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Scheming
Orochimaru crushed the scroll in his hands, trembling with impotent fury.
It had arrived through the fire, of all things – one of many despicable innovations that foreign bastard had forced on all of them – and contained his next set of orders. Orders . Which he, Orochimaru, was expected to carry out. Gaargh!
How had that damn Voldemort gained the upper hand?
He was Orochimaru! The Hebi-Sannin! Snake Lord and Oto-Kage! One of the most powerful shinobi in the world! How, how could he have been manipulated so?
It was inconceivable! No-one, no-one had ever been able to withstand him! Not any enemy, not anyone in his village; not his former teammates, not even his Sensei, fool that he was.
Sure he'd deprived him of the title of Hokage that was rightfully his… but now, years later, he could see things in perspective. He would have been a good, strong Hokage. Too strong.
Minato-kun was the light in everyone's eyes, the beloved poster boy for the masses. With his lightning fast teleportation and his flashy techniques and his bright blond hair - everybody loved him… but he was also easily manipulated. Yes, he was nothing more than a poster boy to enchant the masses while his old Sensei would continue to pull the strings from behind the scene. As evidenced by his taking back his title once Minato managed to get himself killed…
Yes, yes, he could understand it now. He could even approve – such ambition drew admiration and it was his own fault for not having seen it and manipulated it in his favour, back in his youth.
In any case he'd shown them… he'd become Kage anyway – of a Hidden Village that lacked, perhaps, Konoha's long tradition, but was certainly more progressive. His experiments had slowly made him a power to be reckoned with…
So how, how could he have been reduced to this!
That damn… wizard… was pulling his strings and he didn't even know when he'd become entangled! It was unbearable!
But how to regain the upper hand?
A frisson of unease went through him as his mind strayed yet again towards his other ally. Was that man his longed-for chance to rid himself of the hated off-worlder... or another string-puller ready to choke him with an even worse servitude? That he was powerful was undoubtedly true, but was that a good thing? Or another danger he was blinding himself to?
Uncertainties he was unaccustomed to plagued him.
No, no. He was Orochimaru the Hebi Sannin. He wasn't a follower: he would not bend nor fall in line. He would scheme and influence and act as he needed; his allies might seem to have the advantage now, but it was only temporary. He would regain the upper hand. He would achieve his goals!
Letting the scroll of loathed instructions fall to the ground without care, he lost himself in ineffectual plotting.
Ultimecia was confused.
Charmed by the strange man who had powers similar to her own – though how that could be possible, she knew not, for he was most definitely male – she'd let him closer than she'd meant to and now, somehow, she'd lost control of the situation.
At first she'd thought about making him her Knight… but somehow… somehow things hadn't turned out as she expected. At all.
He was in control, and she wasn't sure what he was using her for, only that he was.
Feeling nervousness and anger rise inside her in a powerful wave, she raised a hand and started stroking the gorgeous diadem he had gifted her with. It always calmed her down, the smooth gold lulling and pleasing under her touch; it made her feel as if someone was murmuring comforting words right in her ear.
Was it so very bad if he was using her, for the time being? Once she reached her goal, it would not matter in the least.
Oh, she knew he didn't expected her to manage. He indulged her plan, but clearly didn't think much of it.
Well, she would show him! She would show everybody!
She'd achieve Time Compression and rule over everything – forever!
Then he, too, would bow to her… and come to her as a proper supplicant… one she would graciously accept as Consort, like she'd dreamed of doing from the very first moment… after all, he was so attractive… powerful… charming…
She lost herself in a little daydream.
Pride wasn't too upset at how things were turning out, however unexpected some twists were.
He loved power, but he'd never truly been anything but a follower, albeit a high-level one. Not a common soldier, by far; but no true leader either.
There was some relief in enjoying the delicious rush of being in charge – feared, revered, obeyed – but not having to weigh his every action against the wider picture, the underlying plan.
Let someone else worry about long-term goals and bigger scopes. He revelled in triumphing in the little tasks, crushing the worms around him day-to-day. Standing tall among the crawling, cowering humans.
So really, that this Voldemort was pulling the strings didn't faze him too much, especially since the 'wizard' didn't like Amestris much and pretty much left 'Bradley' to his own devices.
Sometimes he missed Dante, perhaps. She'd been easier to understand… easier to manipulate. But the too-old alchemist had been dispatched easily and this new master… Voldemort… he understood Alchemy on a whole other level.
He didn't just bribe the Homunculi to do his bidding. He truly controlled them. A disquieting notion...
Still, Pride was in charge of Amestris and would remain so; it wasn't too bad, all in all.
At times, too, he wondered about the rumours of a Summoner and what they might come to mean for him. He didn't have a clear idea about what a Summoner was, but it wasn't hard to guess that the title accompanied true, great power. Pride could almost smell it in the air.
Perhaps this Summoner would replace Voldemort, just as the 'wizard' had replaced Dante? It wasn't inconceivable... Pride wasn't sure what to think of it. He couldn't begin to guess what kind of master this Summoner would make.
Perhaps, perhaps, Voldemort crushing this uprising threat would be for the best: it was doubtful than any change in the situation would be for the better, from Pride's point of view.
His identity as King Bradley, Führer of Amestris, was so perfectly suited to his tastes that he could lick his lips in delight just by thinking of it. His duty was, essentially, to control the country – a heady feeling indeed; he was the respected Commander-in-Chief of the State Military, and no-one, no-one dared question him openly - no matter how tenuously justified his decisions might be, no matter how bizarrely or whimsically he might act at times, just for the hell of it.
The power he wielded was satisfyingly intoxicating and the wide-spread respect he commanded was like a perpetual caress to his superiority.
He wasn't even required to interact with the other homunculi much anymore; which, really, suited him just fine. It had always been grating, how close to his strength and power they were, even though he was assured of his own supremacy. It felt maliciously good, that they were all dispatched to second-rate operations, while he, Pride, was in charge of an entire world – or close enough to satisfy him.
Yes, if it came to that, he would fight this Summoner, supporting Voldemort with all of his power and greatness, ensuring the continuation of his own, intoxicating domination over Amestris. At all costs.
Voldemort carelessly dwindled the wine glass in his hand by its delicate stem, letting the garnet red wine it contained swish and swirl gently, while he stared unseeingly at the subdued flames in the hearth he stood before, mind a million miles away.
He'd been caught off-guard by this Summoner business.
He'd known nothing of it: yet another instance where his muggle upbringing put him in a position of weakness! It was unacceptable!
He'd been forced to put a prisoner through a thoroughly cruel session of torture to get every information the weak sod had on Summoners, eagerly storing it all in the recesses of his mind while all along pretending he was just making fun of his victim by forcing him to go over commonly known facts, pretending the questions were merely a pretext for torture rather than the other way round.
Thankfully, none of his supposedly faithful servants seemed to have realized his ruse... But still. The fact grated on his nerves so badly that he'd been left in a foul mood a whole week and as a consequence, he'd lost a number of useless grunts to his own short temper.
Good thing they were, as already pointed out, useless; nevertheless, it was beyond irritating.
He sank bonelessly into his armchair, handsome face drawn into a frown as he delved more and more deeply into his thoughts, reviewing and rearranging and reorganizing his plans.
Voldemort wasn't stupid.
Cruel, undoubtedly; sadistic even. Insane, possibly, although he preferred to think of himself as a visionary with a broader horizon than the blind worms he was surrounded by.
But never stupid, no.
He knew most of his enemies gave him less credit than he was due. Cunning, he was readily admitted to be; but most did not truly believe him to be smart. The more fools them, because in truth, he was.
How else could he have risen as high as he had, when the very world that was the theatre of his success was skewed against him, an underprivileged half-blood?
One of the reasons for his success was his way of seeing things within things, recognize patterns in reality and magic that remained hidden to the common people.
That was what allowed him to use his considerable power so efficiently and remain in charge rather than being used like an amazingly powerful, but ultimately easily manipulated, pawn.
Now, as had often happened in the past, he was seeing the signs and unlike most, he could read them. They were warning signs – signs of danger ahead on his path to greatness, of perils not readily apparent to the lesser minds.
A powerful Summoner... Guardians from different worlds - others might be blind, but he'd recognized the styles of clothes and speech and combat... Green eyes - engraved in his memory, branded as if by fire that ill-fated night that shattered his power once upon a time... and that damning confirmation from his most trusted spy...
He was no fool.
He understood how magic worked better than most; he knew it was always balanced. It took an effort – an effort beyond the power of most – to tilt the balance.
That's why he'd been so alert for whoever might be exploiting the worlds, was taking advantage of the connections the way he himself was; he had expected someone else to do just that and they would, obviously, oppose him, like he himself would strenuously oppose them. He'd been vigilant and watchful... and yet – yet he'd missed it!
When he couldn't find any trace of an opposing force to his own rising power, he'd grown careless. He'd come to hope his opponent had got himself killed on his own, a plausible notion, perhaps, but dangerous to believe.
He'd been foolish. Overconfident. Stupid.
This was, had to be, the boy of the Prophecy! Green eyes that still haunted him after all these years... power equal to his own – not the same, no; but of similar might nonetheless... and the ability to walk through different worlds... yes, everything fit.
The reports talked of the ease with which he'd defeated Envy and it made Voldemort nervous. Oh, the construct was expendable of course, but its loss was worrisome nonetheless.
This Summoner was a tough opponent. A real danger. A threat that should have been handled before it could rise at all.
And for all his attentiveness, Voldemort had missed his cue.
Had it been any of his subordinates who made such a mistake, they would be suffering under his Cruciatus by now.
His dark eyes narrowed with steely determination.
No matter. There was still time to fix this potential fiasco before it became a débâcle. So far he hadn't been able to prepare any kind of trap for the newly risen Summoner, because no-one seemed able to predict his movements, and he wasn't foolish enough to risk walking into one himself: he'd learned his lesson years before in Godric's Hollows. His spies were alerted, though. As soon as this phantom menace showed himself anywhere within his domain...
Plans within plans swirled through his bright, sharp mind.
He'd be ready.
A harried minion arrived with a message, out of breath and anxious: "My Lord! The Lord Summoner has been recognized in Deling City!"
Voldemort set up straight at once. "In Galbadia?" he frowned, puzzled and tense like a hound scenting its prey.
"Yes, my Lord!"
Voldemort held very still for a long moment, balancing his options: "Dispatch all the homunculi at once. Order the Garden's Headmaster to gather whatever SeeDs and combat-ready pupils he has at hand. Send over reinforcements from Otogakure as well." He rose majestically. "The Guardians must be killed and he, brought to me. Unharmed."
Oh, yes. He was going to be ready.