Post by The Master Tactician on Feb 13, 2014 19:50:04 GMT -5
74 CLE
Measured steps bring the Grand General down the hall to the great carved door behind which his second rests, his cape billowing behind him. His jaw is set, his emerald eyes alight. As he passes, doctors, nurses, maids and soldiers go to their knees, prostrate, respectful, awed and afraid. This is the man who exposed the League of Legends’ corruption. This is the man who tamed the Freljord and defeated the Ice Witch. This is the man who conquered Demacia and colonized the Kumungu. This is the man who established the new world order, who unified Valoran, who rules the known world with an iron fist—and all fall who oppose him.
This is the man who is not quite a man, who for some fifty years has remained as though frozen in time in the slender, well-muscled shape of an adult human. But he is not a human any longer. He is a god.
The same cannot be said for the warrior coughing on the four-poster bed behind carved mahogany. For as long as most can remember, he has ruled by the Grand General’s side: stalwart, brave, a paragon of Noxian ideals.
But even paragons pass.
With a flick of Swain’s wrist, a somatic arcane motion, the door opens. The scent of death wafts out into the hallway. His face remains impassive as he strides over the threshold and into the chamber to seat himself at his second’s bedside. Darius’ form is frail, withered with age, pockmarked with scars and liverspots. His hair is a shock of wispy white and his skin sags where once well-maintained muscle made it taut. But he smiles when he sees who’s come to visit.
"Darius," Swain says quietly.
"…Sir." The two clasp hands. Swain can feel the weakness in his second’s grip, the tremor in his bones—and the fading fires of his life force indicate how near the warrior is to death.
"…You look a wreck, you old bastard."
Darius can’t help but give a wheezing laugh—which turns into a racking cough. He brings the cloth in his hand to his mouth and it comes away bloody. Swain presses his lips together in a melancholy smile.
"Argh. I bled less at the battle of Lokfar."
The Grand General’s smile broadens nostalgically. “You led well there.”
"Heh. Gave that crazy viking the glorious death he’d always wanted." Darius grins in turn.
Swain nods once, the scene of his second’s battlefield-wedding still fresh in his mind. Truth be told, when Sejuani had passed just a few months prior, he’d known Darius would not be far behind. “That you did, my friend.”
Darius looks up from the bed, his eyes shining with a strange and distant light. He’s quiet for some time before he almost whispers, “We had a good run, didn’t we.”
"The best," Swain affirms without pause.
"…I never doubted I’d made the right decision."
The Grand General’s brows knit slightly, but he maintains his smile. Mortality, though necessary for the cycles of this plane he’s come to rule, can be a cruel thing. “Not even when we seceded from the League?” His grin broadens as he remembers his second’s shocked expression when he’d announced his decision to High Command.
"Ah, not even then." Darius’ grin matches his own.
"I think you doubted a little.”
"Nah, heh. You always had a plan." He pauses, suddenly solemn, as though wondering, vaguely hoping, that the finality hidden beneath their lighthearted exchange is imagined, that the Master Tactician has a plan for this, too.
Swain nods once. His lips curl in over his teeth as he watches Darius’ expression shift. “Your son will arrive from the Freljord this afternoon. A runner came.”
As quickly as the haunted scowl of existentialism had settled over the warrior’s features, it evaporates. He smiles again. “My boy. Good.”
"All the family too."
"Good, good."
The chair scrapes over polished marble as the Grand General rises, straightens his collar and extends his hand to his second once again. “I’ll be back when we receive them.” He pauses as their hands clasp, as the stark contrast of his ever-youthful flesh with his second’s wrinkled, age-splotched fingers becomes apparent. It’s a powerful scene—and fifty years ago it was reversed—but this time it means something different. This time it’s final. He sets his jaw. “Stick around until then, won’t you.”
Darius smiles sadly. “Is that an order, sir?”
"Consider it thus."
"Yes sir. Forever strong."
"Forever strong," Swain echoes.
He turns on his heel and strides from the room, shoes echoing on the polished marble, cloak spreading out behind him like emerald wings. This is the role he has chosen. This is the path of a god: to watch as men live and die and are born and live and die again. It’s bittersweet.
The door closes behind him with a heavy click and he sets off down the corridor alone.
Forever strong.
Measured steps bring the Grand General down the hall to the great carved door behind which his second rests, his cape billowing behind him. His jaw is set, his emerald eyes alight. As he passes, doctors, nurses, maids and soldiers go to their knees, prostrate, respectful, awed and afraid. This is the man who exposed the League of Legends’ corruption. This is the man who tamed the Freljord and defeated the Ice Witch. This is the man who conquered Demacia and colonized the Kumungu. This is the man who established the new world order, who unified Valoran, who rules the known world with an iron fist—and all fall who oppose him.
This is the man who is not quite a man, who for some fifty years has remained as though frozen in time in the slender, well-muscled shape of an adult human. But he is not a human any longer. He is a god.
The same cannot be said for the warrior coughing on the four-poster bed behind carved mahogany. For as long as most can remember, he has ruled by the Grand General’s side: stalwart, brave, a paragon of Noxian ideals.
But even paragons pass.
With a flick of Swain’s wrist, a somatic arcane motion, the door opens. The scent of death wafts out into the hallway. His face remains impassive as he strides over the threshold and into the chamber to seat himself at his second’s bedside. Darius’ form is frail, withered with age, pockmarked with scars and liverspots. His hair is a shock of wispy white and his skin sags where once well-maintained muscle made it taut. But he smiles when he sees who’s come to visit.
"Darius," Swain says quietly.
"…Sir." The two clasp hands. Swain can feel the weakness in his second’s grip, the tremor in his bones—and the fading fires of his life force indicate how near the warrior is to death.
"…You look a wreck, you old bastard."
Darius can’t help but give a wheezing laugh—which turns into a racking cough. He brings the cloth in his hand to his mouth and it comes away bloody. Swain presses his lips together in a melancholy smile.
"Argh. I bled less at the battle of Lokfar."
The Grand General’s smile broadens nostalgically. “You led well there.”
"Heh. Gave that crazy viking the glorious death he’d always wanted." Darius grins in turn.
Swain nods once, the scene of his second’s battlefield-wedding still fresh in his mind. Truth be told, when Sejuani had passed just a few months prior, he’d known Darius would not be far behind. “That you did, my friend.”
Darius looks up from the bed, his eyes shining with a strange and distant light. He’s quiet for some time before he almost whispers, “We had a good run, didn’t we.”
"The best," Swain affirms without pause.
"…I never doubted I’d made the right decision."
The Grand General’s brows knit slightly, but he maintains his smile. Mortality, though necessary for the cycles of this plane he’s come to rule, can be a cruel thing. “Not even when we seceded from the League?” His grin broadens as he remembers his second’s shocked expression when he’d announced his decision to High Command.
"Ah, not even then." Darius’ grin matches his own.
"I think you doubted a little.”
"Nah, heh. You always had a plan." He pauses, suddenly solemn, as though wondering, vaguely hoping, that the finality hidden beneath their lighthearted exchange is imagined, that the Master Tactician has a plan for this, too.
Swain nods once. His lips curl in over his teeth as he watches Darius’ expression shift. “Your son will arrive from the Freljord this afternoon. A runner came.”
As quickly as the haunted scowl of existentialism had settled over the warrior’s features, it evaporates. He smiles again. “My boy. Good.”
"All the family too."
"Good, good."
The chair scrapes over polished marble as the Grand General rises, straightens his collar and extends his hand to his second once again. “I’ll be back when we receive them.” He pauses as their hands clasp, as the stark contrast of his ever-youthful flesh with his second’s wrinkled, age-splotched fingers becomes apparent. It’s a powerful scene—and fifty years ago it was reversed—but this time it means something different. This time it’s final. He sets his jaw. “Stick around until then, won’t you.”
Darius smiles sadly. “Is that an order, sir?”
"Consider it thus."
"Yes sir. Forever strong."
"Forever strong," Swain echoes.
He turns on his heel and strides from the room, shoes echoing on the polished marble, cloak spreading out behind him like emerald wings. This is the role he has chosen. This is the path of a god: to watch as men live and die and are born and live and die again. It’s bittersweet.
The door closes behind him with a heavy click and he sets off down the corridor alone.
Forever strong.
