Notes to self: Betrayal: Becoming King
Sep. 20th, 2011 10:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
norcumiGood gods, brain, stop coughing up little fragments of ideas like hairballs that just sit and LOOK at me without any frikkin' clue where they go or what the hell this is all about. *mutter grumble stupid earworm ideas that steal FAR too much from other things*
Base: obviously the earth king whatsisface and the evil vizar archtype guy, with a world savior who is NOT the avatar, dammit. It was almost dreaming, ok? (translation after the fact to english: my brain took too much Avatar, season 2, which I have never seen, spiced it with a nice chunk of Bastion [for the xbox 360], and then demanded I write it)
"I demand to know what is going on!"
Ah, and that finally stopped the guardsman. He hesitated, and then gently shoved King Draycor through the cell door. It was not reassuring in the least that the guard followed, taking up a position that could last hours; arms crossed and legs braced. Over the next ten minutes, another dozen guards drifted in to take up guard positions inside the same cage he was in.
Not one answered his demands for explanations.
It took that long for him to realize what he needed to do. He drew himself up, pulling his shoulders back and leveling his best glare at the guardsman who first pulled him from his chambers. "I am your king. I demand answers! What is going on?"
His glare made the man flinch, but he did not shift position. "My apologies, your majesty, but I cannot tell you."
"But I'm your king!" He didn't wail, but this was not what he expected. This was... not how it was supposed to work. "Tell me what is going on."
The man finally lowered his eyes. "My apologies, your majesty, but I cannot tell you."
At least this time his voice wavered a little. Deliberately, Draycor leaned back and crossed his arms to look down his nose at the man, mimicking his posture. It was doing a lovely job intimidating him, after all. "Well, you're giving me the same answers over and over again - and 'cannot' - why is it you can not tell me? As your ruler, who do you possibly think could have the authority -"
Realization was like a slap across the face, emphasized by the silken whisper of robes across stone. Only one man in the court walked without any sound save the susurration of his clothes. "Oh." He deflated, arms uncrossing and dropping down to his sides as a chill danced down his spine. It then seemed to be quite content to dance a pavane round and round his guts. "Oh. My most trusted adviser."
Trimere rounded the last corner, lean and saturnine as ever. Unlike most of the Carturian nation, his hair was solid nut brown, neither the lighter blond nor the ebon that most had. His skin was pale and pockmarked, scarred by years of service as High Magus and Grand Vizir.
Oh sweet gods, and Raven was behind him, face like stone and armed to the teeth. If Raven was here, and against him- "Trimere-"
"My Liege." The Vizir bowed low, his height making the simple gesture into a sweeping one. "I am glad you made it here safely."
"Why - am I here?" Thank all the powers, his voice barely cracked. He'd been saved by this man, that horrible night almost two decades ago. A small six year old, the youngest of five boys, son of the newest and least noteworthy concubine.
The only person of royal blood to survive The Night Of Slaughter, when the dusklings invaded the city itself. They'd been turned back, in no small part due to Trimere's mustering and masterful deployment of the guard. Trimere's own magics had kept at least one assassination squad from the boy who suddenly was king.
"I asked the guards to bring you here." Trimere made a gesture, and the two guards nearest the door moved as one to open it long enough for Raven to step inside.
He couldn't quite help the bitter laugh. "My own vizir imprisoning me in my own dungeon." He laughed again, and fought to keep it from sounding hysterical. Raven was locked in with him, his vizir stood outside this prison cell, and there was no doubt that he would not survive the night.
It had been a long time since he'd tasted such a bitter reality. "This is like a truly horrid children's tale. Did you not have enough power, running the kingdom in my name -"
"It was never about power." Trimere's expression never wavered. Damn him, why did he always manage to sound poised, composed? "Aye, I took it. I used it. But power has never been my goal. No, my Liege, my goal has been the kingdom." At Draycor's offended look, the lean man sighed and shook his head. "My Liege, you have always been called the kingdom's heart. Has it never occurred to you who the head might be?"
The chill solidified into a block of ice. Actually, it never had. He'd assumed - too much, really.
The Vizir had much practice reading his face. He gave a grave nod. "Indeed. For the body to live, the heart must keep beating, but the head directs it. I have done many of the things I have been accused of. Conspiracy. Stealing people away in the night when their arrest would be too... difficult. Tumultuous. Murder, bribery, favoritism, any number of worse crimes you might not even know the meaning of. I am guilty. But ask yourself this, my Liege. Why would I do these things?"
And why, oh why, are my guards not batting an eye at this? Raven looks a little surprised, but that might just be at the fact that Trimere is ADMITTING to all this! "You seem to have all the other answers. Tell me."
"Heh. A most noble answer. I have done these things because as king, you cannot. You are a good man, a just ruler. And if I had not done these things, you would have been overthrown a hundred times over. I am ruthless, I am efficient, and in so many ways, my Liege, I am your opposite. The people love you. They follow you. They fear me, and they go where I drive them. Your rule should not be made of such stuff."
...What? Trimere's smile was strange; almost kind. "King Draycor. You were six when you took the crown. You were raised as a child of pleasure, not rule. No one taught you the rules your oldest brothers had learned like breathing, from the moment they were born. Half the noble families were decimated the same night as your family. All the Regent Potentiae were gone. Someone had to take the reins you could not hold. And I chose to leave you the reins of reason and goodwill. Far better that people hate and fear me." The Vizir's expression had gone strangely distant, somewhere in the land between bitter and wry. "I've no wish to rule. I've no inherent desire for power. But you, like your father before you and his mother before him, are my Liege. I serve the throne. However it is best served."
King and Vizir locked gazes, troubled hazel searching sky blue. Draycor thought he could see sincerity in the older man's eyes, but how could he trust that from behind the bars of a prison cell?
Well. His second in command wanted him to take up reins? He pulled the signet of the land from the small, silk pouch around his neck and placed it upon his hand almost ostentatiously. Surely it was his imagination that Trimere flinched at the sight of the steel and silver band as soon as it left the black mourning bag. It might have been the tiniest of bows, it might have been fear, it might have been a sign that it would rain tomorrow for all he apparently knew. "Then as the king, 'your Liege,' the bearer of the Silver Seal, he who holds the Throne of Iron, the 'Heart of the Kingdom,' what in the lowest hells am I doing in the bottom of my supposedly empty but quite overcrowded prison with you on the other side of the door!?"
Trimere's lips quirked into a smile, his brow lifting in acknowledgement. "Well put, my Liege. You are here because the city is falling."
Gods. It wasn't his imagination; Raven flinched and his guards paled. They had apparently suspected this, but having it confirmed was a completely different kettle of fish.
"...What?"
Trimere began to pace, his robes hissing and swirling around his silent steps. "The dusklings have been launching attacks for the last week, increasing the pace of skirmishes ten-fold. They broke through our last lines yesterday. The first kill squad was seen in the city an hour ago. I need you to leave. Get to the Castle of Steel and Stone. That fortress was built to withstand the dusklings for an extended siege. It will save you. You are right; you ARE the kingdom's heart - you must live!" He paused to sweep the guards with his eyes, and the 'mancers visibly straightened as he met their gazes. Chins lifted, shoulders straightened, and Draycor had a dizzying moment of disorientation. He remembered this man, the commander and talented magus taking control while he, at six, cowered in a corner. "What has happened here will be taken to your graves. Tell no one, save the king should he command you, of what I have done. Let what has happened here remain rumor - and do not try to squash rumors, for that makes them all the harder to kill. Time will decide what to make of me, and what I have done. I know your love for me, and that you are loyal. For my sake, hold your tongues, and give our king that love and loyalty. He is worthy of it." For a single, breathless moment, he looked so human, frail and old for surely he had been at least in his thirties when he had saved the youngest prince. And that once-prince could see how Trimere bound the 'mancers to him in that moment of humility.
The moment passed, and Trimere locked eyes with Raven. Draycor expected more speeches, grand words, but instead the Vizir gave a simple nod. "You are supposed to be our Savior. Save him." And to his awe, Raven simply nodded.
From the distant entrance of the prison, there was an explosion of noise, followed by pounding feet and the clash of steel.
" 'Ware! They come! They - aurrrrggh!" The words almost didn't make sense, but the scream - oh gods, the scream! He remembered those death cries, the horrendous gurgles and howls men made when impaled! Trimere spun into a battle crouch, hands arcing with mystic energy and robes swirling about him. The 'mancers fell into a tight battle array around him, shielding him with their bodies and the glow of their own magics. For a moment, he wondered why he could see over their heads; a six year old should not stand so high as to - no, that was then, this was now.
"Flee with me!" He still didn't understand why he was in the lowest levels of the dungeons of all things, but that didn't stop the ridiculous, impulsive demand. Trimere was many things, and that list possibly included traitor, but he was still the king's oldest friend. Moreover, he was the most powerful magus and a skilled tactician; surely under siege those were valuable skills!
"I cannot, my Liege." Trimere looked back, but not at him. It was to Raven, or possibly the head guardsman.
"You'll die! The dusklings are coming!"
And of all things, Trimere stood tall and laughed. Something - magic, perhaps - made the man seem tall and taller still, almost seven feet rather than the six he could claim. His voice echoed through the hall as he finally met Draycor's eyes. "Silly, naieve little king." The voice was still gentle, as if chiding a babe. "The dusklings are already here." Magic swirled around him with a gesture as the Grand Vizir reached up and removed his torque of office. As the bronze clattered to the ground, his robes blurred, the sweeping back panel splitting to sprout vestigial wings covered in charcoal gray feathers. A barbed tail lashed against the floor, the poisoned spines hissing against each other with the same susurration that he had always thought was the man's robes. Trimere's face was lengthened, the nose longer and cheekbones sharper, making his pale blue eyes - now a solid, unwavering brown that was almost black - sit at an angle. The ears were stretched to points that curled at the tips, and the duskling that had been Grand Vizir tilted his strange head in a bow. "But my Liege - not all dusklings want to destroy our country. I hope you rule well! If there is an afterlife, perhaps we shall see each other again!"
The guardsmen were shaken, but they did not waver. All Draycor could do was stare at the duskling - one to whom silver and steel were poison - who smiled with fangs bared. Then Trimere reached out and did something to the wall nearest him with one of the two long, lean tentacles that had sprouted underneath his arms - the tips rock hard and so easy to impale a man with. There was a groaning, screeching rumble, and the roof fell.
Several feet of the ceiling in front of the cell's bars crashed down, raising a dust cloud that whooshed out the crack appearing between the far wall and the floor, so that a moment later, when the space cleared the only exit was behind them.
"He's bought us some time," the head 'mancer growled, reaching out to grab Draycor's shoulder. "Let's not waste it, m'lord."
He wondered, as he ran for his life through dark escape tunnels for the second time in his life, how great a betrayal was death.
~end (segment?)
Base: obviously the earth king whatsisface and the evil vizar archtype guy, with a world savior who is NOT the avatar, dammit. It was almost dreaming, ok? (translation after the fact to english: my brain took too much Avatar, season 2, which I have never seen, spiced it with a nice chunk of Bastion [for the xbox 360], and then demanded I write it)
"I demand to know what is going on!"
Ah, and that finally stopped the guardsman. He hesitated, and then gently shoved King Draycor through the cell door. It was not reassuring in the least that the guard followed, taking up a position that could last hours; arms crossed and legs braced. Over the next ten minutes, another dozen guards drifted in to take up guard positions inside the same cage he was in.
Not one answered his demands for explanations.
It took that long for him to realize what he needed to do. He drew himself up, pulling his shoulders back and leveling his best glare at the guardsman who first pulled him from his chambers. "I am your king. I demand answers! What is going on?"
His glare made the man flinch, but he did not shift position. "My apologies, your majesty, but I cannot tell you."
"But I'm your king!" He didn't wail, but this was not what he expected. This was... not how it was supposed to work. "Tell me what is going on."
The man finally lowered his eyes. "My apologies, your majesty, but I cannot tell you."
At least this time his voice wavered a little. Deliberately, Draycor leaned back and crossed his arms to look down his nose at the man, mimicking his posture. It was doing a lovely job intimidating him, after all. "Well, you're giving me the same answers over and over again - and 'cannot' - why is it you can not tell me? As your ruler, who do you possibly think could have the authority -"
Realization was like a slap across the face, emphasized by the silken whisper of robes across stone. Only one man in the court walked without any sound save the susurration of his clothes. "Oh." He deflated, arms uncrossing and dropping down to his sides as a chill danced down his spine. It then seemed to be quite content to dance a pavane round and round his guts. "Oh. My most trusted adviser."
Trimere rounded the last corner, lean and saturnine as ever. Unlike most of the Carturian nation, his hair was solid nut brown, neither the lighter blond nor the ebon that most had. His skin was pale and pockmarked, scarred by years of service as High Magus and Grand Vizir.
Oh sweet gods, and Raven was behind him, face like stone and armed to the teeth. If Raven was here, and against him- "Trimere-"
"My Liege." The Vizir bowed low, his height making the simple gesture into a sweeping one. "I am glad you made it here safely."
"Why - am I here?" Thank all the powers, his voice barely cracked. He'd been saved by this man, that horrible night almost two decades ago. A small six year old, the youngest of five boys, son of the newest and least noteworthy concubine.
The only person of royal blood to survive The Night Of Slaughter, when the dusklings invaded the city itself. They'd been turned back, in no small part due to Trimere's mustering and masterful deployment of the guard. Trimere's own magics had kept at least one assassination squad from the boy who suddenly was king.
"I asked the guards to bring you here." Trimere made a gesture, and the two guards nearest the door moved as one to open it long enough for Raven to step inside.
He couldn't quite help the bitter laugh. "My own vizir imprisoning me in my own dungeon." He laughed again, and fought to keep it from sounding hysterical. Raven was locked in with him, his vizir stood outside this prison cell, and there was no doubt that he would not survive the night.
It had been a long time since he'd tasted such a bitter reality. "This is like a truly horrid children's tale. Did you not have enough power, running the kingdom in my name -"
"It was never about power." Trimere's expression never wavered. Damn him, why did he always manage to sound poised, composed? "Aye, I took it. I used it. But power has never been my goal. No, my Liege, my goal has been the kingdom." At Draycor's offended look, the lean man sighed and shook his head. "My Liege, you have always been called the kingdom's heart. Has it never occurred to you who the head might be?"
The chill solidified into a block of ice. Actually, it never had. He'd assumed - too much, really.
The Vizir had much practice reading his face. He gave a grave nod. "Indeed. For the body to live, the heart must keep beating, but the head directs it. I have done many of the things I have been accused of. Conspiracy. Stealing people away in the night when their arrest would be too... difficult. Tumultuous. Murder, bribery, favoritism, any number of worse crimes you might not even know the meaning of. I am guilty. But ask yourself this, my Liege. Why would I do these things?"
And why, oh why, are my guards not batting an eye at this? Raven looks a little surprised, but that might just be at the fact that Trimere is ADMITTING to all this! "You seem to have all the other answers. Tell me."
"Heh. A most noble answer. I have done these things because as king, you cannot. You are a good man, a just ruler. And if I had not done these things, you would have been overthrown a hundred times over. I am ruthless, I am efficient, and in so many ways, my Liege, I am your opposite. The people love you. They follow you. They fear me, and they go where I drive them. Your rule should not be made of such stuff."
...What? Trimere's smile was strange; almost kind. "King Draycor. You were six when you took the crown. You were raised as a child of pleasure, not rule. No one taught you the rules your oldest brothers had learned like breathing, from the moment they were born. Half the noble families were decimated the same night as your family. All the Regent Potentiae were gone. Someone had to take the reins you could not hold. And I chose to leave you the reins of reason and goodwill. Far better that people hate and fear me." The Vizir's expression had gone strangely distant, somewhere in the land between bitter and wry. "I've no wish to rule. I've no inherent desire for power. But you, like your father before you and his mother before him, are my Liege. I serve the throne. However it is best served."
King and Vizir locked gazes, troubled hazel searching sky blue. Draycor thought he could see sincerity in the older man's eyes, but how could he trust that from behind the bars of a prison cell?
Well. His second in command wanted him to take up reins? He pulled the signet of the land from the small, silk pouch around his neck and placed it upon his hand almost ostentatiously. Surely it was his imagination that Trimere flinched at the sight of the steel and silver band as soon as it left the black mourning bag. It might have been the tiniest of bows, it might have been fear, it might have been a sign that it would rain tomorrow for all he apparently knew. "Then as the king, 'your Liege,' the bearer of the Silver Seal, he who holds the Throne of Iron, the 'Heart of the Kingdom,' what in the lowest hells am I doing in the bottom of my supposedly empty but quite overcrowded prison with you on the other side of the door!?"
Trimere's lips quirked into a smile, his brow lifting in acknowledgement. "Well put, my Liege. You are here because the city is falling."
Gods. It wasn't his imagination; Raven flinched and his guards paled. They had apparently suspected this, but having it confirmed was a completely different kettle of fish.
"...What?"
Trimere began to pace, his robes hissing and swirling around his silent steps. "The dusklings have been launching attacks for the last week, increasing the pace of skirmishes ten-fold. They broke through our last lines yesterday. The first kill squad was seen in the city an hour ago. I need you to leave. Get to the Castle of Steel and Stone. That fortress was built to withstand the dusklings for an extended siege. It will save you. You are right; you ARE the kingdom's heart - you must live!" He paused to sweep the guards with his eyes, and the 'mancers visibly straightened as he met their gazes. Chins lifted, shoulders straightened, and Draycor had a dizzying moment of disorientation. He remembered this man, the commander and talented magus taking control while he, at six, cowered in a corner. "What has happened here will be taken to your graves. Tell no one, save the king should he command you, of what I have done. Let what has happened here remain rumor - and do not try to squash rumors, for that makes them all the harder to kill. Time will decide what to make of me, and what I have done. I know your love for me, and that you are loyal. For my sake, hold your tongues, and give our king that love and loyalty. He is worthy of it." For a single, breathless moment, he looked so human, frail and old for surely he had been at least in his thirties when he had saved the youngest prince. And that once-prince could see how Trimere bound the 'mancers to him in that moment of humility.
The moment passed, and Trimere locked eyes with Raven. Draycor expected more speeches, grand words, but instead the Vizir gave a simple nod. "You are supposed to be our Savior. Save him." And to his awe, Raven simply nodded.
From the distant entrance of the prison, there was an explosion of noise, followed by pounding feet and the clash of steel.
" 'Ware! They come! They - aurrrrggh!" The words almost didn't make sense, but the scream - oh gods, the scream! He remembered those death cries, the horrendous gurgles and howls men made when impaled! Trimere spun into a battle crouch, hands arcing with mystic energy and robes swirling about him. The 'mancers fell into a tight battle array around him, shielding him with their bodies and the glow of their own magics. For a moment, he wondered why he could see over their heads; a six year old should not stand so high as to - no, that was then, this was now.
"Flee with me!" He still didn't understand why he was in the lowest levels of the dungeons of all things, but that didn't stop the ridiculous, impulsive demand. Trimere was many things, and that list possibly included traitor, but he was still the king's oldest friend. Moreover, he was the most powerful magus and a skilled tactician; surely under siege those were valuable skills!
"I cannot, my Liege." Trimere looked back, but not at him. It was to Raven, or possibly the head guardsman.
"You'll die! The dusklings are coming!"
And of all things, Trimere stood tall and laughed. Something - magic, perhaps - made the man seem tall and taller still, almost seven feet rather than the six he could claim. His voice echoed through the hall as he finally met Draycor's eyes. "Silly, naieve little king." The voice was still gentle, as if chiding a babe. "The dusklings are already here." Magic swirled around him with a gesture as the Grand Vizir reached up and removed his torque of office. As the bronze clattered to the ground, his robes blurred, the sweeping back panel splitting to sprout vestigial wings covered in charcoal gray feathers. A barbed tail lashed against the floor, the poisoned spines hissing against each other with the same susurration that he had always thought was the man's robes. Trimere's face was lengthened, the nose longer and cheekbones sharper, making his pale blue eyes - now a solid, unwavering brown that was almost black - sit at an angle. The ears were stretched to points that curled at the tips, and the duskling that had been Grand Vizir tilted his strange head in a bow. "But my Liege - not all dusklings want to destroy our country. I hope you rule well! If there is an afterlife, perhaps we shall see each other again!"
The guardsmen were shaken, but they did not waver. All Draycor could do was stare at the duskling - one to whom silver and steel were poison - who smiled with fangs bared. Then Trimere reached out and did something to the wall nearest him with one of the two long, lean tentacles that had sprouted underneath his arms - the tips rock hard and so easy to impale a man with. There was a groaning, screeching rumble, and the roof fell.
Several feet of the ceiling in front of the cell's bars crashed down, raising a dust cloud that whooshed out the crack appearing between the far wall and the floor, so that a moment later, when the space cleared the only exit was behind them.
"He's bought us some time," the head 'mancer growled, reaching out to grab Draycor's shoulder. "Let's not waste it, m'lord."
He wondered, as he ran for his life through dark escape tunnels for the second time in his life, how great a betrayal was death.
~end (segment?)
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