pissing or defecating in a bucket, in full view of the Noxian army.

No, he would die first, and damn them all for trying to wear away at his dignity.

There was a bit of clamoring close to the entrance of his prison. The gate swung open and shut. Heart racing in trepidation, Jarvan IV craned his head to look. It was the man he both feared and hated to see.

"How's the leg, swine?" Jarvan IV sneered from floor of the cage. In truth he was absolutely beside himself with fright, but he was angry too—the bastard in front of him had killed his mother and had escaped Demacian justice. He had dreamed of the time when he would finally choke the life out of the Noxian in front of him, but this was a terrible reversal of circumstances.

The young Prince had been the one who had tortured him. His southern temper had driven him to maim the Noxian for the rest of his life. There was a private fear stirring in Jarvan's heart now that their places had been exchanged, but he would never admit that to anyone—not even his own father.

Like the flies that flitted in and out of his cage, Jarvan's insult hung in the air and faded into nothing. Though the Prince's prison was set atop a wagon which creaked and shifted with their movements, Swain kept his balance by leaning onto his cane, observing his captive silently and showing no outward emotion.

It wasn't the silence that unnerved the young Lightshield, it was the way the Noxian carried himself: tall, confident, every inch the winner of the battle. Most of Swain's facial features were obscured by his mage's hood and facial shroud. When the Noxian had been captured three years ago, he had been pale and lithe with dark hair and even darker eyes. What the bastard looked like now, Jarvan could only wonder. He was absolutely certain and terrified about the reddish glint that sometimes surfaced in Swain's gaze—some sort of terrible magic, he was certain.

How else could that thing have escaped from Demacia's most secure cell?

"I think," Swain reached with the end of his cane. Jarvan tried to squirm away from him despite his brave words earlier, but his hands and feet were bound. He couldn't do anything except hold back a scream as the Noxian ruthlessly pressed the tip of his cane onto where the Prince's leg had snapped. "I should ask you that question, no?"

The howl of pain made it halfway out of his mouth before Jarvan thought to crush it, clamping his jaws shut and grinding his teeth against each other. The veins of his neck throbbed as his broken limb bayed in total and encompassing pain. He almost choked on his own spit when Swain smashed the side of his cane against Jarvan's leg; upsetting the delicate and previously manageable position Jarvan had put his injured limb in.

"I do not think you heard me correctly," Swain's voice was terribly calm, with a certain hungry and longing note at the end of his speech that made him draw out his words slowly. "Let me ask again, how is the leg, princeling?"

"Go fuck yourself." Jarvan spat at him. Pink spittle flew from his mouth.

Swain did not even dignify him with an insult. The Noxian only leaned on his cane as he pulled back his working leg and threw his entire weight into a blow that smashed into Jarvan's mauled limb with a force he did not expect the former assassin could bring to bear.

The Prince of Demacia screamed again, long and hard, curling in on himself out of reflex and causing himself further injury when he instinctually struggled against the irons that bit into his wrists and ankles. The pain was so much that he couldn't think and he couldn't breathe. All he could do was cry and pant like a dog.

Pulling back a blood-flecked boot heel, Swain reached up to stroke his dread familiar. The only indication of the Noxian losing his self-control at the Prince's misery were his long and tapering fingers, quivering in delight at Jarvan's hoarse breathing. As if by some hidden message between them, the raven clicked its beak in pleasure and then hopped off its master's shoulder to rest on the floor of the wagon next to the Prince.

Jarvan's eyelids flickered as he drifted in between consciousness and darkness. He would have passed out then—the pain was beyond any training he had received thus far and he could hardly think much less talk—but Swain and his familiar seemed to have a different idea.

"Do keep him awake for the rest of the evening, my dear." Swain said as he turned his back on the Prince of Demacia, fingers tightening on his cane. "We wouldn't want our guest to sleep while we labor to deliver him to his destination."

The raven cawed in assent, and then began to peck ruthlessly at the Prince's face, avoiding his eyes but tearing into his sensitive nose, ears and lips. Swain left the wagon to the noise of Jarvan's horrified screaming, the faintest creases on the fabric of his shroud hinting at a smile.

More than a hundred miles' ride away, the Captain-General had just finished his report. He stood in front of the aged Jarvan III, clutching at his metal helm and dropping flecks of dried mud onto the carpets that covered the floor of the King's Pavilion. For all his authority as leader of Demacia's army and of the Knightly Orders, Ivar Purvis looked like a desperate highwayman—all haggard, with a hollow and hunted look in his eyes. Given the hard ride and the helmet, his usually well-kept hair now fell over his brow in tangled waves and locks. He had a number of lines around his hazel eyes and the gold had been shot out of his gaze thanks to misery.

Thanks to the siege, the Captain-General had not shaved in two days and the little hairs were starting to show on his cheeks and about his jaw. Normally possessing a strapping and bear-like build, he looked smaller and less of a man; Ivar had not been eating well, and it showed on his sallow skin and looser clothes. His armor did not sit well on him.

Xin Zhao felt disgusted to see him. It was not that his condition was unbearable—he had seen much worse in the Fleshing Arena—but it was because the Captain-General was allowing the incident to affect his judgment and his health. In Xin's honest opinion, there was no point in wallowing and crying about what he could have done. There was only what they could do at the moment.

It was a pity his sworn lord wanted to do nothing but cry, and all of this negativity was beginning to affect the Captain-General too.

"I am so sorry, laird." The Captain-General said with a worn expression on his face. "I didna ken how I was tricked, I just… I am so very sorry."

In times of high emotion the man's northern accent slipped out more often than he could like, and now he was half-slurring, half-tripping over his own syllables in his exhaustion. Xin Zhao largely couldn't understand him whenever he lapsed and so he hadn't even tried to listen to the man plead before the King.

Jarvan did not reply. Xin Zhao could not blame him for not being able to muster the strength to talk, although he did wish the King would get out of his little wallow soon. They had all expected the Prince to be well taken care of, what with the Captain-General's Knightly Orders, the Royal Guard and half the Dauntless Vanguard protecting the younger Jarvan. But the Noxians had somehow achieved the improbable, and now the Demacians were paying for their confidence and squirming on the floor like a smashed roach.

"My Keeng," Ivar's voice was cracking at the edges as he tried again. "I have naething else to say, save that I will go where ye need me if ye wish to redeem me. I will take whatever laldie ye give me, and will go to the sword if ye deem it. Ye ken I deserve it."

Xin tried not to think of his voice as grating—it would only vex him even more.

"How," King Jarvan asked forlornly, as if he had never heard. "How did my boy…"

Ivar Purvis looked to him, and Xin Zhao shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Bound by decorum as it were, the Captain-General could not leave the King's presence without someone saying that he could. As seneschal, Xin Zhao had more influence with the King than both the Captain-General and the Duke of Endurn combined, but very rarely did anyone allow him the right.

For all his loyalty towards the King and his House, he was still nothing but an outsider— a charming pet that Jarvan II had picked up during his rule—and the Demacian royal court did not think very highly of him. He could not easily dismiss Purvis, and besides, the Duke of Endurn had yet to arrive. The seneschal was of the mind to let the northerner blather on a bit longer.

So Xin Zhao did not meet Ivar's gaze. Instead he glanced at his liege lord, and then to the candle that was rapidly burning down into nothing but a pile of molten wax on the empty scribe's table. Soon he would have to change it—it would be the fourth one to fizzle out thus far. Normally changing candles was a task reserved for a steward, but the three of them were alone in the King's tent—Xin Zhao, the Seneschal of the Realm; Ivar Purvis, the Captain General and Jarvan III, the King of Demacia himself. All the guards had been dismissed, and all the proxies and generals had been told to return soon. It was late in the evening now—around eleven o'clock by the seneschal's last reckoning.

Xin Zhao had been with the King since the news had reached them of the Prince's capture five hours ago. The Captain-General had almost killed a horse under him to give his personal report at seven thirty in the evening, and from then on, he had been standing and stuttering through his words repeatedly because King Jarvan couldn't bring himself to dismiss the man—so shocked was he that the only thing he could do was to ask the poor Captain-General over and over why and how his son had been taken.

Every now and then tears would roll down the elder Jarvan's face and Purvis would choke on his own spit or croak as he tried to get around his dry throat. Xin gave his liege lord a new square of cloth to wipe at his face with each and every time, and did not even look at the Captain-General. If the Captain-General had been less of a man he would have left hours ago to find a drink or some sort of respite from being repeatedly interrogated to no clear end—but out of friendship or respect he had decided to stay and to look the fool.

There was a great noise from outside—a loud shuffling of spears and boots with a horse neighing in the distance—and then the Duke of Endurn was there looking visibly ruffled. The Spiritmight pushed the tent flap aside as he pulled off his riding gloves. A bit of a cold draft followed him and made the torches flicker.

Xin Zhao watched him lazily out of the corner of his eye as Maximilian crossed the carpet-littered space and clutched at the King's arm in condolence. It was curious that the Duke, who usually was the first to arrive whenever something noteworthy occurred, was late.

Xin tightened his grip about his quiang. He didn't like the Spiritmight, and never claimed to hold any affection for him. He thought the man was too good, if that made any sense at all. He always seemed to know something about everything, and always had an excuse ready if he was ever asked about anything.

In the seneschal's opinion, Maximilian held the trust of the King by some strange trick and if he had any ounce of magic in his veins he would have tried to see if the Spiritmight had cast a spell on his liege lord somehow. As it was Xin was no mage, and all he could do was to wait for the scum in front of him to trip so that he could catch him with his quiang right in the gut.

"Come now brother," The Duke said lowly. "Come now, there is no need to weep. I am sure he is alive; they would not kill him just yet. At least, I do not think so. There is no need to put Ivar through any more of this."

"How did you lose him?" The King asked again, ignoring his brother-in-law's words.

The Captain-General looked to the newly-arrived Duke of Endurn for confirmation, and as he had not yet heard the man's personal report, the Spiritmight nodded his head. Ivar pitifully clutched at his winged helm, looked down at his muddy boots instead of the elder Jarvan's broken eyes and began again. This was perhaps the sixth or seventh time he had to repeat himself, and Xin Zhao was rapidly running out of patience.

"I keepit him with Laurent's eldest in a cottage— benmaist from the fighting," The Captain-General said miserably to the ground in abject shame as Maximilian continued to mutter to his sister's husband. "The Noxians charged up from the road like a terrible black tide; that was sometime at four in the efternuin. When they poured into the town, I pulled the Dauntless Vanguard to see to the defenses and telt the Royal Guard and the Knights to stay with the wee Prince. In the gurrie, the Noxians managed to draw them out someway. Wasn't until after the survivors found me that they telt me he was gone. I only left him for half an hour or so, laird. I dinna understand how."

The King did not even look at him. It made for a bitterly humorous picture—the Captain-General was unable to look at his liege lord in the eye, and the King of the City of Light could not see past his nose because of his grief. Silence would have reigned but for the Duke's whispers, and at length after waiting politely for the two of them to finish, Ivar looked to the seneschal again. Xin decided to humor him now that the Duke was in the tent, and after granting him a derisive look, the seneschal shifted his gaze from the exhausted man to the Duke of Endurn.

"Yes, thank you, Ivar." Lord Spiritmight's voice held some measure of strength in it. "Now, all of this is quite enough; we will not avail my nephew if we continue to mope about. We must make plans to retrieve him, and quickly."

It was good advice, and it was what Xin Zhao wanted to do since they had received the Captain-General's first report, but the King did not want to do anything but bewail his son's capture and as his vassal Xin Zhao could not tell him to stop. As the King's brother-in-law, however, Spiritmight could.

Maximilian was, in reality, one of two people in the entire world who could pinch King Jarvan on the nose and not suffer any real consequence because of it—the other person was his sister and the King's second wife, Catherine.

King Jarvan looked up at that moment, and Xin Zhao sprang forward to offer him another handkerchief to dry his face when he saw the tears that had run down both the elder Jarvan's wrinkled cheeks.

"Have you returned to us at last, brother?" Lord Spiritmight said slowly and uncertainly. "Would you kindly allow the Captain-General some rest? We will think this through."

"For the moment," King Jarvan finally found the will in him to say something else, but he did not lose his mournful air. "I… I did not expect he would be captured. If we do not act soon, I fear I would need to make arrangements for a funeral."

The King took his seneschal's handkerchief and wiped at his eyes and face. It was very pathetic, and Xin Zhao had to stop himself from dropping a rude comment about the King's father—Jarvan II had been more of a warrior than his son, fighting well into his seventies and keeping an air of bravado about him at all times—but he reasoned to himself that being toxic would not do his lord any service at the moment. Instead he cast his glance to the two other men in the pavilion who looked to be having their own discussion.

"Nae," The Captain-General interrupted; apparently his exhaustion and guilt had eaten away at him enough to damn protocol. In Xin Zhao's mind it was about time—they had all been standing and plodding for long enough. "Ye need not plan for sic. Only allow me a fresh horse and a waucht to put the heat back in me blood; I will go out again tonight for yer bairn. It was my mistake and I will amend it, aye!"

"Though you are Captain-General, you are not immortal nor are you tireless," The Duke of Endurn said firmly as he walked forward and took the Captain-General by the shoulder. "Dear Purvis, you are concerned, I understand, and you wish to help—but there is the army to think of, the dead to retrieve and their parents to write to. You are far more useful where you are. There is no need to go and get yourself killed."

No shit, Xin thought to himself.

"Ye arna the Keeng." Ivar retorted with a narrowing look at the man in front of him. He shrugged off the Duke's hand and added. "I willna bide all quiet-like while ye fix my wrong. What kind of man would I be if I let others fix my mistakes? I willna be coordly; I will do me duty and go with ye, and if I fall then the gods will judge me for it instead of ye. I would prefer that, if the Keeng will not ask for my awn life."

And there was the usual puffing. Xin had to stop himself from yawning. Demacians always took their time with words.

"It is very certainly noble of you, to offer your life in exchange for justice, but that rather selfish decision is not yours to make, Captain-General." The steel behind the Duke of Endurn's tone brooked no argument. All the Head of all Knightly Orders could do was to grudgingly accept. "In the King's stead, that decision is mine; I am sure Jarvan would not willingly execute you. You are a friend to him, and to me—and besides you have not yet failed so completely that only death would grant you some measure of respect. There is no need to go to those lengths."

"If that be the Keeng's will," The Captain-General allowed reluctantly. "I have nae choice."

"Go and rest," The seneschal said; it was the only time Xin Zhao had felt it prudent to speak. "You have done all that you could. We will talk to the King. We will decide, and when the time comes, we will call for you and you will do what is needed. Will that satisfy the demands of duty and honor that you seek?"

"Aye, it satisfies." The Captain-General said, all too relieved that someone understood what he truly wanted. The King had not dismissed him personally but with the seneschal and the Duke's say-so he felt he could leave without anyone accusing him of cowardice or dereliction of his oaths.

Ivar saluted, but the King did not answer. It was only when the Duke of Endurn returned the salute that the Captain-General felt it within his rights to turn on his heel and leave. Xin turned his glance to Lord Spiritmight, who was currently rubbing the back of his neck and making a face.

"I am sorry for the trouble," Lord Spiritmight said the moment the Captain-General had left the Pavilion. He returned to the King's side and continued. "Had I known he would make a personal report, I would have endeavored to reach your side sooner."

"You certainly did take your time." Xin Zhao said dryly as he stepped away from the entrance of the Pavilion and walked towards the Duke of Endurn. Now was good a time as any, he felt, to conduct an investigation. "It has been hours already."

"I was waylaid." The Duke of Endurn reasoned with an indignant snort. "I found Keiran as I rode up from Mogron. He had a white flag and a complement of Raedsel to watch over him. I asked him what he meant by it, and he told me his father was willing to parley."

It sounded all too convenient for Spiritmight to ride up from Mogron and to encounter Keiran along the way. That would hint at some sort of collaboration or contact between him and the Noxians. This was not the first time Xin found himself nursing his doubts.

"So soon?" The seneschal challenged with a suspicious glare. He did not even try to hide his misgivings as he continued. "It is certainly very convenient and kind of him."

"I did not make any overture. I can do many things, but I cannot compel a Noxian—even with magic." Maximilian gave a thin smile and a casual shrug of his shoulders—evading the query and looking as if he knew full well he had squirmed past an awkwardly set trap. "In any case, I told him I had no authority to deal with him; some things are purely within the King's province. He said he would find someone who did. I wager he followed me, and that the Captain-General will return in a few moments to tell you there is a Raedsel detachment at the borders of the camp."

Wager—there was that word again. Xin Zhao found his knuckles turning white as his hands went about the haft of his quiang. He imagined the wood was the Duke's neck, and throttled it angrily as he bit back. "Do you enjoy gambling, Duke? You like to wager often?"

"'Tis well known that I am a betting man; my vices are not some terrible unknown that needs to be pulled from the darkness and picked away at in the light—and if I was not so confident in what I knew, I would say very little of it or not at all." The Spiritmight replied without missing a beat. His brow quirked up but his mouth stayed in a half-smile; if he had noticed Xin Zhao trying to threaten him, he did not make any hint that he knew.

"That is what concerns me." Xin Zhao decided to go ahead and say what had been creeping in his mind. He did not mince words as he pointed his quiang at the Duke of Endurn. "That you know much. And with such precision; one would think you are colluding."

"As a magistrate and close student of the law, I will gently remind you that a significant amount of physical or testimonial evidence is required before issuing a formal accusation. I do not think you hold either. Is it too much to hope that you understand we cannot all be soldiers? Someone must do all the thinking." For someone with a spear pointed at his face, Maximilian Spiritmight did not seem very vexed. He had the gall to reach over; taking a hold of the haft just underneath the dyed red horsehair tassels that went before the leaf-shaped blade and pushed it away.

Xin Zhao was all for leaping at the man to dismember him at that point, but the King cleared his throat and every muscle in the seneschal's body ceased to shift at his tone.

"We cannot quarrel at this hour, my dears," Jarvan III said softly, his brows furrowed with disappointment. "My son has need of me and of us all. Did Keiran say anything else?"

Of course, the King saw what was good in everyone, and shared to his seneschal more than once that he liked to think that all his officials got along well enough. Xin was sorry to tell him even back then— reality would not bend even for a King.

Even the lightest touch commanded obedience—Xin Zhao pulled his spear to rest at his side, brought his ferocious gaze away from the Duke and glanced back at his liege, while the Spiritmight coughed and clasped both hands behind his back, bowing his head in recognition of his authority.

"No, brother." The Duke said primly as he brushed some dirt off his coat. "I suspect he will supply more— if we can talk to him tonight."

As Lord Spiritmight predicted—or perhaps arranged— the Captain-General came barreling back into the pavilion, sweat running off him in rivulets. He took a moment to breathe and pull air into his lungs before he said hoarsely. "A rider is holding a white flag at the perimeter, laird, along with Noxian colors. He says his name is Keiran, and he wishes to speak with ye."

Lord Spiritmight gave Xin Zhao a pointed look, and all the seneschal wanted to do was pull him off his feet and beat his face in with his bare fists—but at that moment the King pushed himself out of his chair.

"Then let us not waste time," The King said as he reached out and took Xin's arm, leaning on him heavily and walking slowly. The seneschal made a grunt as he adjusted the man's hold and shifted his weight. "Let us go to see the Darkwill, and to hear what he has to say."

The Captain-General's hand went to his sword. It was a fine, flat broadsword with a cross-hilt in the style of a griffon gripping the blade, and it had seen recent service. Because of his haste to make his report, he had not yet cleaned his sword; the silver of the blade was tarnished, dull and splattered with blood.

"I canna let ye go," Ivar said as he held a wary hand forward to stop the King and the seneschal. He stood before them all at the front of the pavilion's flap and continued. "I wouldna trust him for even a minute, laird. If this is a trap—"

Xin wondered how long his temper would last in the face of all of this foolishness. Why couldn't they all just get out of the tent without any further arguments? Why did they have to talk and make a great show of everything? Demacians.

"You refuse the King of Demacia?" The Duke of Endurn barked irritably. "Insubordination!"

"Wouldna anyone?" The Captain-General returned guardedly. "Our laird is not thinking clearly from grief. They already have the wee Prince; if they have the Keeng then we will be all but finished."

"The lad will not talk to anyone else but the King; we have no choice in this matter." The Duke of Endurn snapped with a tone he reserved for schoolchildren. "He will not be alone; there will be no trickery afoot, not with Demacia's finest with him."

Seemingly aware that there was nothing to be won with the Duke, the Captain-General turned to look at the Seneschal of the Realm, imploring. "Ye see as I do, will ye not stop this madness?"

Xin Zhao gave him a blank stare—wouldn't his actions have already spoken for him? Why was it that everyone in Demacia needed a verbal affirmation of whatever it was they intended to do? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and did not move, even at the King's quiet urging. He did not need to speak to show how much he hated the idea of meeting Keiran Darkwill. The Captain-General let go a visible sigh of relief, and removed his hand from his cross-hilt.

"By the gods, sirs, the succession is at stake here—" Lord Spiritmight barked at once. "You will not—"

The King raised his hand, and at once the Duke of Endurn fell silent. Jarvan III's speech was slow and pained. He kept his gaze to the Captain-General, and squeezed Xin Zhao's arm briefly—almost as if he was trying to remind him to be patient. "I am father to a nation, and I have always done what is right by them. I will not order you to stand aside, Ivar, but I will simply ask this: will you allow a father to do right by his only son?"

The Captain-General swallowed nervously. Xin didn't envy him the choice. Ivar had already lost the Prince of the Realm. If the King was filched under his nose, he knew he couldn't possibly bear the shame—and the tip of Xin's quiang. It didn't take long for the man to decide, of which Xin was eternally grateful.

"If ye be fixed on going, then I will go too." He said as the King nodded his head and began his slow walk to the flap of the pavilion. The Captain-General held it to one side as he continued darkly. "And if Keiran proves himself to be Noxian through and through, I will die first and that would be the end of it."

Yes, Xin thought to himself as he helped the King along. You first, then the bastard Duke.

As with all things Demacian there was a certain protocol to having the King ride out. King Jarvan had been raised to know all of it like the back of his hand, and now it was all second nature to him.

First scribes had been told to send a message back to the Council to let them know that the Head of State was going to parley with the Noxians through Keiran Darkwill, and then the King stood meekly as Xin Zhao, the Captain-General and his steward helped him put on his ancestral armor complete with the white ermine cloak and crowned helm of his office.

He was forced to wait while the rest of the riding party suited up and was inspected—even having their saddlebags turned inside out under the Captain-General's watchful eye. Once everyone was approved of, the King then waited for his horse to be inspected and given its full suit of armor as the King's banners were unfurled and handed out to soldiers who seemed to have earned the right to hold onto his colors.

When all of that was done, only then did King Jarvan go up the steps that led to his horse—and he did have steps. They were the sort of things children who were too short to mount horses used, because his armor had weighed him down too much to make mounting from the ground easy.

He sat in the saddle, the little stairs were taken away and Xin Zhao was the one to tuck his feet into the stirrups because it was well within his rights as seneschal to do so—and of course no one else was allowed to tuck the King's royal feet into the royal stirrups except for the Master of the Horse.

King Jarvan had once questioned all of this protocol and decorum, but that was when he had been a child and he had been very impatient for things to happen. He was forty-nine now and was not old by any means, but given the war and the fact that his son had just been captured he felt as if he was aged to sixty.

When everyone was saddled up and all the banners were checked so that they would be flowing in the right direction, the Captain-General blew his silver trumpet so that they could all ride out.

There was a hill of respectable size outside the Demacian picket close to the Howling Marsh, and that was where the Royal Circle and the rest of its entourage rode out to meet Keiran Darkwill. The Noxian had been kind enough to mark his position with torches, and signaled using a lantern so that they would be seen through the dark. The Captain-General asked a sentry to signal parley before they rode out, and it was only when Keiran signaled back with an affirmative that the retinue left the relative safety of the barricade.

The King of Demacia never travelled alone—with him was the Captain-General, the seneschal and the Duke of Endurn, along with two thousand of the best that the Dauntless Vanguard had to offer. Compared to them, the Noxians were grossly underprepared.

They found Keiran Darkwill sitting sedately underneath the lit tent, brushing away flies with the frequency of a drowsy horse in a field and playing with a little field mouse. There were four other camp chairs opposite the table, which had a tea set on top of it and some cakes in addition to a field lantern. With him were ten Raedsel—seventy men short of an infantry company. It was a token force and, King Jarvan felt that it was indicative of Boram's fondness for his sons.

How many Darkwills had been born, after all? He had lost count a long time ago; the only names that came to mind were Draythe, Raschallion and Keiran— and he had not seen the second born son in a very long time. He found himself wondering what had happened to the boy.

His people did not kill Raschallion, King Jarvan was sure of that. If any Demacian had done the deed, there was no doubt in his mind that they would have celebrated the murder; much like slaying a dragon. It made King Jarvan very sad to think that his people would do such a thing, but he knew in his heart that they would. They didn't see Noxians as anything else, but King Jarvan felt that everyone deserved to be treated like people, even if they did nasty things.

When the Dauntless Vanguard had made their protective circle, the little stairs were brought out again and King Jarvan heavily maneuvered down the three steps to the ground. The Captain-General undid his ermine cloak, which was nice because it was beginning to be stuffy and heavy, and handed it off to a nearby steward. King Jarvan reached out to hold Xin Zhao by the arm, and kept the Ionian close not because he was ailing but because he did not want his seneschal to throw the first punch. It was always best to be polite.

Keiran Darkwill put the field mouse on the ground and rose from his seat when he saw them, giving an acknowledging nod when the King lifted his hand in greeting. The Raedsel by him were tense and it showed in the way they gripped their weapons and stared every which way, but the young captain was not at all perturbed in the presence of Demacia's Royal Circle—Boram's youngest was only looking at them with a small thin smile.

Instead of the evocative green and gold armored robes that were within the Darkwill family's right to wear, he wore a simple set of worn dark leathers covered here and there by pieces of dented and scuffed black armor. He wore what looked to be two brass symbols in the shape of yew leaves over his left vambrace. Over all of that was a faded dark green cloak.

He had a sharp face like the rest of Boram's brood, but as his ebony hair fell to his ears he did not look as severe as his elder brother, Draythe. His weapon was not on his person—Keiran had set his broadsword against a tent pole. It had no sheathe because it was a useless endeavor to give it one, being of the long and slender persuasion; it was about as thick as an arm but no more than that. The black iron blade shone with its own ill light thanks to the runes that crept on it.

As part of his duty, the Captain-General went before the King. He had gotten a hold of himself again, and his wild accent was nowhere to be heard when he coughed to clear his throat, and then announced. "I present His Majesty King Jarvan the Third of the House of Lightshield; by the Grace of the Light, Defender of the Righteous, Guardian of Penitents, Commander-in-Chief of the Forces of Justice, Sworn Enemy of Injustice—"

"I am sure we are all aware of who I am, Ivar." King Jarvan interrupted good-naturedly as he patted the Captain-General's arm on his way to his seat. He did not like being puffed up, and did not enjoy being announced all the time. It certainly killed any attempt at surprises.

"—and Father of Jarvan the Fourth, Prince of the Realm." The Captain-General finished awkwardly. He looked at the assembled Noxians and, with his hand on his cross-hilt, said peevishly. "You will all kneel before the King."

"As a Darkwill, I will kneel only when he becomes my liege lord or my leash, and my men echo my sentiment." Keiran said with a simple bow. It was low enough to be respectful but he did not completely tear his gaze away from the assembled lords at present. "However, I will not return good graces with bad manners. Good evening, Your Majesty. I am Captain Keiran Darkwill, of the Eternal's Own. Would you like some tea while we hold the talks?"

"Good evening to you, captain. I am afraid I must decline the offer. I am here to talk after all." The King said politely as he settled into his chair. The Duke of Endurn followed suit, whereas the Captain-General and the seneschal did not. Jarvan almost sighed—some people simply could not be courteous.

"I will admit, when I said I wished to give a message to the King," Keiran Darkwill began as he resumed his seat and folded his hands atop his lap. He studied them all for a moment with his bright eyes before he added. "Perhaps I ought to have said 'any Demacian can do in his stead'—there are an uncomfortable lot of you."

"Insolent cur—" Ivar barked, but at that moment the Duke of Endurn turned in his chair to glare at the Captain-General. Keiran reached up to hide his smile underneath his glove for a brief moment before he looked to the King.

King Jarvan could only smile and wave his hand. He was actually very tense and anxious for his son, but he could not show such a thing with his people watching, even if it was just the Dauntless Vanguard. His retinue was already teetering on a knife-edge; if he showed his distress in any way they would pick up on it, and then they would use his show of emotion to justify their own actions. It was bad enough to break in front of his inner circle. He would not do such a thing in front of his troops.

"Do go on, lad." The King said with kindness born from a lifelong habit of politely asking for what he wanted. "You mentioned a message for my eyes alone?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Keiran said formally. He offered a hand and a Raedsel went forward with his traveling pack. "It is from my father, Boram Darkwill, and was written only an hour ago. You will find the seal has not been broken."

The captain dug into the pack and drew out a rumpled envelope, the black symbol on the wax was a screaming skull atop a bed of bones—Boram's seal of office. He offered this to the King, and the seneschal reached over the King's shoulder to take it in his stead. This was all part of protocol, of course.

If the letter was enchanted to explode upon opening then Xin Zhao would be the one to take the blast. As expected, the seneschal walked a fair distance away from his liege lord before he opened the letter, and when he saw that there was nothing to fear he decided to read the contents.

Whatever he read must have scared him. Other people would take the man's expression to mean that he was angry, but the Ionian had been in his House's service for a long time and King Jarvan knew that whenever Xin was scared he would instead get livid with rage—from the look on his face, the letter had frightened the life out of dear Xin.

For his part, Keiran was simply staying quiet. He had poured himself a cup of tea since no one looked to be indulging themselves, and was currently blowing at it daintily to make it cool enough to drink.

"It is as my father said," Keiran replied calmly at the Captain-General's questioning gaze. "He said you would not even let the King the first look, and that you would coddle him incessantly now that his son is in Noxian custody. I see he was not wrong."

The Captain-General glared at him as the seneschal passed the letter on to his liege lord, and both the Duke of Endurn and the Captain-General craned their heads to read it as the King took it in his hands. Keiran Darkwill sipped at his tea in the silence that followed.

It was written in the Grand General's elaborate script and Jarvan had seen enough of his personal correspondence to know that it was indeed written by Boram Darkwill. Boram had a tendency to write in cursive, and liked to place the slant for his letter t's atop the shaft instead of through it. He also liked to write his letters close to each other, so that the end result seemed like a giant mass of twirls and twists. It certainly made for hard reading.

Fortunately and unfortunately, Boram did not seem to have written much; it merely said 'I will speak to you in a moment, and personally'.

If he had been tense before, he was extremely worried now—King Jarvan had thought he would only talk to Keiran, but apparently the Grand General had other plans. He wondered what Boram wanted to speak to him about. They had previously only discussed the Institute Accord in person, and that meeting was a good fifteen or so years ago. For Boram to ask to see him now, and personally, meant that there was something that the Grand General wanted from him that no one else needed to know.

The talk for terms had turned into a clandestine meeting—one that Jarvan had a disadvantage coming into. His son was Boram's bargaining chip for whatever the man intended today.

"He will come here? Now?" The King looked up in bafflement as he folded the letter in his hands. He had not seen any sign of Boram so far. Exactly as King Jarvan had feared; the Captain-General reacted to his show of uncertainty. Ivar raised a fist and the Dauntless Vanguard hefted their weapons warily. Lord Spiritmight sat a little straighter in his chair, golden mist gathering about his fingers and glimmering in his eyes as he glanced every which way. Xin Zhao practically pointed his spear at Keiran Darkwill, who looked up from his cup of tea and tilted his head in mild amusement.

"There is no need to be so cautious, even my father would not violate the rules of parley." The captain said with a scoff. There was a dreadful noise behind the ranks of the Raedsel—like a man screaming his throat into nothing but distorted through a bottle or perhaps a shell. "Ah, here he comes now."

Keiran sipped his tea as he kept his head cocked to one side, listening as the disconcerting sound reached a horrid pitch and wound down to nothing, sending tendrils of fear into the hearts of the assembled Demacians. An eerie silence followed, broken only by Keiran placing his tea cup on the table and clapping his hands together, making the entire Demacian retinue jump in shock.

"It is an irony but I must remind you that there is your little Institute to consider." Keiran said as he got out of his chair. Giving a knowing smile at the tense Demacians about him, he added. "It would be rude to slap you in the face if the both of you already agreed to avoid further… spats. You have nothing to fear from Father."

As the ranks of the Raedsel parted, Keiran Darkwill gave an elegant curtsey and gestured towards a man striding towards them. "I present Grand General Boram Darkwill, who needs no further introduction in this company."

The man, if he was indeed the Grand General, did not look at all like his sons. Lean with a sinewy frame, he had faded blue eyes and thinning blonde hair. He did not look to be older than sixty, with drooping jowls and a bent nose. There was a faint green glimmer in his eyes, and every now and then if the flickering torch lights allowed, he could see the man's veins pulsing against his skin. He was clad in quilted green robes, the borders of which were in black satin. The only thing that struck him as odd was the way he carried himself—assured and not at all burdened by age.

King Jarvan knew what Boram Darkwill looked like, or at least he thought he did. The man he had spoken to fifteen years ago to arrange the Institute Accord was barely any taller or broader than he was, with the same angular features as his sons and a fondness for a clean shaven face. He also remembered Boram having long, braided hair the color of coal dust with thick but well-kept eyebrows and bright green eyes that were unusually alive. Jarvan didn't know how to describe it, but it was an eerie sort of energy that made it seem as if the Grand General's pupils had been vibrating.

The King didn't know what Boram did to give him such a look—it probably involved magic and a myriad of other things he had no desire to know—but whatever it was gave him a very intimidating stare, to be sure. Boram also had a very firm handshake, which the King remembered because the Grand General had nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. If the Eternal General had wanted to do such a thing, perhaps he could have.

The man in front of him looked nothing like he remembered, so the King Jarvan looked to Keiran in bemusement as the young Darkwill offered the new arrival his seat. Not to leave the captain standing, a Raedsel unfolded a new camp chair for Boram's youngest.

"You will pardon me, Grand General, but I do not remember your face to be so—" The King tried to think of a courteous word that would suffice as the Grand General took his seat, but Xin Zhao interrupted him at once.

"You are not Boram Darkwill." The former captive of the Fleshing Arena said. The King resisted the urge to sigh. Of course, Xin would know what Boram looked like, what with all the time he spent in the Fleshing Arena. He only hoped his seneschal wouldn't be rude enough to stick the Grand General in the gut with his spear. He didn't need any more leverage for Boram to use.

"Is it too much to think that you here to return my property too, King? Viscero's fans do miss him. I would appreciate his return."

The voice that emerged from the man's mouth was exactly what King Jarvan remembered—grinding like there were rocks lodged in his throat next to nails and what else but not painful to hear, coupled with enunciated tones that hinted at a higher education and time spent in the company of aristocrats. It was like having his ears rubbed with sandpaper in a pleasant way, if such a thing was possible at all.

Xin Zhao drew back in shock the moment the Noxian finished talking. He looked to be remembering something painful, but that passed quickly in favor of revulsion and astonishment. "How did you… Of course, you are in him."

The King raised a hand to gently pat the seneschal on the arm, and for once the Ionian shied away from him, quivering in disgust and gods knew what else. Jarvan had never asked him about those years in the Fleshing Arena, and Xin Zhao had never seen fit to tell him anything. It was an unspoken arrangement between them that horrible things indeed occurred and that it would not be talked about unless Xin wanted to. It had been close to nine years since Xin had sworn fealty to House Lightshield. Neither of them had broached the topic. For Xin to recoil from him was a first—having a sheltered childhood and a relatively mundane military career the King could only imagine what sort of horrors Xin Zhao faced in the arena.

"Grand General," King Jarvan said very pointedly as he verbally ran to defend his seneschal. It was time to start their little dance. "I am here to talk about my son; my seneschal is not the subject of our conversation."

Boram laughed as his son passed him a filled cup of tea. He blew on it for a moment and held it to his lips, saying offhandedly. "Ah, yes. Of course; we are here to talk of young Jarvan. What number is it now? I can hardly remember."

"He is the fourth of his name." The King reminded him primly. The insulting lapse in memory did not fool him at all. They both knew what they were here for, but first they needed to measure each other up and to see who would fold first.

"He looks nothing like you." Boram said in between tentative sips at his cup; no doubt playing with his love for his son, and his House.

"In your current form, your sons do not look anything like you either." The King returned his insult in kind.

"Quite." Boram bared all his teeth in a smile. On his current vessel they shone brown and grubby in the torchlight. "Well, you do not seem to be in a playful mood; I am willing to parley."

"My son must be returned alive and unharmed, as soon as possible." The King said. Boram had folded rather quickly. It was a cause for concern. A man like him wouldn't easily bend—unless that was what he wanted to do. He found himself becoming all the more worried for what Boram's eventual terms would be.

"I am not certain for the latter part of your stipulation." The Grand General shrugged his shoulders helplessly, giving the King an innocent look that did not sit well at all on his aged, drooping and borrowed face. "Young men these days get into all sorts of harm, and sometimes they are denied care."

King Jarvan found himself leaning forward despite himself. The threat was not lost on him—Boram meant to absolve himself of blame. Perhaps his son had been abused, as he had feared. Maximilian reached over to give him a slight squeeze on the forearm to remind him, and he settled back into his chair with a grudging air. "Do you mean to tell me you have mistreated him? In your custody?"

"King, I have been fighting you all this time. How can he possibly be in my custody?" Boram's vessel said as he held a hand over his heart in mock hurt, his voice suddenly becoming harsh and unbearable to the King's ears. "I can however, arrange him to be transferred. But I cannot guarantee anything. I prefer to keep them alive but Demacians in captivity have a tendency of throwing away their personal safety in order to escape. It never ends well, as you can imagine."

He was lying, the King was sure of it. If he could do this body-stealing magic on this poor man in front of him, there was no doubt in his mind that Boram could have been there too when they took the Prince. The King gritted his teeth and narrowed his gaze at the man across him as the Captain-General and the Duke of Endurn visibly balked at the Grand General's words.

"Are you threatening to harm my son, Grand General?" The King asked in a low and livid tone.

"I would not dream of such… incivility. I am Grand General but a man moves himself." The Grand General interrupted him as he held up both hands in surrender. It was almost an admission that he was deliberately turning a blind eye to whatever ill treatment his men were doing.

"If even one hair on his head is bent in the wrong way, I—" The King nearly sprang out of his chair in rage, but Xin Zhao was the one to hold him back this time with a hand on his shoulder and a firm grip.

"That is a thought, King, what would you do?" Boram Darkwill broached calmly as he leaned forward and looked at the King eye to eye. He smiled lazily at him as he continued. "Would you kill me? Launch a thousand ships against me? Stick Keiran's head on a pike? What haven't we done to each other in the past thirty or so years? Do be foolish and tell me."

With a falling heart, Jarvan realized he had been caught in a trap and he did not know what it was to begin with. Boram knew he valued his son too much, and now he would answer for it when they finally came to the true talks. The King shuddered for a moment as he contained himself.

"Your terms, Grand General." King Jarvan said. It was best to finish it all, before he gave anything else away. "I will have your terms and by the Light I will have them now."

The Grand General chuckled and leaned back. "My terms," He said—and the emphasis was not lost on the King at all— as he drummed his fingers on the armrest of his camp chair and made a show of thinking very carefully about them. "One Prince, alive and unharmed, you say? I would like to have Viscero back."

Xin Zhao stared at the King in plain alarm, but the King knew—if the Grand General had wanted Xin Zhao he would have made more implications toward that outcome. No, Boram wanted something else, and he was only playing with him. Drawing him out, and wearing away at his temper.

"I will not accept those terms, Grand General." The King said firmly. He was no fool. "My seneschal is not some object to be exchanged. He is a person, and he decides where he wishes to be."

"Oh, fair enough." The Grand General said with a bored look—having been caught, he seemed to have lost interest in that particular mouse as fast as he had obtained it in the first place. "You and your civil rights."

"What would you ask of me?" The King offered again. He hoped Boram would not play any more of his games.

"I would say 'your life' but I did that to your great-grandfather already." Boram tapped on his chin as he appraised his choices. The Grand General had him trapped and he was taking his time dissecting his quarry. "And the King before him too—was it a Dunwall or a Berell, I can never be sure… How about Crownguard's daughter? I hear she has magic in her veins."

"People are not objects, Grand General." The Lightshield patriarch reiterated. "I will not repeat myself."

"We were talking about your son as if he was, were we not?" Boram smiled at him again; another assertion of his authority and control of the talks.

Behind him he could hear the Captain-General stir; a metallic clink meant that Ivar had just placed his hand on his cross-hilt. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Duke of Endurn tapping his fingers on the armrest of his camp chair. Barely a minute passed and he knew what the man was spelling with each jab at the wood; it was the word no. The King did not need to turn his head to know what Xin Zhao was doing. No doubt he was gripping on his spear haft and reminding himself of his oaths.

"Your terms." Jarvan pressed on. He gave Boram a pointed look, and for once the other man seemed to listen.

"Dismiss your hounds, and I will do the same with mine. Then we may talk with purpose." Boram turned to look at his youngest son. Up until that point, Keiran Darkwill had been enjoying his tea in quiet, and had been eyeing them all as if they were circus performers. But at his father's look, he rose from his chair and left the tent with his cup. There was no sign of rebellion; he was content to leave and to not know.

The King instantly turned to look at his retinue. The Captain-General looked back at him with barely withheld fear— for himself and for the King, but mostly for himself. Xin Zhao looked as if he would sooner consume a cactus than leave the King alone with Boram for even a minute. Only the Duke of Endurn understood; he was the first to pat the King's shoulder and leave.

"Captain-General." The King reminded gently. Ivar opened his mouth to object before he remembered his duty. Shamefaced, he saluted, turned on his heel and left.

The King looked to Xin Zhao now, and the seneschal did not even look at him. Perhaps if he kept his gaze to the ground he would not be seen. It was a childish thought. King Jarvan turned in his chair, reached out and gave the seneschal an affectionate squeeze on the arm. "I must do this alone."

"Perhaps I can stay," Xin Zhao said quietly, but Boram heard them talk. The Grand General leaned back and laughed.

"If you intend to go home to Noxus, then by all means stay." Boram barked. "Your cage is still there—more bloodied, of course, but it is still there and waiting for you."

His message and tone were not lost on the King, and it seemed that even Xin understood. The seneschal's grip tightened about his spear, and for a moment the King was afraid he would throw it straight at Boram's face. But he did move, and with a sulking look at his liege lord he left.

"It is nauseatingly adorable," Boram said offhandedly as he watched the King's closest advisors leave. He looked to almost be envious, but that could just be a trick of the light. "How concerned they are for you. One must wonder how much of it stems from duty."

"As much as is needed; the rest is pure affection," The King replied as he leaned forward to give the Eternal General his full attention. "We are alone now, Boram. You may give your terms as you will."

The Eternal General lifted a hand and they were enveloped in a delicate green mesh that almost melted into the night but for a few places it glimmered in the lantern light. The King stared around him and then at the Grand General questioningly.

"A mute for the outside world; we are truly alone now. As for terms, Jarvan, I want nothing but quiet from you." Boram steepled his fingers together and studied him closely.

"Excuse me?" King Jarvan blinked and looked at him in surprise. He had expected to sacrifice some virgins, to hand him a town or to abandon a particularly important fortification, but this? He hadn't expected this at all. What did Boram mean by quiet?

"All the land close to, and south of the Great Barrier." Boram explained as he waved a gnarled hand. He still was looking at the King very intently, as if his strange gaze could compel the King to agree. "As well as to the north, in the Freljord and that bunch of islands they call Ionia. Demacia is not to intervene in Noxian matters there for the next thirty years."

Thirty years was a long time to remain indifferent, particularly if it involved Noxians. Despite himself the King found his normally easy temper deserting him, and he leered at Boram Darkwill with unadulterated skepticism.

"What are you planning, Boram?" The King asked warily. "We have signed the Accord already. We swore to decrease our military presence together; you cannot possibly wage open war—"

"Not on city-states," Boram replied, and he took care to say his next words carefully and so lowly that the King had to strain himself to hear past the rocks in the Eternal General's voice. "These places I have mentioned have not signed into our Accord. I would not dream of inciting your oh-so-righteous anger and breaking our peace, Jarvan. I will simply be… taming the wilderness, as you do."

The King had to stop himself from laughing. As it was, he shook his head and stared at the Eternal General in disbelief. "Do you expect me to believe that? Boram, even if they have not signed into our Accord, they are still people and they are free to choose if they wish to join or not. You cannot simply smash their faces against the Institute's walls and tell them to become one of us."

"You mistake my intentions, Jarvan." Boram said with all his teeth. "I will not be there to make those uncivilized mongrels join our fold. I will be there to give my people something to live for now that they cannot wage open war."

"For your people," King Jarvan repeated with an incredulous look that shifted into open suspicion. "Or for your own sake? Boram—"

"That is what you do, isn't it?" Boram inquired. "You run into the wild and demand the inhabitants to bow to order and civilization? Well, we can do the same—only we need no foolish morals to hide behind. We will bring backward places into the modern age—uplift them into these new times, as it were."

He did not answer the King's question at all, and that avoidance only set alarm bells ringing in the King's mind. Perhaps Boram was trying to admit something that even he did not want to acknowledge. Whatever was happening in Noxus now that could make Boram Darkwill afraid? The King found himself leaning backward in his chair. It was time to draw it out, whatever it was.

"By force!" The King exclaimed as he pretended to be more zealous than he truly was. "That is not fair or kind at all; the duty of Demacia is to uphold order. We form alliances and take all under our protection, we do not raze villages to the ground when its people do not answer us with a yes—"

"Noxians are a warrior people, Jarvan. What will the animals do when there is no more war to wage?" Boram interrupted him, and as he continued to speak it suddenly made sense to the King why Boram did not want to say anything about it at all. "Why, they breed, become indolent, violent and bored enough to do horrible things. That is a rather atrocious combination isn't it? I would prefer to keep my people as people."

Boram Darkwill, Eternal General of Noxus, was afraid of his own people. It was unsurprising and utterly fascinating at the same time. He had always suspected that even Noxians held no great love for Boram Darkwill, but to hear the barest whisper of it from the Grand General himself confirmed everything he had thought.

"Are you suggesting you cannot control your pit of vipers, Boram?" King Jarvan could only imagine how bad it was in the capital if Boram Darkwill was here and asking him to turn his head for the next thirty years. Now that Boram had hinted to it, he felt it safe to ask about it straightaway. "What have you done to them now?"

"Nothing above the ordinary; I still have them." Boram said casually. By that the King supposed he hadn't murdered more than twelve people in a day. "And I will retain my hold over them, but only for as long as the vipers have something else to snap at—and that is why I am asking you to turn your righteous gaze."

The message was not lost on the King. If he did not agree to Boram's terms, the Grand General would most likely have an accident, and in doing so he would let slip all his hounds of war. As frighteningly immoral Boram was, at least he honored courtesy and the two of them had been bickering long enough to know precisely what each other needed.

But if he did agree to Boram's terms, what would it accomplish? He would only be enabling the Grand General to carry on his absurd regime, and if Boram was trounced all the same, then his agreement to turn his head would come to nothing, and the blood of innocents would be on his hands for the rest of his life. He would never be able to look at himself in the mirror again and he would be no better than the creature opposite him. He would be the golden king sitting atop a black foundation, and secrets always would out.

"I cannot let you kill innocents, Boram. Even if it is, as you say, for your people." The King gave him a look. He knew full well Boram was playing him, and he did not like it at all—but that was the very nature of political talks. No one ever truly said what they needed out loud, unless they were truly desperate. "I can allow you to… take settlements under your protection, and to drive out offending elements that would seek to upset the Institute's regime, but I cannot allow you to go against innocents."

"What is the real meaning of that word—innocents?" Boram said with a sneer and a dismissive wave of his hand. "No one is truly innocent; even babies can become the products of a crime and then they would be stained for the rest of their pitiful lives. You know what I require. I suggest you give it to me."

"So you can inflict untold misery unto others, on the premise that it would keep your people sane." The King said with a growl. He did not want to turn his head for thirty years. That was too long to remain willingly blind. "Or do you mean to tell me that you want to keep yourself glutted? You would slaughter all in your way and pillage them for what they were worth, too; I cannot be the enabler of your homicidal wants, Boram. I will not have it."

"You insult me, Jarvan. And here I thought we were good friends; I am no animal, and I am capable of controlling myself and the scum of the earth. I only require the means to do so." The Grand General said with a tone that did not sound friendly at all. "For what is the purpose of our Accord, if you will not grant me a method by which to keep the peace? Would you damn the souls of over a million Noxians into the Void and wash your hands of it?"

"You would," The King said without taking the time to think of it; it just seemed very obvious to him. "You would damn them all, Boram. I would not be the cause of their deaths and I know my people would not feel sorry at all if your city-state was wiped from the earth through its own fault."

"And so we see your true quality, King of Demacia." Boram said spitefully as he gestured towards the elder Jarvan—as if to say that the Demacian's words confirmed all that he had thought of him. "You preach mercy, love and acceptance but you would willingly damn the rest of us to the Void for embracing what we truly are. Think Jarvan: do you have it in yourself to kill your only son to keep your virtue?"

The King took his hand to his mouth and thought of it. Jarvan IV was his mother's son through and through, and the King did not want to lose the last memory of his dear Elaine. He had lost her to a Noxian bolt and he had asked Boram all those years ago if it was his work. Boram hadn't confirmed his involvement as was his custom, but he had said the assassin was theirs to kill and to maim, if they so wanted. The little bastard had escaped before they could hang him.

If the King did not agree to his terms, then his son would die and he would not have Boram to talk to in the future—it would be someone else, and the King knew too little of Noxus' current political landscape to be comfortable with the idea. He knew Boram. He did not know who would replace him. It was within his interests to not do anything that would change Noxus' political climate—whatever it was at the moment with Boram at the head.

All he wanted was for his son to come home, and the only way Jarvan IV could return was for the King to stand in a river of blood and to look the other way. Boram had him by the balls with the threat on his son, and he had the Grand General by the neck with his say-so. It was an impasse that had to be forded as soon as possible if he wanted to see his firstborn again.

"I do not have all the time in the world, Jarvan." The Grand General reminded him. As he inspected his vessel's nails he added in a low and appalled voice. "Disgusting; does this man need a trim…"

"Five years," The King offered at last. Thirty, he thought, was too much and too long. Even if he had the support and love of his people, they would not sit idly by as Boram slaughtered thousands. He would bear the shame, if it meant that his son would have a chance of surviving beyond tonight. "And if there is but one piece of evidence that will cause Demacia to take up arms, you will neither refuse nor obstruct our intermediation."

"I have generations to keep entertained, Jarvan. I cannot do with five." The Grand General drawled, and his next words surprised the King enough to make him stare at the man in veiled shock. "Now, either you consign your child to his deserved doom, or you agree to keep your righteous nose out of my affairs for the next twenty years."

Twenty now, from thirty—Boram Darkwill was bargaining. Now this was a first. It felt strange to have the upper hand in their dealings.

"Five; that is all I may grant you." The King said firmly as he pointed a finger at the Eternal General. He wanted to see how far he could go. "And in that span of time, I am not responsible for actions personally undertaken by those of my nation."

"And I am not responsible for whatever my people would do to your son under their own power while you hop from one foot to the other." Boram returned with equal insistence. "Come now, Jarvan, give me what I need and let us be done with this."

"I cannot decide this now," The King said with marked hesitation, even if he was ready to agree to twenty. "An agreement of this magnitude needs to be mulled over for longer than ten minutes. I am sure you understand."

Boram had patience when he felt it would be worth his while, and judging from the degree of anxiety he was putting across, he was impatient to have a deal done. A desperate Boram made Jarvan wonder what exactly it was that had the Eternal General so afraid, and he wanted to keep on prodding to see how far Boram would go to have his nod.

"Your son has as much time as there is heat left in the kettle." The Grand General repeated his threat, and a twinge of guilt struck the King in the heart. "Are you really going to discuss this with your little circle of friends? What do you think they would say? They are honor bound to agree with you no matter what it is because you are King and there is very little your Council can do to stop you. If they refuse you, then they may as well help me throttle your son to death."

"Unlike you, I cannot keep all of them out of this, Boram." The King said instead, and it was then that it seemed something snapped in the Grand General's eyes before he got a hold of himself a millisecond later. "I will have to tell them, but I will keep your reasons to myself. I will think on your terms, and I will give you my answer within the next two hours. That is all I can say on the matter."

"Then we have no agreement until then, and your son's fate will be in the wind along with your answer." Boram leaned back into his chair, his right hand drumming impatiently on the armrest as his left dissolved the field about them. He looked to be studying the King carefully as he added darkly. "If you should refuse, I will enjoy telling your child personally that you hold no interest in his continuing welfare."

The King tried not to let his concern show in his eyes as he shook his head. He couldn't trust himself to speak. He rose from his chair and offered his hand for Boram to shake, and the Noxian mirrored him after a moment. The handshake was as firm as he remembered it, although Boram gripped his hand for longer and tighter than it was considered polite—reminding him subtly that he had a grave need and the King could not waste any time thinking about it.

"Until the next, Grand General." The King said politely as he withdrew his arm and tried to bring the feeling back into the tips of his fingers.

"Until the next, King." The Grand General returned graciously enough. He left the tent and strode towards Keiran. The captain ran to meet him; no doubt to see what his father wanted.

King Jarvan turned to look behind him. The Captain-General was racing over, but Xin Zhao was beating him by a full length. The Duke of Endurn was walking over instead of running. Maximilian never did like to seem harried in the face of others.

"What did he say?" Xin Zhao asked at once, but the King shook his head.

"Later," He reached out to take Xin by the arm again, and leaned on him in case the man thought to chuck a spear at Boram's retreating back. "I will tell you all later; it is a very grave matter."

"Your Majesty, may I have a word?" A voice said off to his side. The entire Royal Circle looked in the direction of the voice. It was Keiran Darkwill, and he looked impassive as ever.

"Yes, captain?" The King asked courteously as the Captain-General stiffened and put a hand to his sword. Xin Zhao's arm quivered underneath his grip, and the King gave him another pat to remind him it was rude to stab people in the gut without provocation.

"My Father says I am to accompany you, up until the edge of your picket." The captain tilted his head in the general direction of the Eternal General's back. "I will wait for you, and I will take your answer back to my Father. He says you have two hours to bicker, and no more than that."

"You will have to be searched and disarmed while you travel with us. I hope you understand." The Duke of Endurn said for him, which the King felt grateful for. By the gods the King felt he was close to breaking, but he was still in the eyes of the many and he couldn't afford to crumble now. It was interesting too, that Boram trusted him enough to take his son in temporary custody—or was it because the Eternal General was desperate enough for silence that no one else but a Darkwill had to carry the answer back to him? One could never tell.

"I will bear any treatment quietly." The young Darkwill assured them all, and he held his hands forward for the Captain-General to bind. The Head of all Knightly Orders went to work without further prodding.

"You are not afraid of being killed in our company?" The King probed as Keiran submitted to irons. He had to ask, of course. He did not want to lie, or to appear the paranoid one in the party.

Keiran only shrugged his shoulders as the Captain-General squirreled through his pockets. "I am disposable." He said simply, and his dead tone made the King's heart break a little more. This was exactly what he wished to avoid with his own son. The King looked at him pitifully, and Keiran returned his gaze with a bored look.

"He has nothing on him," The Captain-General declared gruffly, and that was the moment the King told them all that they could leave.

They rode back to the Demacian picket in relative silence with the captive Darkwill at the back of the column, surrounded by all two thousand of the Dauntless Vanguard. The King was quietly conversing with his brother-in-law the whole way, and from the look on Lord Spiritmight's face he did not like whatever the King was telling him. Ivar didn't envy him the privilege of being the King's closest confidant at the moment.

They left Keiran at the edge of the barricade surrounded by a hundred of the Dauntless Vanguard, and remained quiet until they returned to the King's Pavilion. Then the King dismissed all the guards and resumed his place on his throne. Xin Zhao resorted to pacing a hole through the floor, and the Duke of Endurn took his seat by the King's right. For his part, Ivar settled gratefully into a fur-covered chair across him, and tried not to think of how he was dirtying the King's furniture. He still hadn't bathed or shaved, and he was growing increasingly conscious of how he looked and smelled.

But all the Captain-General's domestic concerns flew away as soon as the King began to tell them what had happened in their private talk. He couldn't believe his ears when the King told them that Boram was bargaining. Why, the King didn't want to say, but what the Eternal General asked of him Jarvan III freely divulged without hesitation: his son's safe return in exchange for twenty years of covering their eyes and pretending that all was well in the world.

"Absolutely not," Ivar said at once as soon as the King finished talking. He looked at his lord straight in the eye and shook his head, letting his fervor seep into his words. "I will not turn a blind eye to whatever destruction that bastard is going to wreck in the next twenty years. I would never. It would violate my oath to uphold the peace."

"For once, I am in agreement with the Captain-General." The Duke of Endurn said as he rubbed at his chin and gestured to emphasize his point. "Boram is bargaining; that means he is afraid of something, and I am all for letting him get what he has finally coming to him. Hundreds of years have passed already. Let Noxus drown in flames of his own making."

Xin Zhao did not say anything at all, and his silence surprised no one. He was also pacing that odd pattern of his. If he kept going, he would be wearing a trail through all the carpets he was stepping on. Ivar knew the man had been rescued from Noxus during the reign of King Jarvan II. He didn't know the particulars of it and he had no desire to know if it meant keeping a secret, but he knew enough of Noxus to expect the seneschal's silent and immediate consent to let Boram burn.

"I do not oppose the idea of letting the Grand General suffer; only I am concerned for his people." The King said softly as he looked down at his hands. It was almost as if he could see the blood on them, and the Captain-General couldn't even imagine what was going through the King's mind at the moment. "They have not had a new ruler since he took office. If the Eternal General was suddenly removed from power, too many innocents would suffer from it. Their city-state could collapse in a bloody civil war. We have a responsibility to protect them from themselves, as absurd as that sounds."

"We do not." The Duke of Endurn scoffed at once. "We are Demacian, they are Noxian. We are not responsible for them. We can offer certain people asylum, but that is all we may do."

"Brother, you cannot be so callous." The King looked at him sadly. "We are all people of this world. No one is better or worse for being born somewhere else."

"Your disgusting idealism is going to slaughter us." Xin Zhao said without preamble, and the King looked very hurt as the seneschal continued mercilessly. "You say we have a responsibility to protect those Noxians, but I will tell you there is not a single soul among them who does not deserve some sort of comeuppance. They are all tainted. Let them kill each other. It is what animals do."

"And let my son die?" The King said with despair, and the Captain-General saw what was truly wearing away at the King. He could not accept the thought of allowing his son to die, even if it meant throwing the rest of the world into the gutter. "I cannot do that. It would kill me."

"Heirs can be replaced." Xin Zhao replied ruthlessly, and that was that.

Ivar felt his heart twinge with hurt. Replaced was a callous word, but it was true. The King had a new wife, and he still had some vigor left in him to have another child. As a father of twins, however, the Captain-General knew he didn't have it in him to replace his children. He loved them and their mother too much to consider them as disposable. The choice in front of the King was hard, and it was not something the Captain-General could answer.

Almost as if he remembered the fact himself, the King turned to look at him now, and Ivar felt himself shrinking in the man's desperate gaze. "Dear Ivar, you are a father." The King pleaded. "Would you let your twins die for the sake of the world?"

"Lord, I cannot answer that." The Captain-General said fretfully as he looked down at his boots to avoid the King's eyes. "I beg you; do not order me to answer."

"His sacrifice will not be in vain." The Duke of Endurn interrupted then; Ivar was glad for it. "My nephew will be remembered in history as a martyr. Let him die for his city-state; it is what he would want. It is better than murdering millions for the sake of one."

The King pulled his head into his hands and swayed in pain in his chair. Ivar could only watch as he shook his head in denial.

"He is my son." The King said in a half-sob, his amicable voice trembling with pain. "My only son; how will I ever look at myself again if I didn't do all that I could to save him? Why do you all wish to let him die? How could you all be so heartless?"

"Much must be sacrificed for the greater good." The Duke of Endurn said at length. Even he was uncomfortable seeing the King so reduced and torn. "Brother— we have told you what we think, but you are the King. Only you can decide. The Council can stamp their feet and shout, but you are Head of State, and you know the law as well as anyone here."

"Decide and be done with it!" Xin Zhao interjected impatiently as he stopped his fevered pacing. He looked at the King with derision as he added. "Kill your son, or aid Boram in slaughtering millions. What say you?"

The King quaked in his chair, and he did not even look up at Xin Zhao's ultimatum. Everyone in the pavilion knew that King Jarvan didn't want to decide. He didn't have the heart in him to kill his child for the good of the world, and he didn't hate the Noxians enough to let them kill themselves in a bloody civil war. It was difficult to be the King of Demacia if one was so open and loving, so willing to see all that was good and all that could be in every single soul.

"Very well," The King said brokenly. He did not look up. "It is my decision, so I will make it alone. Please leave, and I will pen my reply to Boram in earnest. None of you will take it to Keiran, and none of you will be able to tell the Council what I have done if they choose to ask."

The inner circle looked at each other with mixed expressions—for the first time in years, they found themselves outside of a political decision, and it was the most important one thus far. The King was trying to protect them, and it hurt to be so excluded.

Xin Zhao looked like he wanted to fall on his own spear, and the Duke of Endurn was staring at the King in absolute shock as if it would solve anything. Bedraggled and utterly exhausted as he was, Ivar wondered if he looked any more pitiful in their eyes.

"The King has spoken." The Duke said finally, and not without hesitation. He rose from his chair and made his way to the flap of the pavilion, consciously not bothering to look back as he left. Ivar followed his example quietly, and as soon as he made it outside he noted that the air felt less choking. He stood for a while outside of the pavilion just breathing and massaging his face, and he heard the flap shift a minute later. Xin Zhao stomped past him without even speaking to him, gripping his spear so hard that it looked as if it would snap in his hands like a pencil.

It was all in the King's hands now. The inner circle knew his options but they did not know what his decision would be, and that was well and good for everyone. No one but the King had to bear the taint of this decision, and when the Council asked about it, only the King could tell them with certainty.

Now that all was quiet, his strength finally left him. A persistent ache in his head and a gnawing feeling in his stomach made itself felt. The Captain-General pulled at his collar to give himself a bit of air and looked for somewhere to rest. He had his own tent as befitted his rank, but he felt dizzy and ailing enough that he couldn't go too far without falling over. He half-weaved, half-stumbled his way to an empty bench next to a fire, and sat there massaging his aching brow and nursing his nausea.

Not for the first time Ivar wished he had not been so eager to become Captain-General in his younger years. He had lost so much trying to climb up from where he had been born a commoner, and what he held now caused him more grief than happiness. He was so very tired after coming all this way, and it only made him feel guiltier to see the King so conflicted and ready to bloody his hands for the sake of his child.

Ivar had been the one to lose Jarvan IV. Justice demanded his own life in exchange and he had told the King as much—but the King did not want to kill him for it, or so the Duke had claimed. Jarvan III loved him too much to execute him, and that was also staying the King's hand now with his beloved son.

The King had two choices in front of him—or was it just two? They did not know where the Prince was, and even the Spymaster with his scheming could only see so far, but perhaps there was some way to rescue the boy; if only they knew where in the damnable wilderness the Noxians had the Prince.

If they could get to Jarvan IV before the Noxians could do what they willed with him, the King would not need to agree at all to Boram's terms, and then they would not be obligated to keep their word and look the other way when Boram loosed his mangy dogs on the rest of the world—but all that depended on finding the Prince of the Realm, and he knew no one with the capability or recklessness to do so.

Ivar scratched at his stubble in thought, and felt himself recoil from the idea when his memory indulged him with a name. He knew someone very dear to him had been born there, and had spent most of her life there, and up in the Freljord. She was a ranger, with a kennel full of hounds that could keep a scent in their mind for weeks and a whole mew full of birds that would give her eyes in the sky. She was also a deadeye shot with a short bow; she could find the Prince, but if he volunteered her he would have her blood on his hands too if she failed—and he would have to raise their twins by himself if the heartbreak did not kill him yet.

Quinn and Caleb would be six now, and maybe they would be taller than his riding boots. If he volunteered Marian, those two might not have parents by the end of it— but he knew it in his heart that if anyone could find the Prince, it was his Marian. A mother and a father for a child, if all went awry. There was some strange rightness in that idea, even if he knew that he would be the one to suffer.

Ivar blearily made an effort to stand. Perhaps the King could yet be dissuaded. When he made it back to the King's Pavilion, however, it was too late for anything. A page ran past him, and in the boy's hands was a letter freshly sealed with blue wax. It would have the King's seal on the front, and the King's handwriting inside. He followed the little one with his gaze until the boy vanished in the crowd, and the Captain-General did not need to follow him to know where he had gone—to Keiran, and from there, the letter would go to Boram.

He stopped himself from thinking about the contents of the letter. He had to tell the King there was another way. Ivar summoned what energy was left in him and went back inside the King's Pavilion, not even bothering to scratch politely on the flap to let the King know he was coming in. He saw the King was seated in the chair usually occupied by his scribe, and was openly weeping now that no one was around to see him.

"Lord," Ivar broached hesitantly. The King gave a start, rocking back in his chair and looking at him in shock, before he managed to compose himself and wipe his face.

"Yes, Ivar?" The King said, and his voice broke at the end of it.

"You know of my— the ranger, Marian McCrae." The Captain-General swallowed nervously before he continued. "She can find him, I know she can. With your permission, I would like to let her go with the half of the Dauntless Vanguard that I left in the city of La Forbie under the command of Marcus Crownguard. Together they may yet find and retrieve the Prince."

"It would be a suicide mission, not a rescue. He would be deep behind Noxian lines, surrounded by the finest soldiers of the army and kept under lock and key." The King said after a while spent in silence. He looked at him wretchedly. "She is the mother of your twins, and you love her very much. I cannot do that to you."

"That she is and I do, lord." Ivar replied without hesitation. He did not need any more reminding of what would happen if she would fail, but he was confident in Marian's skill as a tracker and as a ranger. "But I would not be telling you this if I did not think she would succeed, and it is only right for me to do all that I can to absolve my sin."

"But if she dies, the twins will have no one." The King said unhappily as he wiped his hands on the front of his robe self-consciously. "And I know you will die after her; I do not think I can do that. I have killed enough families today."

"She will be proud to serve, lord." The Captain-General told him quietly. "And… if such a thing did occur, I would stay and take care of the twins somehow; it is my duty as their father after all."

"Duty— my son was proud to serve too, and all the soldiers that went with him in his charge." The King went on. "And all the soldiers I will damn in the future; they will be proud to serve. I am only doing my duty as a father too, but no one else will think that."

"Lord," The Captain-General said again. "You must try."

Ivar didn't want to think of what the King meant by his words. He did not want to know what the King had written. He knew for certain he couldn't bear it in quiet as the King would for the next few decades until it was time for him to die. The King trembled, and Ivar was afraid the man would say no, but at long last the King wiped at his face and nodded his head.

"I will write to her then." Ivar said with relief plain in his features and in his voice. He felt as if a weight had been nudged off his shoulders. Hope was a powerful thing. "I will tell her what is at stake, and I will let her make the decision to go. If she refuses, there will be no blood on your hands."

"No more than what is already on them." The King mentioned under his breath. Ivar pretended not to hear. He saluted the King and then he turned on his heel and left. He had to find a piece of paper and a quill, and after that the fastest messenger hawk in the royal falconer's keeping. If Marian could track the boy down, and if the Dauntless Vanguard could rescue him—it would mean the world to the King, and to them all.

Somewhere in the wilderness, Jarvan IV returned to the world of the living again. Swain's raven had left him after what seemed like an eternity, and it had pecked at the open wound on his leg in a show of solidarity for its master before leaving. The Demacian hardly looked anything like a human being given the bruises and the slowly oozing wounds the raven had left on his skin. His leg was always in his mind, prickling at his senses and digging in nails of pain whenever he moved.

He was never fully alone, surrounded by Noxian troops as he was, but the moment the raven had gone was the moment he broke and wept, uncaring if anyone heard him at all. The saltiness of his tears burnt as they flowed down the Prince's battered face, making him choke and cry all the more. He didn't know what was going to happen to him now, and it scared him that he would never see Demacia again.

He tried to curl in on himself, to make himself as small as he could, but every now and then a Noxian soldier would come to laugh and to prod him with their weapons and then he would wake from his half-sleep with a strangled sob. A particularly rowdy and inebriated batch of men had haphazardly cut a lock of hair from his head as a trophy, nicking his scalp with a rough and rusted knife.

Though Jarvan had shouted at them and had tried to worm away, they cut his hair anyway and he felt all the more violated for it. He couldn't do anything here. All he could do was to wait for whatever end his tormentors had in store for him.

His voice was hoarse with screaming and it felt like his head would explode. All his bravado had deserted him as the hours had passed. All his youthful anger had been quelled by Swain's cane and his familiar. All he wished for now was to die, and for his father never to hear of how pathetic he was at the very end.

No one had seen to his injured leg or his mauled face in the interim. He could feel a chill starting to settle in his joints as he had no other clothing on him except for a pair of drawers. The Noxians that surrounded his cage were content to leave him to his pain, seemingly callous to the notion of him surviving long enough to reach their destination. He didn't know how long it had been since Swain had visited, but when the door to his prison opened with a great deal of clamoring outside, he found himself recoiling.

Jarvan cracked his eye open just a bit. His face had swelled so much that it was painful to even shift his eyelids. He had been crying for a while now. His head hurt and he felt bone-tired and dry. He could see a bit of boot, and he tried to shift himself away from what he saw as another abuser. He was stopped, however, by a pair of hands falling on his back and shoulders that gently and firmly kept him where he was.

"What a fucking number." A voice muttered in front of him, chewing on syllables and spitting them out with venom. "I fucking told them to not fuck things up even more, fucking bastards and their fucking sadism—fuck all!"

Jarvan squinted up to see a man with clipped blonde hair and blue eyes, a wealth of stubble on his face. His white shirt had brown patches on it. Jarvan tried to squirm away again, but the hands held him and kept him from rolling away.

"I didn't realize what they would do to him… such a poor child," A voice behind him said. He could feel a pat on his shoulder. What madness was this? Was a Noxian really expressing his sympathy towards an enemy? Was this one of Swain's tricks?

"What're you—" Jarvan mumbled around swollen lips. "Are you… are you from Demacia? Will you…"

"I'm sorry, no." A voice behind him said gently. "We are with the Noxian army."

"Hello again, Princey, I'm here to keep you alive but not to completely heal you." The blonde man told him, his voice mocking and thick with anger. "Apparently, they didn't even think to care for you so you'd actually survive the journey to your execution, and they didn't give a flying shit for a medic's opinion. Noxians are such fucking stuck up assholes, aren't they?"

Jarvan could hardly believe his ears. Here he was in a Noxian camp surrounded by soldiers who would like nothing better than to let him die horribly and miserably during the night, but there was a man in front of him who said he was here to treat him? And what of the other visitor to his cell? What were these two playing at, showing him kindness after immeasurable cruelty?

"Fucking pieces of shit, why they need to put you through all this fucking abuse is beyond me. I would've just cut your head off—" Conrad hissed. He stopped long enough to glance at the man behind Jarvan and then added. "—and don't give me that fucking look, old man."

"Hospitalman," A gentle voice pressed to his right, over his shoulder. "Can you help him, or not?"

Jarvan just couldn't understand any of it.

"Why—" Jarvan babbled again. "Why are you helping me?"

"It would show very badly on the 2nd Legion if their prisoner expired during the night." The man behind him said loudly. "We are here to see to it that you survive until the dawn; nothing more. Conrad, if you would kindly begin?"

The blonde man was wearing a pair of blue gloves. He reached out and gently poked and prodded the Prince's flesh, a surprising contrast to the hurtful jabs he had suffered during the day from the soldiers of the army.

He made an angry noise in his throat when the saw the cut on the Prince's scalp, and Jarvan could hear him muttering under his breath as he looked closer and gingerly pulled hair away from the area. "This isn't a war wound, it's a trophy cut—look how they sawed at it and how his hair is all uneven. The idiots probably tried to scalp him with the rusty knife they use to clip their pubes, too. I can't fucking trust them for even a second. This is a fucking nightmare."

It wasn't until the hospitalman arrived at the Prince's mauled leg that Conrad exploded with professional fury, and he angrily chewed on his syllables like they were excrement tumbling out of his mouth. "Oh for fuck's sake, they might as well have cut your damn leg off! Just look at this damage. You'd find more care on a fucking pig raised for the fire pit."

"We do not need to discuss this any more than we already have." The voice Conrad had addressed as Boss replied patiently. "The ill behavior of the 2nd Legion will be corrected, and the consent of its officers will be addressed."

The hospitalman shook his head and muttered darkly as he took extra care with Jarvan's leg, probing firmly and quickly so as to not cause the Prince any more pain.

Who were these people?

"Corrected and addressed," Jarvan found himself repeating the word with a miserable wheeze. He squirmed to look at the man behind him but the Noxian kept him facing away. "Am I supposed to believe you? That you intended some other fate for me? What are you playing at, and why?"

"You are royalty," Boss said behind him. His tone was slow and disappointed. "They were supposed to treat you accordingly. You were not to be harmed or tortured, but the truth fell far from expectations. The General did not care, and his men followed his example. It is regrettable, but it is done. How hard will it be, Conrad?"

He heard buttons being undone and bit of cloth being shifted about. It wasn't until something bumped into his good knee that he looked down to see a bag filled to the brim with what looked to be medical supplies. Was this the man who had made his fever go away earlier?

The blonde haired man was rubbing at his forehead with his forearm, taking care not to touch his gloved hands with his skin. "I've seen piss poor shit before, but Princey here takes the cake. I can't even set his leg because your flunky fucked with it some more. All I can do is clean his face and shoot him up. You should've brought a healer instead, boss."

A healer, he said. Did Noxians even have healers? Jarvan had always thought they threw away the injured into pits and buried them alive. For them to have healers seemed like an impossibility. He did not think Noxians had the patience to treat someone when they had been wounded—but apparently they did.

"I do not need a healer. I only need someone who cares if he lives or dies." Boss said softly. "There is no one—medic or healer—within the next hundred miles that cares enough. If a couple of bandages and a mute for his pain is all you can provide, then that is all I will ever ask for. See to him."

"Oh, I care about people now?" Conrad replied tongue-in-cheek. Boss gave him a look, and the hospitalman sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Right, yes—totally! I am a beacon of love and affection. So you're asking for my professional opinion?"

Boss must have nodded, because then the blonde voiced his thoughts as he rummaged through his bag. He pulled out a few items from the kit, which Jarvan couldn't see too well. "Normally, I'd just shove a potion down his throat like a horse and that would be it, but open wounds are a disaster waiting to happen. I'll clean him up and sew what I can. As for the leg, well, I can't give him a lot of the weak stuff; it'll maul his guts. No, I need to go straight into the blood. I need to get to the median cubital vein— that's in his arm."

He didn't know what those things were, and he couldn't understand most of what the hospitalman said. Everything seemed terribly new to him, and he was still trying to wrap his head about the concept of a kind Noxian.

"We will risk much, undoing his restraints." Boss replied cautiously. "Can you not seek a vein somewhere else?"

For all his sympathy towards Jarvan it seemed that even he did not want to be too generous. At least that was a familiar thing. Jarvan squirmed to get a better look at them both, which failed miserably because Boss was keeping him pinned.

"Look, there are a lot of ways to get medication into a body and I am trained for most of them, but my pay grade isn't high enough for me to willingly shove my fingers up a Demacian's rectum, even if it is the most noble and royal asshole." Conrad retorted. "I don't think Princey here wants my fingers up his ass either."

Jarvan made an insulted noise in his throat. "Don't you dare go anywhere near my drawers." He said with what venom was left in him after hours of being pecked at by a crow and prodded at with spears. His underwear was the only dignity he had left with him, and he would sooner die than let anyone take even that away from him.

"Now that you mentioned it, I don't like your drawers." Conrad replied as he mimicked the Prince's insulted tone. "You could have all kinds of underpants in the world to shelter the royal baby maker but no, you're wearing boxers and they just had to be stupidly white. Really?"

"Conrad."

"I'm not even going to talk about the stains you got there; I'm just absolutely disappointed that you're not wearing Ionian silk boxers in royal blue and gold. That's what I thought hoity-toity royalty like you would wear—"

Boss reached over to nudge the side of the hospitalman's face. Conrad evaded him easy enough. Jarvan could only watch them in absolute shock as his mind tried to process what had just happened. Of all the times to have anyone insult his underwear, it had to be when he was bound and in a Noxian prison. Why were Noxians even criticizing his choice of drawers while they had him clapped in irons? What was the point?

"We are not discussing the Prince's drawers; I merely wish to point out that if we unbind him we risk him hurting himself, or even you." Boss said with an amused tone in his voice. "If you want a vein, can't you go through his neck?"

"Shit—do I look like I have the necessary equipment stuffed up my shirt? Trying the neck is harder than it looks. I can try his foot or his leg but you don't need to be a medic to know that position is going to kill his fingers." Conrad was frustrated, and it showed in his voice.

All this debating seemed pointless to the young Prince. They were going to kill him anyway, why did they need to argue about the best way to get to his vein? Filled with misery and hatred for himself and his situation, Jarvan pulled what strength was left in him to whisper. "Why do you even bother? Let me just die tonight with what's left of my honor."

"Oh, no, no, no— don't you dare give me your honor shite, you motherfucking Demacian turkey." The hospitalman jabbed his finger in Jarvan's direction furiously. He had struck a chord somewhere. "You know how many people die out of some twisted fucking sense of self-respect or family obligation? Too fucking many; there's no honor to be had whether you die in a cage or out there. Death is death, so fuck you and your psychological bullshit!"

Jarvan drew back in surprise, and Boss kept him firmly against him. How dare he speak that way to him? Moreover, why did his stupid and insulting words make some modicum of sense? Too many people died from fulfilling some sort of oath or promise—he had sent the Royal Guard and most of the Knightly Orders to their deaths with a mere word— but everything still confused him.

He did not want to die in a cage because it was not becoming of a Prince. Dying in battle was what he had been taught was acceptable. Anything else seemed to pale in comparison, save for dying in bed after a long and fulfilled life. The latter did not seem very probable at the moment, and he stifled a sob.

"Peace, Conrad." Boss said lowly, patting the Prince's shoulder reassuringly. "What's done is done. Lecturing a sick Prince will do no good; we must see to his health now."

"Fucking fine, but the Dumbassian does have a bit of a point." Conrad gestured to the prone Jarvan. "Why are we even trying to help him if all they're going to do is to put his head on a pike to wave it at his father? Why bother with the sticking plaster if they're going to just toss the fucking royal asshole into a furnace?"

Yes, why even bother? Jarvan thought bitterly. Why did anyone even bother when the ultimate end to life was death? Why bother when he had no honor left to call his own? He was almost naked, bound in chains and mistreated like an animal. All he wanted was to die as a human being, and these people would not even give him that.

"If the Demacians had captured me, I have no doubt they would have been kinder." Boss replied after some time spent in thought. "I intend to show the same courtesy, even if it will be a waste. So please see to him, and I will see to the army."

Conrad gave Boss a knowing look and shook his head when the man returned his stare with his own. "Right, whatever."

It shocked the young Prince, how there was a Noxian who would not wish him ill outside of what was needed. He didn't think it was possible. He had been taught to hate them all, but here was a Noxian who seemed to care. He didn't know what to think of these two now. Conrad seemed to give little weight to allegiances, and the one called Boss seemed disturbingly considerate for someone in the Noxian army.

"You are in control of your body," Boss stated, and it gave Jarvan heart to hear those words. He had been beaten and tortured, thrown into a situation that he had no control over. Being reminded of what freedom he still had with him and that he was still a person was reassuring. "Will you allow us your arm? Will you give your word not to injure the hospitalman, and not to run? I would regret killing you, if you tried."

Jarvan nodded. There wasn't anything else he could do. He heard keys turning in a lock, and then it felt like he had discovered his arms for the first time. They had been left in such an uncomfortable position for so long he was starting to get pins and needles a scant few seconds after his irons had been pulled away. Boss did the same for the restraints on his ankles, and it felt good to wiggle his toes again when the chains were taken away.

"It's time for baby's first bath." Conrad said. "Unless baby wants to clean himself, in which case I'd sorely appreciate it because I don't want to go near your unfashionable drawers."

Jarvan would have thrown a punch at that moment but he did give his word not to resist. He sat glaring angrily at the hospitalman instead until Boss gave a sigh.

"You are terribly filthy." The Noxian said.

"I would rather clean myself." Jarvan said with a hiss and Conrad rolled his eyes and tossed a wet towel at him. Though every movement hurt and he still didn't have complete control over his limbs, the Prince of the Realm cleaned himself while the hospitalman prepared his kit. The cloth he used felt frigid against his skin, but he tolerated it.

Jarvan needed help with his mauled leg and his bruised back however, and he didn't trust the hospitalman to do it. Almost as if he was used to wiping down other people, Boss helped him sit up, reached over and briskly cleaned the areas for him before he handed the towel back.

Once he was leaning on the bars of his prison he could not see much of the man's face because he wore a hood and a shroud like Swain did. Jarvan only saw the man's strange bright blue-green pupils, with laugh lines emanating from the edges of his eyes.

"Water," The Prince asked weakly. He felt it was safe to ask for something in the company of these two, but he did not want to say please. He longed to have some control again, and it was palpable in his voice. "Water, now."

"Oh, of course, Your Princeliness. Anything for you." The hospitalman said as he exchanged Jarvan's used towel for a new one. "Would you like a crystal glass?"

Shaking his head, Boss reached over to the nearby water bowl but withdrew his hand when he saw what was in it. Making a noise of disgust in his throat, he dug into his pack, drew out a canteen and handed that to the Prince instead.

Jarvan leered at him—or at least, he tried to, what with a swollen face. He set the towel aside on his good knee and asked. "Is that…"

"No, it is water." The man assured him, and something in his tone made the Prince trust him. Jarvan shakily took the canteen, unscrewed the top with some difficulty and took a tentative and suspicious sip.

When Jarvan was rewarded with cool, fresh water he drank hungrily until the thing was empty, ignoring the pain that lanced from his broken lips and the noise that his teeth made against the rim of the canteen.

"I've seen a minotaur guzzle like that." Conrad said around the corner of his mouth as he handed Boss a bottle filled with a bright violet liquid. "Here, make him drink this too."

Boss shook his head fondly. He offered Jarvan the bottle but the Prince didn't take it immediately.

"What is that?" Jarvan asked doubtfully. Violet seemed to be a very strange color for something to drink, and he didn't like how it seemed to have bubbles in it.

"It's blueberry, and I tried to make it interesting." Conrad interjected. "What do you care? It's good for you; it'll keep your innards happy."

"Piss off." Jarvan replied irritably as he tried to give the bottle back to Boss, but the man shook his head and nudged him gently. The Prince didn't want to drink the strange looking liquid, and it wasn't until Boss uncorked it and took a sip from it himself to show him that it wouldn't kill him that Jarvan followed suit—albeit very slowly and shakily.

Conrad was right—it was blueberry, and the bubbles made it a very strange experience to drink—his throat felt like it was being tickled and he was quite certain a few of those bubbles wound up in his nose somehow.

"Would you like to eat something?" The Noxian offered as he took his canteen back. "You will be unable to do anything for a while."

He did want to, but Jarvan didn't trust his stomach enough to hold anything but water and… well, whatever it was that the hospitalman had given him. He shook his head, and Boss screwed the cap back on and returned the canteen to his pack.

Jarvan finished wiping himself down and Conrad threw the last cloth away. "Now to actual work— Princey, which one is your dominant arm? Right or left?"

"Right, and I am not Princey." Jarvan whispered as he massaged his arms, twitched his fingers and grimaced at the prickling feeling his movements left in their wake. He tried to measure himself against these two, but both seemed to be in their prime. If he tried to run he would only be killed.

"Uh-huh, Princey. Keep on trying." Conrad retorted as he pulled Jarvan's left hand towards him and arranged the rest of his arm so that it lay straight and flat across his knee. "I can see you really love to use your right arm there—heh. You must be alone a lot."

"Is there anything else you need, Conrad, aside from what you have in your pack?" Boss asked, gently urging the conversation back to its original purpose.

"Oh I don't know." Conrad muttered back as he pulled a small, silver bottle. He set that between his legs and unwrapped something. "How about cleaning his cage? Maybe changing his water and adding some food into the bowl; oh fucking come on, what do you fucking think he needs, boss?"

"How about change of tone," Boss replied testily. "And a better bedside manner?"

Conrad grumbled under his breath but he took the hint as he withdrew a bit of liquid from the bottle using a curious thin implement. He held that for Boss to hold for the moment as he tied an orange elastic band around the top of Jarvan's arm, tight enough to cut off the flow of blood for a brief moment.

The hospitalman tapped at the inside of the Prince's forearm with practiced ease, and wiped away at a certain spot with a cotton ball and some sort of liquid that left his fevered skin feeling cold and refreshed.

"Make a fist for me, your Jarvanness." When Jarvan complied, there were a few taps again and then Conrad continued. "Beautiful arm, that. I can see the vein from here. Breathe in."

Jarvan did so, and as he inhaled he watched Conrad pierce his flesh with a small cylindrical tool. There was the insect bite he had felt earlier. Compared to the waves of pain that he felt radiating from his leg and his face, it was hardly anything to be worried for.

"What is it?" Jarvan asked him. It just felt strange, to have something inside him. He watched the hospitalman work in mild fascination. He had never seen such things in Demacia—or perhaps he had never gotten sick enough to need it.

"Hypodermic needle mounted on a glass syringe, you uncivilized bastard." Conrad undid the band and commandeered the syringe he had in the Prince's vein, letting the blood flow back into Jarvan's arm. "As for what's in it, I can only say it's a state secret. Breathe out, open your hand— ha! Look at that, old man. First try and I'm already in. Aren't I the greatest?"

"Yes, you certainly are worth your weight in complaints." Boss replied dryly.

"Well fuck you too, boss." Conrad replied without missing a beat. He pressed down on the plunger, sending liquid ice into Jarvan's arm. The hospitalman held him so that he couldn't reflexively draw his limb back. "That's the analgesic. It'll kick in a bit. Breathe in and then out for me, will you?"

Jarvan followed his instruction meekly, and he felt the alien thing being pulled from his arm as he exhaled. Conrad applied a tight sticking plaster over the spot and began to clean up after himself, and Jarvan watched as Boss reached over to press down on the spot with his thumb.

"Perhaps you could see to his face, and that horrid cut on his scalp." Boss suggested in the interim.

"I'll do that when he goes to happy land." Conrad muttered. All the same Jarvan heard him rummaging through his bag again, digging through glass bottles and reading their names to himself. All the terms sounded unfamiliar to him, and being subjected to whatever care this was made him more aware of his ignorance.

"What did you do? I feel… strange." Jarvan asked. He was starting to feel heavy and oddly comfortable on the rough floor of the wagon, and his voice reflected that much as he settled into drawling out syllables.

"That shot was to take the edge off the pain. The potion is so your body can survive the night, and now I'm going to give you something to fight off a possible infection. You're halfway to the land of rainbows and honey already; medicine is wonderful, isn't it? Too bad Noxus and Demacia spend too much time beating the shit out of each other to take advantage of this sort of thing." Conrad waved his gloved fingers in the Prince's face.

Jarvan found the effort of following the man's movements too much to do. He started to melt downward, and Boss caught him just in time to ease him on his back carefully so as to not upset his wounds and his leg.

"On the contrary, Piltover is not exactly generous when it comes to its scientific assets, and Zaun asks too much for anything to be viable on a wide scale." Boss corrected the hospitalman wryly. "When the Accord is put into force, perhaps both of them will be more… charitable with their work."

"I just fucking love you so much boss, you always know what to say to make Noxus sound nice." Conrad said in overly sweet tones. He left Jarvan's arm alone as he pulled out a bottle filled with a dark brown liquid, setting it on the wagon floor. The label on the bottle was in a squiggly hand that strangely shifted in the Prince's rapidly muddling vision.

"Do you know of any other place that would willingly shelter a man who has a standing warrant for his arrest? Manslaughter, was it?" Boss said impishly as he reached over and tried to push the hospitalman over again, like how a master of hounds would nudge an incessant puppy.

"Did you know that the word 'laughter' is also present in manslaughter? The warrant's wrong; my crime is actually man's laughter." Conrad deflected with a smirk as he kept his balance. Jarvan didn't even try to stop himself this time as he reached over and tried to punch the man in the gut for making a terrible joke.

"Hey, boss, do me a favor and turn the slapping Dumbassian on his good side." Conrad said with a laugh. "We don't want him to choke on his own spit. If that happens, I'd have to kiss him."

The hospitalman poured some of the brown fluid onto a cloth, and then he started to dab at Jarvan's wounds with it. In the meantime, Boss pushed him so that he was lying on the side that didn't have his mauled leg. Jarvan would've tried to move himself, but he felt too heavy and too languid to do anything else but breathe.

It felt bizarre, to be patted at and to feel it as if he was not in his own body. His leg had stopped its complaining. The fluid left a stinging trail on his skin but it was very distant. Upon finishing with the battered flesh of the Prince's head, he replaced the cloth with a fresh one and did the same for his mutilated leg.

"Piltover," Jarvan mumbled. It took him a full minute to continue talking and he fought hard to stay awake. "You're from Piltover? What are you doing here?"

"I was just a poor boy and nobody loved me, so I killed a man and now I make a living from shouting at plebeians who don't change their socks and refuse to hydrate regularly." Conrad replied lightly, making fun of the circumstances by which he found himself in. He inspected his work before he made a disappointed noise in his throat. "Okay, Princey, I need to cut your hair."

"No." Jarvan said immediately. He liked his hair because it was dark like his mother's. That was part of what made the failed trophy cut hurt his delicate confidence all the more.

"If I don't cut your hair, it could get into that head wound and it'll make it harder for me to sew you up." Conrad's tone lacked his usual good humor before he corrected himself. "Besides, you look like an idiot with that bald spot."

"Piss off." Jarvan said with a weak snarl, but Boss sighed at that moment and pushed him about so that Conrad could get to his head with a straight razor. Feeling betrayed by this behavior, Jarvan squirmed and tried to evade the hospitalman's razor, but he had been drugged. All he could do was suffer in indignant silence as the hospitalman carefully cut away his beautiful dark hair until it was all even and short on his scalp.

"Hey, I may talk shit a lot but when I ask for medical things— I fucking mean it." Conrad told him as he cleaned his razor. "There. All done. Do you want some chocolate?"

"Just do what you came for." Jarvan muttered. The indignity of it made his mood sink, and he sulked as the hospitalman he took an extra bottle from his pack and doused the cut in whatever solution the bottle contained.

Conrad quietly dabbed at the wound on Jarvan's scalp with the fluid-soaked cloth, and then the hospitalman took out a curved needle and thread. "Hold on, let me practice my cross-stitching. Do you want flapping birds or chubby bunnies on your scalp?"

"Birds?" Boss supplied helpfully as he shifted the Prince's body to let Conrad properly sew the cut shut on the Demacian's head. His tone was forcibly light, almost as if he was trying to apologize for what he had helped Conrad do. "The Prince likes to indulge in a bit of hunting, if I can recall correctly."

"No." Jarvan muttered. His mistake still pained him, and he did not like to have the shame brought up.

Conrad worked very quickly for someone with a needle and thread, and after a series of distant little pricks and faint pulling sensations, Jarvan found himself being returned to his original position as Conrad prepared a new syringe and cleaned a spot on the upper part of his arm.

Unlike before, once he had filled the syringe with a fluid from another bottle he had with him, Conrad stabbed it gleefully into the muscle of the Prince's arm and pressed down on the plunger— all in one motion. Jarvan certainly felt that.

"I'm not sorry." Conrad said simply, though Boss gave him a suspicious and mildly disappointed look as he put away the syringe and rubbed on another sticking plaster in the area he had just stabbed. "It's an intramuscular injection; I needed to get it into his deltoid. You can remove your thumb now."

"Did you have to smile?" Boss inquired snidely as he removed his thumb from the Prince's arm.

"I'm a happy man, what can I say?" Conrad commented as he opened a little jar and covered his gloves in a viscous fluid. "It'll ache but at least he won't spasm out of existence; okay, Princey, if this hurts and you're a tenor, scream in high C."

Conrad applied the gel to his face and to his leg. It did hurt, but only like a faint memory of being burnt would hurt. No doubt if he hadn't been shot up with whatever it was inside the syringe he would have screamed and tried to rip his own skin off.

As it was he only shivered uncomfortably and kept his complaint in his throat where he felt it belonged. The hospitalman made sure to cover every little wound with it, and then liberally spread it even further to help it permeate into his skin.

"Not in the mood to sing?" Conrad asked him.

"Didn't hurt enough." Jarvan slurred. Since when did talking become such a heavy effort? "How strange."

"You are now a god among men… if the epitome of human existence is to be a dazed and drugged up slug. It'll keep you for five hours. If nothing goes wrong tonight, I'll be back when it wears off." Conrad patted him for good measure, like a man praising a rowdy child for sitting still. "I didn't put anything to nudge him to bed, boss. I figured he'd nod off on his own. Can I go?"

"Yes, thank you, hospitalman." Boss said softly.

"Do you want me to find the guards?" Conrad added with a glance about. Jarvan dozily followed his gaze. He only realized it now—they were alone. How important were these two idiots in front of him, and how in the world did they manage to tell the guards to turn their heads?

"W-wait—" The Prince said weakly. If there were no guards, then he could escape, and if he could escape he could find his way back to Demacia somehow. He had no knowledge of anywhere outside of the south, but he could try. "How did you… are all the guards gone? Why not let me go now?"

Boss looked at Conrad, and the medic looked at them both as if they were monsters from the Void and they were going to consume him slowly once they had roasted him on a spit.

"Are you seriously— are you asking me to leave a drugged, high value patient in the wild with a broken leg? Fuck you two to the Void and back." The medic looked down at him, unapologetic as he went on. "In any case it's fucking treason to even let your little toe out the door. Sorry Princey, but you're staying right here. I want to live long enough to go back to Boram's Point and wipe rich kids' bloody noses."

"I cannot let you go, I am sorry." Boss added softly. "It is as Conrad said; you are too valuable to the army and many will suspect us if you are gone within the next hour. I had to talk a fair bit to convince them to treat your fever, and this is stretching my influence sorely. You may leave, Conrad, and take as much time as you need. I doubt our prisoner can escape, given what you've put in him."

Conrad gathered his things and left with a murmured comment about how psychotic the entire world was around him, leaving Boss next to the young Prince.

"I would clothe you, but you have many wounds and it is best to air them out." Boss said as he carefully took Jarvan's wrists and clapped them in irons again—but at least his arms were at an easier position. He did the same for his ankles, taking great care with his injured leg.

"Is it?" Jarvan inquired sleepily, repeating the words just so he could stay awake.

"Yes. I only hope that you will remember this when you are older," Boss said to him as he pulled two blankets from a pack he had kept by his side. "Courtesy should be always be upheld; it is what separates us from them. It is a pity the later generations do all they can to avoid being civil."

Jarvan watched as Boss covered him with one blanket so that he could keep warm for the night, and rolled up the other to place it underneath his head.

"Civil." Jarvan repeated. He looked down at the blanket that was covering him and then back at the man who had given him some measure of comfort. "What a strange word from a Noxian."

"You misunderstand me, then." Boss replied succinctly as he tucked the cover up to the Prince's chest, settling his manacled arms atop it so that the guard could still see that Jarvan was still bound. "I only mean to say that one should not kick a burning dog; it would be excessive."

Jarvan found that it was getting difficult to keep his eyes open. His pain had kept him miserably awake earlier. Now that his leg had been muted he could feel his exhaustion creeping in. Sleep would be most welcome.

"Will I ever get older?" Jarvan said around a yawn, bringing up the last thing he had heard from Boss. It seemed odd to be talking about a future with a stranger when he knew full well he was in the hands of doom.

"There is time." Boss replied as he stood up and tugged on his hood to keep it on his head. He hefted his pack on as he added. "I have no doubt that the King would do all he can to save you. A father's love is a powerful thing, and there is the matter of succession to think of."

"Save me?" Jarvan mumbled with a disjointed laugh as he remembered the catastrophic charge at Swain. He had asked the Royal Guard and the Knights to die for him at that moment, and they had followed him even though they probably knew better. They could have refused him, but their oaths had taken them to their graves. "How can he save me? Why would he?"

"You are the Prince of the Realm." Boss started to say, but Jarvan cut him off.

"My new mother will do her duty," Jarvan drawled lazily, voicing his insecurity with the wanton carelessness that only a man at death row could have, and because he had been drugged he spoke with the speed of a tortoise chewing on a lettuce leaf that was keen on escaping its beak. "She will birth a new son. And the King will call him Jarvan also, and then he will be Prince of the Realm. Does it really matter?"

Boss looked at him, struck to silence by his words. The Noxian's eyes softened and grew dim. Jarvan had seen the same darkness in his father's eyes, when the King had thought he was not looking at all. With his father, it had always struck him as a sort of disappointed look. Seeing it in the Noxian's eyes made him think there was possibly more to it than he had thought.

"A child is never replaced." Boss said at length. He seemed to have personal experience on the matter. Jarvan could scarcely believe it. "A child is never forgotten, even if he shares a name with another. A father will always remember. If the King does not save you, then I have no doubt he will keep your memory even closer to his heart; perhaps until the end of his days. I would not envy the child who will follow you—if there would be one at all."

"Is a Noxian trying to teach me about a parent's love?" Jarvan asked bitterly. He would have waved his hand dismissively if he could, but he was manacled and his arms were about as heavy as pure rods of lead. He could not move even if he wanted to. "I know well enough. Keep your lecture to yourself and… piss off."

"Are Noxians so wicked in your eyes that you cannot see us loving our children?" Boss returned with a voice that hinted at a certain kind of exhaustion; this was not the first time he had this argument before. "Do you think that we propagate through spite, and that we spring up from the blood of our enemies fully formed?"

Jarvan made a snort that sounded more like a baby's fart thanks to his drugged state. Admittedly, he had thought that way before. In fact, he had thought even worse of Noxians. His upbringing had demonized them into nothing more than scheming, murderous creatures of the night and Swain's assassination attempt had only justified his prejudice.

He had beaten and broken Swain as if the man had not been human. It was only expected to have the same treatment given to him when their places had been exchanged. He couldn't find it in himself to feel regret, however. Swain killed his mother, and now the commander had only added more coals to the flames of Jarvan's temper.

"No, we are human, same as you. We were only raised differently, and were told to value other things." Boss reached out to pull his hood closer to his head, and did the same to the shroud that kept his face covered. "A few have shown you cruelty, but not all Noxians are what you think they are."

"Are you sure you are not Demacian?" Jarvan said drowsily, unwilling to grant the Noxian any sort of assurance that he was correct in his assumption. "You… prattle like one."

"You will not be the first to think so." He said around what looked to be a rueful smile. His eyes said everything that the shroud hid from view. "It is getting dangerous for even one such as myself; I will do what I can to make the men leave you in peace. Sleep well, Prince Jarvan."

"And you," Jarvan babbled reflexively. Court upbringing had done its work on him. "Boss whoever; not that it matters. Good night."

"I can give you my name, if you prefer." Boss offered.

Jarvan looked at him blearily, and then with all the petulance of a Prince he scoffed and turned his gaze. "If you wish."

"My name is Marcus du Couteau." The Noxian said to him quietly.

"Like Crownguard." Jarvan mumbled woozily. He knew the name du Couteau, but he couldn't remember precisely where he had heard of it. Perhaps when he had gotten some sleep, then he could think properly. "Marcus too."

Marcus nodded at him and made an elaborate bow before he left. Swords and pikes clattered as the guards fell back to their places, and Jarvan could see the outline of their backs in the firelight. The key turned in his prison lock, and then he was alone again to await the dawn.

The Prince of the Realm settled into sleep easier now that he had been seen to, though the dream that greeted him was filled the thunder of hooves, flashes of verdant lightning and the smell of blood. Above the din was Swain's mocking laughter, the sound of keening ravens and his own desperate voice, calling on others to rally with the Prince of the Realm.

Beneath his feet was a sea of skulls and black blood, jaws slack with silent screams as frantically grasping skeletal hands encrusted with mud and draped with hanging flesh pulled at every inch of him and dragged him down.

He struggled, howled and tried to reach for anything that would avail him, but there was nothing to hold on to and nothing to do but to let the tortured dead drown him.

Jarvan woke up abruptly. He had somehow managed to kick and squirm away from Marcus' offered comforts, but because he had been drugged and bound, his body did not answer him when he tried to move.

The Noxians did not bother him any longer, but there was a large raven perched on the roof of his cage and he knew full well to whom the bird belonged.

The young Prince spent the rest of the night in absolute despair, trembling from his night terror and the cold wind, holding back his tears and praying for someone to end him now—he did not want to go back to sleep because the land of dreams held no comfort for him, and he was too afraid to stay awake lest Swain found the time to return and torment him.

---

Author's Note: If you are reading this and you haven't completely read through the chapter, I would suggest you read it in full. There are a lot of things covered in this chapter and I do mean a lot. We actually broke the previous highest words per chapter record with this heavyweight 25k word bugger right here.

First of all, for those who were lost at some point during the POV swaps, there are four chief POV characters in this chapter: Jarvan IV, Xin Zhao, King Jarvan and Ivar Purvis the Captain-General. All Demacians. No Darius for today, sorry! I know this is a Darius fic but this is a pivotal moment in the last Rune War to ever rock Runeterra, so IT MUST BE WRITTEN.

We swapped POV at four distinct moments in the text:

1. Swain tortures Jarvan IV (we move on to Xin Zhao from Jarvan IV);

2. The Captain-General gets dismissed by Lord Spiritmight (we move on to King Jarvan from Xin Zhao);

3. The Royal Party rides out and parlays with Boram Darkwill (we move on to the Captain-General from King Jarvan);

4, Jarvan is seen to by Conrad, the hospitalman with the worst bedside manner in the world (we move on to Jarvan IV from the Captain-General).

Concepts dealt with today- the whole ruler-heir dynamic, which you cannot deny is rather basic (no heir, make heir, problem solved!1!) and the concept of courtesy. Yes, courtesy. Basic politeness.

It's always struck me how Boram managed to go around wrecking havoc without Demacia stepping their little toes in his business for a good twenty one years after the Institute was established up until his (suspicious) death at the hands of quote unquote Demacian assassins.

If you will note in the now defunct Journal of Justice, all the Demacians do is bark and tell the Noxians they're being assholes- but they don't publicly do anything to stop that. However, we do know from Quinn and Lux's lores that they're clandestine operatives and irregulars. They go where the army can't, and this is where (wild) speculation comes in.

If Demacia really was all for justice and righteousness as lore would have us believe, they would've nipped Boram's behavior in the bud years ago UNLESS THEIR HANDS WERE TIED PUBLICLY. But how could anyone possibly tie their knickers in a knot? The answer lies in politics, and what exactly went between King Jarvan and Boram Darkwill.

Lore says that Jarvan IV was outmaneuvered and captured by Swain, and then he was rescued by Garen and the Dauntless Vanguard. We don't know how long he was held captive, but we do know it was horrible enough to change him completely as the Prince's lore seems to hint. We also know that Urgot the High Executioner was sent from the back line to the front line just so he could execute Jarvan IV himself.

War has a certain amount of decorum attached to it- in real life we have several international laws that relate to negotiation processes (Chapter VI of the UN Charter: Pacific Settlement of Disputes), the proper treatment of noncombatants and what one can and cannot do in a battlefield (International Humanitarian Law).

Even back in the medieval days, royalty could ask for the privilege of ransom. If they were mistreated in any way, it would eventually make it's way back to their liege lord, who would then balk at their enemy's poor decorum. During the Italian Wars, the commanders of mercenary companies sometimes held personal agreements with each other so that they would fight a bit and make a show out of things but they would never outright massacre each other.

So- we have that in Shadow now with the concept of courtesy. As Marcus du Couteau puts it, it is what separates us from them. Even Boram is party to courtesy, but that doesn't mean he's as white as snow. No, he's like Vladimir Putin that way. He knows where he can reach and how he can twist people's balls in his hands and outwardly presents a firm exterior to the rest of the world.

BUT AUTHOR, OUR WORLD IS NOT THEIR WORLD- yes I do know that, but do you honestly expect a supranational authority like the Institute of War to exist without there being some sort of Geneva Convention equivalent? Lore says they mutually agreed to STOP ALL WARS FOR THE SAKE OF THE PLANET. Writing down a treaty for HOW ONE SHOULD FIGHT logically should exist. Even if they didn't sit down to codify it, they would have at least a common acknowledgement about it.

But I'm going off on a tangent. Where was I?

Anyway, Demacia should've kicked Boram in the nuts years ago, but something stayed their hand. What I've written is basically what I thought could have happened (you are free to form/have your own interpretation). I think when Jarvan IV was captured, Boram and King Jarvan met in secret to negotiate the terms of his release. Now, exactly what the King replied to Boram's terms I won't share right now.

Did he say yes and basically tied his hands together for the next twenty years, or did he say no and that was why Urgot was sent from the back lines to the front in order to execute Jarvan III? THE ANSWER COMING SOON™.

You will note that Boram essentially is claiming credit for the capture of Jarvan IV, but we all know that Swain holds that right. But in the nature of horrible bosses who will preen about your achievements to their boss, you have Boram Darkwill using Swain's captive as his captive and political bargaining chip. What a dick, right?

I always figured it was strange for a conqueror like Boram to agree to the creation of the Institute. He's the sort of guy who doesn't give a flying fuck about other people. Boram probably only agreed because it was better than nuking the world (see also for the real-life parallel to the concept of mutual self-destruction: the Cuban Missile Crisis) and now that the Institute Accord is going to be put into force very soon, he's trying to find a way to distract the Noxian public and to keep his absurd regime going.

And there's the Black Rose (and Swain, by extension) to consider. Boram knows the Black Rose is coming for him, and he's scrabbling to cut cards with Jarvan to buy himself more time. He's desperate to find some outlet for the rabble before the Black Rose can rally them against him, and that's why he's willing to bargain.

The Chapter Title is Jus In Bello, not to be confused with the Supernatural episode. The Latin phrase jus in bello is a legal term that translates to law of war. That is to say, it is not to be confused with jus ad bellum, which is Latin for 'what constitutes as a good reason to beat people's faces in'? On a serious note, jus ad bellum translates to 'right to war', which relies heavily on the concept of a just war aka Might for Right.

Jus in bello deals with many things, like the notions of military necessity (how much destruction am I allowed to make to achieve an objective?), distinction (who am I allowed to kill?) and proportionality (the enemy slapped me, so how hard can i slap them?). All of that will be mentioned when I get to writing the Ionian War, but for the moment, jus in bello within this context has more to do with the Hague and Geneva Conventions that also fall under law of war- that noncombatants and prisoners of war must be given all due care.

Now Boram's excuse is the same excuse that the American military used when they invaded Iraq in 2003 and found themselves with a silly number of people surrendering to the United States. Because their aim was to take Baghdad as soon as possible, they couldn't entertain any surrenders (the Geneva Convention threw in a lot of red tape), so what did they do? They 'unsurrendered' the Iraqis that surrendered to them, and sent them back to where they came from- right into the Fedayeen death squads sometimes. You'll find all of that in Generation Kill (the book, and it's also dealt with in the HBO miniseries).

The people the Americans did keep as prisoners of war were not given as much care as the Conventions stipulate, because the loophole is that they would only be given what care the Americans themselves had access to. For the forward units whose medical companies were like fifty miles behind their own lines that meant letting people die. This is also mentioned in Generation Kill- for the sake of troop morale, First Recon's commander sends two Iraqi boys shot up by Marines to the back lines for medical attention.

Same case here: Jarvan IV would only be given the same amount of care that Boram's own men would have access to- and we know for certain that Noxian troops are not well-cared for at all. Boram also cunningly absolves himself of all possible blame when it comes to Jarvan IV's treatment in captivity, because what men do for themselves is none of his business even if he is Grand General (what you call 'willingly turning a blind eye').

tl;dr politics is hard, read generation kill, and courtesy is gr8

So anyway that's my two cents and if I missed out on anything that need be explained, you can drop me a message and I'll throw it in this monster Q&A.