Chapter Text
Winter, Year 2
Luciernaruthrax’s hospital room is in a large atrium located near the center of the complex. Normally the white-tiled room serves as a secondary cafeteria, but today it has been converted to its fully intended purpose as a facility capable of healing a dragon. Its location next to the veterans’ memorial garden- and the statue of mother and son- is completely coincidental. At the very least, the glass ceiling allows plenty of natural light and fresh air- at least during the day. This late in the evening, the room is lit by warm electric lights.
The Dragon himself lies chest down on a large padded cot in the middle of the room, rather like a large cat. A long strip of bandages run along his right flank, and his wing is immobilized in a sling tied to anchor points on the ceiling. A few buckets of dirty bandages are stacked in the corner, along with a terrifyingly large and mercifully empty bedpan.
Luciern is reading through a large sheaf of papers with a pair of oversized spectacles perched on his snout. He flips through the pages with an increasingly concerned grimace on his face, occasionally making marks with a piece of charcoal clutched in his claw.
By this time, most of the patients are already asleep and most of the staff have already gone home. The only other person present is Commissar Kensington Terret, dressed neatly in his black and yellow trimmed greatcoat and topped with his commissar's cap. He stands at parade rest, delivering his report.
“-we've also procured three large pavilion tents,” he continues, “They're not built for it, but they're made of thick canvas and should retain heat well enough to serve as emergency shelters for a good number of people.”
“Emergency…” Luciern blinks and looks up from the paperwork with a worried look, “Shelters…? Was the damage I inflicted that severe?”
“The winter, sir,” Terret explains, “I'm not sure how cold it gets in Trillos, but with no supply chain, it doesn't need to get too terribly cold before certain people are at risk. The elderly, the sick, those with infants or small children- somewhere that's warm and dry can save lives. Even if it doesn’t get that cold, we expect many people might come to the shelters just because it will likely be safer than being out on the streets.”
“Ah,” Luciern states in a hollow voice, “Yes, that's… well considered, Commissar, thank you.”
The door to the hospital room squeaks open and a man backs into the room wheeling a large, empty trash bin behind him. An embroidered patch on his chest gives his name as Gustov, and he walks with a marked limp. He does not make eye contact with anyone in the room and moves to collect the soiled bandages.
“We expect to be able to keep the situation contained,” Terret continues, “I'm not really worried about the remaining Warlord coming back, but I do have concerns if violence… breaks out in the… sir?”
Luciern is staring intently at the janitor.
“You,” he states emphatically.
The janitor dumps a bucket of blood crusted bandages into his trash bin.
“I’m nobody,” is all he mutters.
“Not to me,” Luciern says, “I know my denizens. Come here, let me get a good look at you.”
He taps a claw on the ground, gesturing just next to Terret.
The man puts down the second bucket of bandages and glances sideways at the commissar. He walks stiffly over to stand at the young man’s side, obviously trying to hide the limp he came into the room with. He says nothing, and keeps his eyes downcast.
Luciern gives him a careful look from head to toe, a look of mild disgust crossing his face. Terret looks at Gustov, blinking momentarily with mild confusion.
“My Herald tells me that you took the oath of Denizenship willingly and genuinely,” Luciern speaks bluntly, “You're quite fortunate that I trust him. Why? Why come to me, after your brazen antics? You know my price- my condition. What are you hoping to find in my service?”
There is a brief awkward pause.
“... Antic,” Luciern adds, “Singular. The letter, I mean.”
“If I’d known I would be coming here,” the man says, straightening in response to the demands, “I’d have held onto it longer. I had a debt to pay, and this ruse clears it.” He taps the name tag. “But I hate to lie to anyone. So I made an honest oath and I will keep it.”
“I see,” Luciern leans in closer, “And now that you have paid that debt, you have incurred another. Your presence puts my Domain at massive risk. They'd go to war for your head. They'd kill as many of my people as they need to get to you. They wouldn't even blink,”
Terret’s eyes go wide with dawning realization.
“And still, I must keep my word,” Luciern continues, “You said yourself to amputate the wound, to cut it off before it festers. What reason do I have not to simply take you at your word? You clearly wish for death, and yet you hide in my Domain rather than seek justice in Kiverspyne.”
Luciern looms over the man, teeth bared, “If you came to me seeking death, you chose wisely. I can deliver it more swiftly than any noose or rifle bullet.”
Terret sighs dramatically as he interjects, “He's not going to hurt you.”
“Terret!” Luciern balks.
“You're a denizen in good faith,” Terret explains, “It's simply not in his nature.”
“I know that I am here for the utility of my Master,” Gustov says with his eyes locked on the floor tiles. “If I am not fit for the purpose of your need, then by all means. Send me to Kiverspyne in pieces.”
Luciern exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes as he pulls his head back, giving him some space.
“How am I supposed to determine if he's genuinely committed to his path if he doesn't think he's about to die?” Luciern asks, turning to Terret.
“You could try… talking to him, sir,” Terret provides politely, “People have been known to do that. From time to time.”
Luciern sighs, rubbing the bridge of his snout before turning back to the janitor.
“Do you know what I despise about you?” Luciern asks rhetorically, “It’s that you are not the ignorant barbarian our Betters always portrayed you as. No, when I met you, I met a young man with insight and intelligence to spare. Bereft of wisdom and knowledge perhaps, but those are things that can be learned with time. No, both through my own eyes and through those of the men and women who served you, I saw a man with foresight, empathy, one who saw not just the utility but the value in the people who followed him, one with conviction and cleverness suitable for his station.”
Luciern glowers at him, “And yet, for all that, you did act the ignorant barbarian. Certainly the entirety of the war is not your responsibility, that would be mad, but had you been an ignorant barbarian who played into the hand of warmongering imperialists, I would simply dismiss you as a fool. No, I despise you because I know you well enough to know you were aware it was happening and yet chose to act so anyway.”
“I made mistakes.” Merkelis Krieviņa answers with complete honesty. “There is nothing I can say to excuse myself or change the past. I will try not to make any more.”
Luciern gives him a level, judgmental, but not wrathful look.
“Meet my eyes,” he commands.
Merkelis looks up (and up and up and up and up), and the face Luciern looks into is a badly damaged one, covered in scars, with a nose that isn’t straight anymore. It has only been eleven years since he saw the boy last, and he could not be more different without being a decaying corpse.
Luciern removes his glasses with a sigh, but continues to hold the Emperor’s gaze.
“It would be easy to simply blame you for everything that happened,” Luciern’s tone relents somewhat, “The last time you came to my Domain, you brought death with you. I… remember them, you know. My denizens. Their names, their faces, little things about them… as long as I live I won’t forget them, or how they died. Were taken from me.”
Luciern furrows his eyebrows, his tone more uneven, “It would be easy to live in that moment, in the war. Even now, I feel wrath burning in my chest, demanding I seek retribution, that I burn those who have taken from me. That wrath, however, is a liar, and you, you of all people know the truth. You were there.”
Luciern breaks his gaze and lowers his head, taking a deep breath. “I thought I had it planned perfectly. I made my declarations, trained my forces, placed my defenses. I focused my time on things like… like a two hundred page constitution and… and tailored uniforms. Tailored uniforms!”
“I was not prepared. I was not the master my denizens needed. When death came, it feasted unabated on my… my failure to prepare. My denizens did not have the tools to defend themselves properly, and so they fought with all they had: their lives. I went to war with… with security guards and students and park rangers. I put them in uniforms and gave them rifles and told them to die for me without considering what it would mean when they actually did.”
He takes a sudden heaving breath, “And then our guns didn’t have the range to protect Dragonberg. Your shells fell unabated, taking lives from me. I, myself, was the only thing capable of stopping it, so I flew out to silence your guns, and then… you, your people, your guns, shot me down. I fell bleeding into the mud and barbed wire, and everything went black.”
He pauses, looking back at nobody, “You know what happened next, perhaps better than I. Tell me what happened next.”
“We had spent more than a year living in muddy trenches defending the East from the forces moving out of Kiverspyne. I called for a retreat to the defensible positions in Foskerian and the gap that protected Appletump. The rear encountered guns instead of civilians.”
Merkelis has more he could say, but those accusations seemed worthless.
“After you torched the artillery, we saw you land in the area where the Gliren were on the march. Your people surged across their defenses and dragged you back. I could not have imagined that it would be possible, but they broke through some of our most hardened veterans. It gave us a glimpse into their manic loyalty, and I learned a lot from it.” He grit his teeth briefly. “And that was why I signed that last order.”
“‘Manic,’” Luciern growls, “I never asked them to do that. Students and park rangers, and they fought like… like…”
He pauses and blinks, then looks to Merkelis, “Signed?”
“The order of general surrender, to the Dragon Luciernauruthrax, for distribution to all forces.” Merkelis shakes his head slowly. “But the cables were already cut. The signal corps had to distribute it manually. And then you shot me.”
Luciern gives Merkelis a flat look, “Shot you,” he repeats.
“A gun from beyond the horizon in the direction of Foskerian hit my horse and took off my leg. I was a little too unconscious to be able to attend to the official signing of terms.”
“Beyond the-” Luciern’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he rapidly goes through a series of facial expressions.
He first lets loose an angry growl that’s closer to a hiss, before a low rumbling rises to a chuckle and erupts into a painful mirthless laugh that continues for several seconds in a most unsteady manner before he regains composure enough to continue.
“We had exactly one cannon capable of that kind of range,” he continues with a shudder that might be a muffled sob, “And it fired one. Shot. Ever before it broke its mountings and deafened its entire crew. It was a test shot. A failure, aimed in the general direction of your forces because why not? And now, you’re telling me that that one singular shot it ever fired struck you, specifically while you were attempting to personally deliver orders to surrender to me, specifically!?”
“If I hadn’t stopped, it would have hit a hospital van full of wounded Kend.” Merkelis has had a lot of time to think about exactly how lucky a shot that couldn’t possibly have been aimed intentionally had to be. “Yes. Copies had been given to the signal corps to get the news to you faster, but instead this happened.”
He reaches down and rolls up the hem of his left leg. It reveals a dwelven prosthetic with cables buried into the remaining badly scarred flesh. A ring of dark tattoos around the stump marks the placement of a tourniquet. They spell the several names of all three major Kend powers. He wiggles the prosthetic toes.
Luciern gives the leg a long, cold stare.
“Your instinct was correct,” he relents, “Had you managed to deliver that order, of course I’d have accepted it. It… would have been challenging to deal with the allies after, but not impossible. Still, it… it would have been over. I just wanted it to be over.”
He lets out an empty sigh, placing a claw over his face, “I just wanted my people to stop dying.”
“They’ll never stop dying.” Merkelis gives the dragon a cold stare. “The context of their deaths changes, but not the fact of it.”
“Of course not,” Luciern lowers his hand and gives him an annoyed look, “But that context should be ‘at the end of a long and fulfilling life of accomplishment enabled by their master’ not ‘alone and bleeding in a ditch because of their master’s mistakes,’ which does, in fact, bring me to you.”
He leans over, giving Merkelis a steady look, “I read your letter, and let me be clear: you are not here because I seek to prolong your punishment, to grant you absolution or redemption, and certainly not to establish precedent for the pardoning of tyrants. No, to me, the war is over. Gone. Dead, as it should be. Judgment has been given on you by the survivors and I have given my word that you will be delivered to that. I will keep my word, but personally? I have always believed in restitution above retribution.”
“I failed my people. I was not the master they needed. I believed I had learned from that error, that I was making the changes needed, but given my current condition it is extremely obvious that I have failed to address it.”
His claw grips the ground hard enough to scratch tile, “War is coming to the continent again. I don’t know who, I don’t know when, but it is coming. Brutality, genocide, senseless slaughter- they lurk just outside my sight. They’re coming back, I can feel it in my damned bones, and I know that I am not ready.”
He gives Merkelis a steady look, “You, on the other hand? I have a quite well written and researched report detailing how your reforms forged the Imperial military into a force that managed to fight far more effectively than it otherwise should have. That demonstrates a unique skill, knowledge and insight that I sorely lack when carrying out my reforms. So, that is my price for protecting you at the risk of the lives of all my denizens: Help me make the changes I need to give me and my armed forces the tools we need to keep my denizens safe when death is brought to us once again.”
Merkelis rolls down his pants leg, covering his prosthetic again.
“I personally dug a ditch that men and women died in.” He pauses and brushes flat the creases. “I’ll not arm another tyrant. You don’t need pretty speeches for that. If you demand it, I’ll just start walking for Kiverspyne right now.”
Luciern gives Merkelis a more careful look before asking, “Do you truly believe me to be a tyrant?”
“I didn’t think I was.” Merkelis looks over to his childhood rival. “My judgment is poor. Isn’t that right, Kensington?”
Terret reflexively puts a hand to cover a surgical scar on his chest and breathes deeply.
“Yes,” the Commissar confirms without hesitation, “I wouldn't hold that against him too much, though. It's quite easy to make mistakes like that, isn't it?”
He then looks Luciern directly in the eye with the most placid, innocent, and beatific expression possible.
“Don't-” Luciern holds up a claw without returning Terret's gaze. He gestures several times as if he is about to speak, then exhales hard.
“It is easy, isn't it?”
“So you understand my hesitation.”
“Of course,” Luciern shakes his head, “You're my denizen now, and I am convinced you have done so in good faith. Your heart is mine now, your burden and your pain as well. Your concerns are my concerns, and I will never begrudge you feelings that come from the heart. These things are my responsibility now, so if you are concerned that I may become a ‘tyrant’, then it is my duty to be a better Master.”
“It uh,” Terret adds, “It makes a bit more sense when you’ve seen it in practice.”
“... hm?” Luciern raises an eyebrow at him.
“Nothing, sir, please continue.”
“Right…” Luciern looks back to Merkelis, “Here is how this will work. I will not deliver you to Kiverspyne unless either your presence poses an immediate threat to the safety of the rest of my denizens, or if I find you to be acting in bad faith, attempting to abuse my protection for reasons that put my Domain at risk, or otherwise undermining my authority as Master of the Domain- that last part is quite important. There is only room for one Master in the Domain, and you are a Master to many of your people- and my people- even now. Whether you still wish to be or not. Is that clear?”
“It has been made perfectly clear that I am a better person when I am nobody.”
Luciern tilts his head slightly, “I feel that there is likely quite a bit to unpack there, but I'll just accept that and move on. Make no mistake, you do owe me a debt for taking on such a frankly inadvisable amount of risk in bringing you here. You will be expected to provide benefit that merits that risk, however… I will not attempt to force you to do anything that genuinely violates your conscience, nor will I place you in any form of leadership or Gods forbid military position. No, I will only ask you for your honest opinion and advice.”
“I can accept that.” Merkelis looks at a clock on the wall. “I have work to do before this shift ends. Quotas and all.”
“Of course,” Luciern nods, “I do have one command before you go: I want you to go to all of your therapy sessions, and do exactly as your therapist instructs you to, to the best of your ability. I mean seriously, look at you, you're a mess! It's downright shameful for me to allow my denizens to wallow in such suffering, not when I spent all this money on a hospital to help them.”
“As you command.” Merkelis fetches the rest of the soiled bandages into his bin.
He pauses at the door and looks back to Terret and the dragon.
“Kensington, I’ve been wondering, if it’s not too forward?” Merkelis chews on his lip for a brief moment. “Did you ever get a dance with that Gliren girl?”
“Uhhh,” the Commissar glances at Luciern, “No, not as of yet.”
Luciern quirks an eyebrow.
“Take the chance when you can.” Gustov pushes the trash can out of the room. “You never know when you’ll get another.”
“A girl?” Luciern asks curiously.
“It’s uh, nothing sir.”
“Oh come now, you can't just leave me with that! Who is she?”
“... Rae Kanin, sir.”
“... what?”
The closing door closes off the remainder of that most interesting conversation.