Chapter Text
Bad rulers have certainly existed in the history of Lugunica, the same as it happens in any royal family that lasts this long. There were egoistic rulers who held lavish feasts with overseas dishes, while the common people were dried to skin and bones by a disastrous year of poor harvest; there were inept rulers who made decisions with a trembling hand only after being left with no choice, while their unfaithful subjects plundered the treasury behind their backs; there were cruel rulers who loved most of all to watch executions in the morning, and if no one was executed, then one there was on a whim. Though, that was not a topic for the Sword Saint to breach: the moment it came up in a conversation, even if not from his mouth, but just in his presence, people became uncomfortable and uneasy. It was, admittedly, never completely clear to him why. His late—whosefaultisthat—Majesty was, by universal recognition, a man of a kind soul and a gentle heart. Would he not have condemned the atrocities of his distant ancestors?
However, Reinhard realized with horror, all this was rapidly losing importance now. If there was no mistake—and there could only be a mistake if he made it himself, and oh, how he hoped for it, but—the situation they found themselves in was so dire that soon all those rulers of the past would be remembered as innocent as newborn lambs.
"If you don’t unhand me th... thi… this instant," spoke a creature in the shape of a man; an ordinary human bound by spells so strong and so numerous would’ve lost consciousness long ago, but he could still speak, albeit even less coherently, "I… You’re gonna regret this so much, you… you hear me? Don’t m-make me… You think you have the right…"
Behind the locked doors in front of them, the urgent meeting of the Council of Wise Men had been going on for the second hour. Reinhard—despite the fact that he could have done it effortlessly and, no matter how shameful it was to admit, was worried enough to allow such a thought—deliberately did not eavesdrop. His business was not to make decisions, but to obey them, and therefore the decision-making reasons were not his business at all. He had hope for one of the outcomes, although calling it hope was perhaps a mockery. He couldn't bring himself to find anything hopeful about murder, even though he should’ve. At least all this—the entire hundred-year chain of murders, the unthinkable threat to the very fate of the kingdom, even this unbearable wait—would be over.
The doors opened. Miklotov came out first, the others trotted cautiously behind him, and Reinhard realized from the look on their faces that nothing was over at all.
***
Anyone else would be tempted to call the chain of events that led to this terrible outcome coincidences, but not Reinhard. Oh, Reinhard, as soon as he saw red, the color of royalty and blood, he understood everything at once, and with understanding came despair: fate had come together in this time and place, and there was no other way it could have happened. He, Reinhard, was chosen by fate as a guide—not for the first time.
Although it was not yet clear to him where exactly he was supposed to guide fate this time. Usually he was chosen for his very specific set of skills, but he had orders that strictly prescribed his course of action from this moment on. Still, the people who gave him these orders hardly envisaged such an extraordinary situation—or did they? Could it have been written on the Dragon’s Tablet? Maybe it could. In that case…
"What?" asked the Witch Cult's Archbishop of Greed, visibly confused. The light accentuated the angry wrinkles on his face. This face, the more Reinhard looked at it, the less he liked it. While seeming completely ordinary, it hid something nasty in it, and that something did not want to be hidden very much, coming to the surface with every movement.
Reinhard didn’t let him go. Should he? Maybe then he would be more agreeable... although, of course, that's unlikely. But in the current state of affairs, continuing to hold him like that was also unwise.
"Excuse me," he began carefully; it made sense to be subtle at first. "Are you by any chance not particularly busy for the next three years? I've heard about your longevity, so I assume that this is not such a long time for you."
"Eh?!" The archbishop immediately bared his teeth like a stray dog. Though that is more of a bookish comparison than based on real life: dogs were afraid of Reinhard. "How bold you are at managing other people's time! He assumes! Wow! Well, for your information, every minute is precious to me. Time is one of the few things that is given to everyone in this world, and any conscious person, in my opinion, is obliged to value it. Whether you are rich or poor, on top of the world or in its dregs, you always have time, and it is your right and duty to spend it usefully, to strive for perfection if you have not achieved it, and if you have, to savour it wholly and fully, and not to waste a second gifted to you on some kind of..." He paused for a moment, frowning. "Hey, what even is this question?"
Reinhard glanced pointedly at the other's palm. The archbishop didn’t wear gloves; besides the head, this was the only exposed part of his body. A very human palm, the kind nobody would suspect to have great strength. No grooming, no particular kind of elegance in sight either: the nails were uneven, hangnails stuck out around them, here and there were scattered small white scars, probably back from childhood, and a couple of fresh scrapes too. The palm of not a warrior, not an aristocrat—an ordinary person. The insignia lying on it looked almost alien.
"The will of the Dragon," Reinhard said slowly, feeling the acceptance of doom seeping deeper into him with every word, "has decided to choose you as a contender for the throne of Lugunica."
The archbishop stared at him.
"Huh?"
Well, at least it didn’t look like some elaborate Witch Cult plan.
"I suppose we’re equally surprised," Reinhard noted diplomatically. He couldn’t help but glance at the side: there were women, many of them, all young, all wearing the same dresses. None of them had moved since the beginning of the battle, none had rushed to escape or to help any of them—no, each stood as still as a statue. "I’m sorry, I know this is rude, but given the circumstances, I have to ask. Are you a virgin?"
"Huh?!"
The shade of red on the archbishop's face became deeper, saturated. Genuine horror appeared in his eyes, a wheeze gurgled in his chest—some words sank in it, never reaching the mouth.
Reinhard wasn’t particularly lucky with words either, however. He dug through the memorized orders again.
"I assume that means yes. In that case, I'm afraid," he doubted the success of an encouraging smile, but it was worth a try, "you will have to come with me."
"Wha... How did you... How dare youuuuuuuu..!"
Without wasting any more time talking, Reinhard hoisted the archbishop onto his shoulder and rushed to the capital. They'll figure it out. They must.
He knew, of course, that the meaning of all of this intended by fate would be revealed to him later, when everything had already come to an end; for now, however, he could only guess.
***
The Wise Men did not dare to approach them. Some huddled against the walls, some scattered in all directions, squeezing into corners and staying close to the curtains, and some even clung to the exits, clearly just waiting for the opportunity to leave the room. Miklotov was the only one who moved toward Reinhard, but still, there were at least three steps left between them. His gaze constantly tried to jump to the archbishop, and every time this happened, disgust appeared in it, and his face involuntarily writhed—just for a second.
"Were there any difficulties with retaining him?" he finally asked, forcing himself to look at Reinhard.
"Not at all, McMahon-san," Reinhard reported readily, but then hesitated. "He..."
"Old bas… tard..!" the archbishop spat out, and it wasn't a figure of speech—saliva frothed on his lips, ran down his chin and dripped onto the floor. Miklotov shuddered, and it was only thanks to his undeniably great willpower that he did not take a step back.
"He remains conscious and can still perceive his surroundings a little. Whatever his Authority is, it's very strong," Reinhard rushed to explain. "But at the moment I don't see any reason to worry. Even in the case of... the unforeseen circumstances," at these words, several Wise Men's eyes darted around in panic, "in my opinion, I will be able to maintain control over him.”
Miklotov cleared his throat. "That's good to hear. Sword Saint," his voice became serious all at once, but trembled faintly in the middle of the word, "The Council of Sages has made a decision. The Archbishop of Sin... will stay in the race."
But why, Reinhard wanted to ask, but didn't. The answer was clear to him with terrifying clarity: it was fate, too, and he wasn't the only one who had to obey it.
"We can't go against the Dragon's will," Miklotov seemed to guess his train of thought. "If that's his will, well... The choice remains with the people of Lugunica—for the sake of us all, I hope it will be wise."
It calmed Reinhard down a bit. It was hard to imagine that anyone really wanted to see a witch's henchman as king. People whose hearts would be tempted by such pure evil—perhaps only cultists were like that, and they would hardly have been given the right to vote.
Reinhard bowed his head. "I understand."
Miklotov nodded encouragingly, but his thick eyebrows furrowed. "It gives me no pleasure to ask you to do this," he began, and Reinhard, of course, knew what he was talking about, and yet felt his stomach turning over, "but considering everything, I'm afraid I have no choice but to ask you to ensure the safety of our kingdom by keeping the archbishop under your supervision."
Reinhard shifted his gaze to the writhing figure at his feet. The muttering was still audible; none of the words he could make out were kind.
"Are you asking me to become his knight?"
"Oh, I wouldn't dare ask you to swear allegiance to him." Miklotov hastily raised his hands in a sign of reassurance. "First of all, it would not be in Lugunica’s best interests at all. But... as for your duties, they will be similar, if not even stricter. You'll have to be with him all the time to prevent a tragedy from happening. Which... may require you to satisfy some of his needs, I suppose.”
Three years—this is how long he will need to serve the archbishop.
"Should I keep him tied up all the time?" Reinhard asked, replaying Miklotov's answer in his mind. What could this be? Should he spoon-feed him, bring him a bedpan?
"In the collar, no doubt. Otherwise... if necessary." Miklotov, glancing nervously at the cultist again and wincing, lowered his voice: "If you can come to an agreement of sorts with him... Sword Saint, we have high hopes for you…"
Reinhard felt a surge of horror. Negotiate? He? He was never good at that. Reinhard was born to pierce hearts with swords, not to conquer them with words. Although... No, that too is not true—but he promised... No, no, he must keep his promise, but on his own—what is Reinhard van Astrea worth on his own, without higher powers guiding his hand?
But Miklotov... He looked strange, as if he wanted to move but couldn’t. Ah, he must’ve wanted to approach Reinhard, but the archbishop…
"What did you want to say, McMahon-san? " asked Reinhard in his thoughts, allowing the Divine Protection of Telepathy to transfer his words into another's mind.
"Oh, Od..! " Miklotov paled. "Is that you, Sword Saint? "
"Yes, it's me. Don't worry."
"Truly, your powers are simply..! So, to the point. Sword Saint, this opportunity may not come again. Now, if you play the right cards, you might be able to gain the Archbishop's trust... The information he could provide would be invaluable for the defense of the kingdom! If you manage to establish cooperation with him... some limitations can be sacrificed, of course, under your constant control. Get everything you can out of him. And then…"
A disgusting feeling curled up in Reinhard's chest. He clarified: "At the end of the royal selection? "
"That's right. At the conclusion of the royal selection... You're free to end him."
"I understand, " Reinhard said again, and he really did.
He did.
***
There was a basement in the old Astrea estate, but mostly it was used for storing pickles for winter, and Reinhard didn’t have the heart to sacrifice those. Flam and Grassis prepared them according to Carol's recipe themselves, and it was a long, difficult and tedious work. In addition, he was afraid that something somewhere was a bearing construction and could bring down the whole house if it were to be destroyed. The new estate was more reliable in this regard, but the Council made its position clear: the Archbishop of Greed should be kept as far away from the capital as possible, and certainly not a few minutes away from the homes of the most influential people in the kingdom.
Therefore, after sending the servants to the town, Reinhard unloaded the archbishop on the floor of his bedroom. He was not in the habit of hoarding, so he owned practically only what was necessary: a bed, a table with a chair, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf. Everything from the table—ink and blank paper—he put in its drawers, all the books from the shelf—textbooks—he had already read and knew by heart. The only thing that caused worry was the window, but, well, they said that sleeping in the fresh air was good for health.
So.
Reinhard approached the archbishop cautiously. He didn't exactly look rumpled. On the contrary, despite restraining magic and two trips at Reinhard's speed, his clothes and hairstyle hadn't changed at all since their meeting, probably due to his Authority. However, his sanity did not improve: he continued to mutter insults under his breath, without stopping for a minute, and his face became completely deranged.
“Who do you... th... th...ink… h-hostage... on what... bas-s-sis... I will…”
After thinking for a bit, Reinhard reached for the lock of one of the chains. There were two of them in total, and they entangled the archbishop's body crosswise. Removing one could not ensure freedom of movement, but regaining the ability to hold a conversation (if there was one, of course, which was to be discovered) was quite possible.
With a soft click, the chain slid to the floor. The archbishop blinked, then blinked again: his previously blurred gaze focused and stared precisely at Reinhard.
“You!”
He tried to kick Reinhard. First with one foot, then with the other... one more time, one more time, and one more time, then, finally realizing that the chain was holding him back, with two at once. Reinhard easily dodged.
“Quiet, quiet,” he raised his hands in the air, forcing a reassuring smile. It had the opposite effect.
“Ha-a? Am I what, some kind of cow?! You shameless bastard, do you think you have the right to look down on people like they're cattle, and why so?! You're not special. You're nobody. You, you—you-u-u, you pathetic, desperate thief who somehow got the idea that he could kidnap innocent people from the street in broad daylight and drag them away with him to no one knows where, lock them up with him, trample on their inalienable rights —do you hear me, read the syllables, in-al-ien-a-ble—the right to freedom itself! Freedom to move, freedom to be where they want, freedom to live as they choose, without your precious opinion! How don’t you want to disappear from the face of the earth every second of your life is beyond me! You maniac! You psycho! Hey, hey, is this your bedroom?! Why did you drag me into your bedroom?! You pervert! Hey, let me go now, or else, oh-ho-ho, mark my words, you'll regret it so badly..!”
Reinhard had a suspicion that the windows would suffer in any case—if not from a blow, then from the pitch of the scream. He sighed.
"Are you sighing? Are you sighing?! Hey, would you look at him, he's sighing! How do you not feel the slightest bit of shame to sigh when because of you another person, made of flesh and blood, just like you, although I'm sure you don't imagine yourself like that, can't even take a breath with their full chest?!”
“I can let you go," Reinhard interjected, hoping that this would calm him down, "but first we need to talk."
“And now he interrupts me! Is listening to what the other person has to say not the foundational basics of politeness?! Were you raised in a stable? And what other demands do you have?! I'm not going to negotiate with you, you dog! Like I'm gonna talk to the kidnapper about the weather! What a nice morning, can you let me go now, please, oh, yes, is that it?! You're driving me crazy. You are gonna drive me crazy, I tell you, and it will only be your own fault, because I asked you a hundred times nicely! I will, you can't even imagine what I will... Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, what did you do? What did you... Hey. Hey, you... You're not getting away with this, do you hear me? Do you hear?!”
The anger on the archbishop's face shared the space with panic: his eyes widened, his gaze darted, and his lower lip trembled. It occurred to Reinhard that he was unlikely to become calmer from that moment on—he was already twitching fitfully, trying to break the numerous restraints—and it was worth taking drastic measures.
"You can become the king of Lugunica,” Reinhard said calmly. “If you recall, last time we stopped our conversation on this.”
That worked: the archbishop froze.
“Uh.”
"The Council of Wise Men agrees to allow you to participate in the elections," Reinhard added for more persuasiveness. For some reason, he felt a pang of guilt, even though it was ridiculous. He wasn't even lying—technically—and besides, it was beyond reasonable to be embarrassed to lie to not just anyone but the heads of the Witch Cult.
"Actually," the archbishop drawled, “our last, as you put it, ‘conversation’ was stopped by you asking... “ He suddenly stopped talking—moreover, he shut his mouth with the sound of teeth snapping.
What was that about? Ah.
“Admission criteria. You passed.”
“Mm-hmm-mhhm-mm.” The sound coming from other's throat was so strange that Reinhard worried for a second if he had choked.
"Again, sorry about that.”
The archbishop paused. Reinhard braced himself for another tirade, undoubtedly twice as long as the previous ones.
“You're lying," he said instead, surprisingly, and in a tone that clearly betrayed his longing for it not to be so.
"Absolutely not. You've seen the insignia.”
“The what?"
“The thing that glowed red in your palm. It's a sign that it recognized you.”
"That trinket? What a joke of an argument. How am I supposed to know where you got it?”
"And I brought you to the royal palace. You have to remember at least something from there. I assure you, I would not have done this in any other case.”
“‘Brought,’ that’s how you call it, huh. How can you prove that it was a palace? I'm not in the habit of wandering around palaces. All this vulgarity is not for me. Just a lot of showing off, that's what it all is.”
“And," Reinhard pondered his phrasing; it left a bad taste in his mouth, "I was assigned a task.”
Under the archbishop's unwavering gaze, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
"I was assigned to play the role of your knight," the words were hard to him, even though he was sure it wasn’t noticeable, "Your Future Majesty."
The archbishop made another sound, strangled and high-pitched. Reinhard didn't dare look at him, and he didn't want to.
“Mm-hmm. Uh. Huh. Is that so... really! Well, I don't even know. That's your idea, huh! You sure are imaginative. Are you that desperate? Of course, I don't need it. And for what? I am a perfect person, satisfied with life, I don't need all these titles of yours at all, I emphasize, I don't need them at all. Yes. And what would I do there anyway? No, I have a couple of thoughts, of course, I sure do, but... Yes, I don't want that at all. I'm content with little. One can, of course, argue that for such a perfect person, this is a small thing. What nonsense. But who, if not a perfect person, should be entrusted with such power? But why would I need it? There's no need. Not at all. I have everything I need to be happy. All this fuss is not for me. No, think about it, what am I even going to do with all this? It's a tempting offer, of course, but... Although it should be noted that the lack of thirst for power is the main sign that a person is fit for it. And I have no thirst for power, by the way. Not a drop. That would be a noble thing to do. Oh, I'm gonna torment myself with you people! It's not an easy burden, by the way. It's not difficult for me, of course. Purely in theory, I note! I'm not agreeing to anything yet. But I just want to point out that I would be more useful than your entire past dynasty put together. Well, just so you know. And your castle, by the way, is very ugly. It hurts to see. Such a disgrace would not have been allowed in my presence. And it's a nuisance to the whole country. The country of ill-mannered peasants who only know how to want everything and more. I'd teach them some sense. Don't doubt it. Oh, I would... How lucky you would be if I agreed! Out of the kindness of my soul. I'm a kind person, you know. Generous. Is that not all that the king should be? Yeah... I don't even know. I guess I could. In theory. Of course, my time is not endless. But I could spare a little, what am I, not generous, or what? The gospel didn't say anything against it. This is, after all, just my personal business. If I want it to be. I really don't want anything. That's it. But it would be nice, you can't argue with that... Yeah... Well, you know! If you insist so much…” Nervousness suddenly broke through in his voice. "Hey, admit it, are you kidding me?"
“No,” Reinhard replied, feeling more and more doomed. "Everything I've said is true.”
A giggle erupted from the archbishop. And again. And again.
“Well, in that case," he tried very hard to sound solemn, "untie your future king, knight.”
Reinhard got up from his knees. It felt like going to his own execution.
"As you wish."