NationStates Jolt Archive

Through the halls of the powerful, through the corridors which echo to the footsteps of princes, up to the heights of the Iron Throne, a whisper echoes. He who first spoke it is without fear, and stands beyond the retaliation of even the Emperor, if such can be said of any man; but those that have carried this whisper, like ants bearing food scrap by scrap back to the nest, are very sure of the people to whom they spread it further, and when they speak they wisely cringe. Mouth to ear, mouth to ear it has percolated through the Inner Court, and the whisper gets louder. Soon the recipients of the secret realize they are not alone, and their confidence grows; not even the Emperor, they remind themselves, can silence his entire court. And now they whisper further, that their secret message should be delivered to him, so that he may consider their point of view. Those who whisper this are, of course, mistaken, because the Emperor knows of this already. The Emperor always knows, and he is aware of what is being whispered throughout his Palace:

Perhaps the Emperor is wrong.

Ishamael II, Emperor of Kregaia and a thousand other titles besides, rose to the Throne in the wake of an apocalyptic civil war, and based his entire foreign policy on a dictum starkly opposite to that of his predecessor. Where Lucifer had commanded, keep friends with Doomingsland, Ishamael spurned the Doomani in favor of ever-closer links to Gholgoth, culminating in an abortive and inconclusive invasion of Doomanum. No one questions the value of Kregaia’s allegiance to Gholgoth, but again, the thought has been voiced: about the Doomani, perhaps the Emperor is wrong.

Doomingsland stands, Kregaia stands, and the two great iron-fisted theocracies of the world glare at each other across league upon league of heaving, storm-lashed ocean. Nothing has been resolved. The Emperor has said since the invasion attempt that there is no more vile infidel than a Doomani, that Doomingsland can never be trusted, and that the spilling of (admittedly very little) Kregaian blood during the expedition demands a grand and brutal vengeance which, the people have always assumed, the Emperor will inflict on the Doomani in his own good time.

That was two years ago. Times change.

* * *

The knock came on the door just as Ishamael was preparing to eat his dinner. He took a deep breath to calm himself, reminding himself that this time, at least, Lord Rahvin was not interrupting his meal on purpose. Laying down his knife and fork, he called, “Come in,” and took a second to relax before the doors to his apartments opened.

Lord Rahvin entered the room, back ramrod straight and face hardened with pride, with an air that made the Immortals flanking him seem like an honor guard rather than a prisoner’s escort. Glancing around the imperial apartments, a slight tightening around his mouth showing his distaste for Ishamael, he stood silently, waiting for the Emperor to speak first.

“All right,” Ishamael growled irritably. The man’s arrogance was already driving him crazy. “Leave us,” he ordered the guards. As they bowed and left, he stood up, walked over to the bar to pour himself a glass of scotch, and only after he’d taken a sip did he turn back to Rahvin. “So. Why do you think you’re here?”

Rahvin shrugged. “Maybe you can’t satisfy your concubines and you think hearing my guesses about why I’m here would make you feel better. Or maybe you want me to waste more of your money invading another close ally. Automagfreek? No, too easy…”

“Fuck your mother,” Ishamael muttered under his breath in response to the sarcasm. “Classic comedy, Rahvin,” he said coldly, “but there’s nobody around to admire your courage, whereas if you make me angry enough, I’ll have you killed and the consequences be damned. I’d advise you to watch your tongue.” He took another sip. “No, no other nations this time. You’re going to Doomingsland again.”

Rahvin stared. “You can’t be serious. You remember what happened last time? Without the element of surprise they’ll have weeks between the time they notice we’re coming and the time we arrive to prepare. Do you think-”

“Wrong, Rahvin,” the Emperor cut in. “You’re not going there at the head of an army. You’re going there to talk peace. If you can understand the concept.”

If he had been surprised before, Rahvin was absolutely thunderstruck by this. He didn’t say a word for a full three seconds. Abruptly he burst out laughing, throwing his head back in unfeigned glee. “By the gods, of course!” he roared. “You finally realize it was stupid as fuck to launch an unprovoked invasion of our closest ally! And now you’re sending me to go clear it up for you!” His laughter finally subsided, but a smile remained on his face as he said, “Leaving aside that it’s starting to seem like you can’t do a damn thing unless I do it for you, it’s getting pretty obvious that the universe has a sense of humor.”

Ishamael had stared, icy-eyed, at the aristocrat through his outburst, and after allowing the silence to harden, he replied in a tone of quiet, suppressed hatred, “Your plane leaves in thirty minutes. The Immortals will take you to a helicopter and you’ll fly to the airport. From there you will go to Urbs Doomanus and meet with Emperor Maximus. You will negotiate a peace settlement with him. A diplomat from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs will be on your plane, and will discuss details with you such as what guarantees and concessions you’re authorized to make. And I won’t insult your honor by suggesting that you’d defect.”

“No, of course not.”

“Maybe you feel like being a smartass and pointing out that, superficially, you have no incentive to conclude a peace settlement on my behalf. But we both know that’s not true.” Rahvin raised an eyebrow, but Ishamael knew it was for show. Wisdom dictated that one know one’s enemy, and Ishamael knew Rahvin well indeed. “We both know what you want more than anything in the world, and doing what I’m asking you is yet another step in that direction. You can do this, and when you do, history will remember you as the man who not only started a war but single-handedly finished it.”

Rahvin was silent for a long time. He might hate Ishamael, and he might be enraged at being backed into a corner, but he knew the Emperor was right. He could do it, and he wanted to, and in the end his only reason not to would be to spite Ishamael. Hardly worth it. After a minute of thought, he looked his nemesis straight in the eye and growled, “Fine. I’ll do it. I’m going now.”

“One more thing.” Rahvin did not turn, but stood facing the door, waiting for the Emperor to go on. “The people will not be told where you are going, or that you’ve gone at all. If Maximus decides he doesn’t want Kregaians on Doomani soil, or if some overzealous infidel should put a bullet in your skull, the entire nation will mourn the tragically fatal heart attack you died of in your sleep. I think I’ve made myself clear.”

Without another word, Rahvin left, and his escorts quickly fell into step behind him as he strode quickly off towards the helipad. It would be a long flight and a difficult task, but Ishamael was very much mistaken if he expected Rahvin not to turn this to his own advantage.

None had seen Ishamael's betrayal coming; after centuries of loyalty to their sadly misguided blood brothers, the Doomani had found themselves tragically betrayed by men who very well could have been their own kin. It was all too easy to justify to the people: vile pagans cannot be trusted. Suffer not the heathen to live. This maxim had been constantly drilled into their brains since infancy, and countless blood-stained battlefields, ruined cities, and mass graves stood as testament to their unflinching dedication to seeing its fullfillment. It was easy for them to justify Kregaian treachery, for it was easy for them to ignore centuries of history which could simply be revised when needed.

For the Imperium's leadership, things were not quite as simple. Ishamael's actions were not only despicable and honorless, but simply defied logic.

Perhaps those madmen do not think as we Doomani do? Maximus had pondered. Something in the water, perhaps.

After all, one need only look at Ishamael's predecessor to find a trend of madness in the Kregaian leadership. While Lucifer had been a loyal, trusted ally, he had also been completely and utterly batshit crazy. Who was to say Ishamael was not as unstable as Lucifer?

This was the common theory amongst the court of the Emperor of the Doomani: the poor Kregaian heathens had been lead to betray their loyal ally by their lunatic emperor. That certainly would be no excuse to spare their lives if and when it came to that, but it was excuse enough to write off the war as the sort of lunacy generated by the Kregaians when close attention was not kept on whomever was ruling them at the moment. Maximus would never make that mistake again, and he would see to it his descendants would not either.

Still, the fact remained: Kregaia and Doomanum were no longer allies, and the Emperor would be perfectly happy to personally flay and gut every man, woman, and child in Kregaia.

"Shall I flay and gut the heathen when he arrives, father?" Lucius interrupted the Emperor's train of thought, entirely serious.

This seemed to be a popular option amongst the assembled nobles, whose eager chatter in response was quickly hushed.

”No. Not immediately. I would like to see what this pagan has to say,” his booming monotone emanated throughout the vast throne room from atop his golden throne.

He had aged visibly. Grey hair and worn, scarred flesh, yet he appeared no less formidable than he was in his youth. His eyes burned through everyone in the room, slowly moving through the crowd with a vicious, intent stare. He was still very much the same man he was twenty years ago, albeit with an extra twenty years of experience.

Lucius nodded, quietly hoping that the pagan would slip up so that he could flay and gut him. Lucius was, for all intents and purposes, a proper Doomani: Strong, cruel, and unflinchingly loyal; a cold-blooded automaton. He’d done his fair share of killing on Paralentum. It wasn’t he that would become Emperor upon his father’s death however; he was but the third born, which was just fine with him. Titus, who sat beside his brother, was a year older. Of Maximus’ three older sons, Titus was the most quiet, and yet it was he who was the heir to the throne. Though quiet, he had about him a cold intelligence that at times could exceed even his father’s. He rarely displayed emotion of any sort; yet for all that he was for all intents and purposes the voice of reason to the Emperor’s throne.

”Could Ishamael finally have come to his senses?” Titus wondered aloud.

”Perhaps, my son. Or it could be more pagan trickery,” Maximus said only what everyone else in the room was thinking. There wasn’t a soul there that hadn’t considered the possibility that Ishamael was planning something subversive.
Nero Sejanus, quiet as always, stalked about beside his beloved Caesar’s throne. The old man was not particularly well liked by the other courtiers; the Doomani never were too keen on subterfuge, and he always had the Emperor’s ear, this man who was knee deep in conspiracy of all sorts.

Who knows what lies he could be whispering? they would say.

He was, however, an indispensable part of the Emperor’s retinue. An old friend of the family, having served the current Emperor’s father, the truth of the matter was that he kept the Emperor apprised of everything. There was not a secret he did not know about anyone in the room, and the old man was resented for this. A slender man in his seventies, he was in every sense of the word, nondescript. He could have been fifty years old or he could have been eighty years old, depending on what he wanted people to think. He rarely ever spoke, though his presence here this day suggested that the Emperor knew something that they did not, as usual.

”…of course I am told that Ishamael is most serious about this matter. The man has seemingly been possessed of a madness to see peace amongst the Doomani and Kregaians at any cost,” Maximus couldn’t help but chuckle at the sheer irony of the situation.

”Strange…” muttered Titus aloud.

”Is it Titus? No stranger than a man being driven by a sudden madness to make war upon a brother, certainly,” he let the words sink in.

Certainly it was not beyond reason.

”And he sends Rahvin of all people, the nerve of the bastard,” the Emperor’s brother Marius barked in a deep, hoarse voice, a lit cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth; he couldn’t help but throw in his two cents.

Marius always spoke the truth as he saw it, and Rahvin’s arrival only egged him on more. He had been Rahvin’s chief nemesis in his ill-fated campaign to invade Doomanum, and remained bitter that his foe had “run away before I could flay and gut him,” as he put it. He remained the Emperor’s right-hand man, the Magister Militum Primus, second only in rank to Imperator.

”I’ll be wanting to have a talk with old Rahvin…” he growled.

The Emperor couldn’t help but roll his eyes, ”Of course you shall be granted the ‘honor’ of speaking with Lord Rahvin should you desire, brother. In fact, you can go meet him at the airport when he lands…he’ll be here within the hour I suggest you get ready,” he said with wry smile.

Marius grunted in response and strode off. The only man alive who could act in such a way towards the Emperor and live to tell the tale; it was simply how he was.

”Now where was I…”

Rahvin had been staring out the window for the past two hours, his face completely expressionless but his eyes glittering with rage, as the private jet drew nearer and nearer to Urbs Doomanus, trying desperately to shut out the droning, annoying voice of the Foreign Affairs peon who had been assigned to tell him the limits of what he could offer. Idiot. Living one’s life in the Inner Court taught one infinitely more about diplomacy and negotiation than any diplomat would learn from a lifetime of boring talks. Unfortunately, they had been too high to see anything but clouds for some time, providing him no distraction from that awful voice.

“…you understand, His Divine Majesty is not concerned about financial offers, within reason of course; reparations are not nearly as important to the Imperium as the geopolitical advantage conferred by an alliance with the Imperium Doomanum. On the other hand…”

Fucking idiot.

As the jet finally dipped low, approaching the runway of an airfield servicing Urbs Doomanus, Rahvin gave thanks to the gods that the idiot diplomat would finally shut up. Except he didn’t. The fool kept blathering on, as the Immortals watched impassively from the back of the aircraft, and Rahvin at last lost patience. Enough was enough, and he could not enter Doomanum angry; it would jeopardize the entire task. And so he slowly turned his head and regarded the nuisance with the iron-hard, withering, silencing glare that every noble in the Empire learned practically coming out of their cradle, a look that channeled all the arrogance imaginable into a single stare and almost invariably made commoners cringe. This was no exception: as if he suddenly realized who it was he’d been prattling at, the diplomat fell awkwardly silent, and, blissfully, remained that way until the plane came to a stop. As the stewardess opened the exterior door, Rahvin extinguished his cigar, drained his glass of whisky, and stood to leave.

Rahvin’s retinue left the plane before him, of course, but it was a very limited escort. Ishamael had sent an honor guard of a few Immortals with him, not too many to provoke or insult the Doomani, a few of his servants, and some aides (most with more actual experience, let alone intelligence, than the garrulous fool Rahvin had had the misfortune of having to listen to), at least one of which had to be a spy for the Intelligence Division, possibly with orders to kill him if he made the wrong move. An unpleasant notion; Rahvin had no intention of dying before he chose, and certainly not at Ishamael’s command. Not that the Emperor wasn’t a worthy enemy. Rahvin relished that conflict every day. But he intended to win it.

The Doomani sun was bright and hot, and extremely uncomfortable, given that Rahvin was decked out in the barbaric splendor the occasion demanded. He wore the ceremonial armor of a High Lord of the Imperium, second in prestige and honor only to the Emperor himself, rich silver inlay dominated by a silver five-armed cross gleaming on his breastplate, black robes hanging around him in the still, dry air. It made for an impressive sight, the tall aristocrat standing tall and proud as he descended the steps to the tarmac, but there was no denying that wearing black armor made the Doomani heat just a hair away from unbearable.

The Doomani had a limousine waiting for him (and some SUVs for his retinue) some distance away, with ranks of soldiers standing at attention in full ceremonial uniform and a recognizable figure standing near the limo’s open door. Rahvin had gone through his briefs thoroughly, and this was Marius, brother of Emperor Maximus and, as Magister Militum Primus, Rahvin’s opposite number during the attempted invasion. Unsurprisingly, his expression of hate and contempt was visible even from many paces away. Unfazed, Rahvin strode towards the limo, his own expression politely neutral. His aristocratic heritage made it difficult for him to ignore Marius’s open hostility, but although the Doomani respected strength, picking a fight with Marius would doom the negotiations to failure and almost certainly result in his death. No, careful neutrality was much better.

The air-conditioned limo was a welcome comfort, and almost as good, there was a box of fine cigars sitting on a shelf near the seats. Rahvin lit one up as Marius got in behind him, and the driver closed the door. The two sat across from each other, Marius lighting and smoking a cigar of his own, glaring at Rahvin as the Kregaian looked amicably back. This awkward atmosphere was relieved somewhat by the spectacles of Urbs Doomanus: massive monuments, elaborate churches, countless testaments to Doomani wealth and military power, not to mention the thousands of Doomani Legionaries that lined the route to Maximus’s palace.

“Your Emperor is insane,” Marius growled abruptly. “He throws seven thousand warships at us, and after tossing a few missiles back and forth he sends you away again. And now he’s asking for a peace deal. The man’s crazy.”

“I can’t speak to Ishamael’s sanity,” Rahvin chuckled, glancing at the massed ranks of Legionaries. “But I can tell you that it’s irrelevant. Lucifer was a schizophrenic sociopath, and he led the Imperium better than anyone else ever has. In fact, the best of our Emperors often tend to suffer from such conditions. I can only assume ruling Kregaia is a job that attracts the insane.”

Other than an angry snort, Marius had nothing to say to that. He glared at Rahvin throughout the journey as the Kregaian helped himself to the whiskey in the limousine’s bar. More specifically, about half the time he threw murderous looks at the five-armed cross on Rahvin’s breastplate, muttering Latin words like “ignominia” and other phrases about disgrace and dishonor. Rahvin inwardly winced. He should have anticipated the insult to Doomani Catholicism that the symbol of the five-armed cross would represent, but he was so accustomed to seeing the image that he had forgotten to consider it might be offensive.

In the end, with the streets along their route cleared of all civilian traffic, it was a rapid trip to Maximus’s palace, a structure that, Rahvin was intrigued to note, rivaled the Imperial Palace back in Korronis for grandeur and sheer massive size. He tossed his cigar into the ashtray, put away his empty whiskey glass, and as the driver opened the door he climbed out and regarded the Doomani palace with a neutral yet regal expression. Glancing back at Marius, who’d gotten out on the other side and was already glaring daggers at him again, he sighed inwardly. Thank the gods he didn’t have to negotiate with that angry bastard. Looking back at Maximus’s palace again, he watched as an honor guard of yet more Legionaries came out to meet him and escort him in. He took a deep breath and relaxed, preparing to enter the sanctum of the government he’d once done his best to destroy. The military tattoos on his body seemed to burn, a feeling he had long ago learned to associate with great undertakings. Time to begin.