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“We’ll raze their damned ships!”
“There’s the matter of supplies as well. By attacking one of their key ports, we not only cripple Elusia’s naval fleet, but cut off their trade route to Solm—”
“Solm. Y’know, this conquest would be easier if they just wiped their hands of Elusia like the rest of the continent. They support the Fell Dragon!” The table shakes with the general’s fist pounding against it, “Why would ANYONE ally with those monsters!?”
“Let’s impose sanctions. A little incentive… for them to back off. Withhold our minerals and weapons from them. The Solm desert is rampant with wild wolves and bandits, from what I hear. See what those Sentinels and mercenaries can do without our support.”
“That would jeopardize our standing with Firene though, wouldn’t it? Firene and Solm have long been allies, and Firene’s king wouldn’t take well to the slight. We’ll need their good favor and resources in the future, and His Benevolent Majesty has already been keeping a tight lid on them.”
“And going against Firene would mean going against the Divine Dragon Queen…”
“Exactly.”
Morion sits tall and silent, positioned at the head of the war council as his ministers and army generals gather to do their usual harrumph-harrumphing .
In thick, muscled arms is held a baby boy, babbling incoherently as he paws at Morion’s chest with fat little hands, chubby face alight with the reddest eyes he’s ever seen (definitely from the wife’s side of the family) and topped with a silly-looking tuft of red hair (definitely from HIS side of the family.)
His little champ. His ace. His diamond… his Diamant.
Brodia’s newly crowned king couldn’t help but offer his silent condolences to the boy—he’d also have to be bored to death by all this yapping in the future.
“Your Majesty! Your thoughts?”
Morion had been cooing something at his baby boy when they finally decide to drag him into the conversation, and the silly grin on his face drops the moment he glances up, grunting. “The point of contention being?”
“Whether or not we should ambush a small port town on the coast of Northern Elusia. A similar tactic as when they raided our own fishing towns years ago—use the harsh waters as cover to attack from the sea, and hit them when they’ve least expected it.”
Morion hums, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. “That raid years ago… barely anyone in that village survived, from what I remember. A true tragedy.” His older brother, Alexand, had been beside himself with anger and grief—he’d been unable to save all those innocent Brodians, and their father was holding off on a retaliatory attack.
“But the Elusians have already stooped to that lowly trick. Wouldn’t they be expecting it?” Morion questions.
“Well, it’s been years, so we figure enough time has passed for their guard to have lowered. Brodia’s naval capacity has never been as strong as Firene or Elusia’s, and the waters in North Elyos are notoriously frigid and harsh. They truly wouldn’t see us coming.”
Diamant pipes up from his place in Morion’s arms, patting his chest with a cute little, ‘bah!’
The king smiles warmly at his son, then closes his eyes in contemplation.
“Hmm…”
“Hah! A fitting catch for you, Brother—a guppy for a guppy.”
Morion, a mere eighteen years of age, gives his older brother a punch in the arm. “Come off it, Alexand! I’m just not on my usual game today.”
Alexand scoffs, “Excuses.”
“Reasons!” Morion fires back. “You know those army training drills are killer. Can’t blame a guy for a little exhaustion.”
“It’s nothing worse than what Father’s put us through. And come now—you run circles around the other recruits. What’s REALLY got you distracted?”
“Wh—”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with that pretty lass who’s been on your arm lately, has it?” Alexand begins a laugh, only to pause with a teasing sort of contemplation. “Well. Maybe not ON your arm. More like twisting it. Girl’s stronger than any other I’ve ever seen. A daughter to one of our allied noble houses, right?”
“Yeah. The same house with the girl Father’s been trying to set you up with.”
“Ahhh…” Alexand leans back, fishing rod gripped firmly in his hands. “Right. Don’t think it’s going to work out, that. Seems you’ve gotten something out of it, though.”
Morion waves a dismissive hand. “It ain’t—it ain’t like that.” The warmth in his chest and red-tinted ears made it clear he wanted it to be, though. “She’s a good sparring partner, is all. Makes visits to that villa less boring. You know I don’t care about all the diplomacy shite. Why sit around and talk about things when you can just DO it?”
Alexand lets out a loud, hearty laugh at that. “Guess that’s why I’m the future king, huh? I get to stop you from running Brodia into the ground.”
“Hey…!”
“You know I jest,” Alexand waves him off, “If it came down to it, I know you’d do right by our people, Morion.”
Morion’s expression softens then, and he knows what his brother isn’t saying.
If it came down to it, Morion would have to do right by their people.
Since the war with Elusia had worsened, the life of a Brodian warrior was one that constantly teetered between life and death. And its kings rarely ever had the chance to step down peacefully.
“...I will. So have more faith, yeah?” He roughly claps Alexand’s shoulder, and the elder brother chuckles.
“Yeah, yeah… now get back to fishing, eh? I ain’t gettin’ any younger—you need to get a good catch before the day’s over! No more guppies.”
Morion bats at him, laughing, “Ahhh, shaddup!”
“What the fuck. What the FUCK?!” The general roars, the slam of his fist against the table thundering throughout the council tent, “How could this—HOW did this…!?”
“The Elusians, they—they ambushed—” A panicked soldier stammers.
“The prince’s back looks like a damned PIN CUSHION, soldier! How the FUCK did this happen?!”
“T-their magic! They melted the snow and caused a smoke screen with the m-mist—”
“Allowing their snipers to be carried in on wyverns, from which they took the shot.” A cooler voice, another soldier much less panicked than the first, interjects. “...Well, shots. The healers are tending to Prince Alexand now, but the prognosis is grave...”
“GOD DAMN IT!”
The general rages, and whatever other shouts and profanities leave him fade into white noise. Morion can only sit silently, eyes locked in a dead, distant stare. The scene plays over and over again in his mind. Alexand, deflecting an enemy’s blade. Alexand, driving his axe into another one’s skull. Alexand, stepping in to defend Morion from a sudden blast of magic.
Then—
Snow kicks up around them, the flurries from the blizzard evaporating into thick mist. One arrow seems to fire out of the ether to strike Alexand in the back. Followed by another. And another. And another—a rain that never seemed to end.
Until it did. And his brother is left lying, arrows protruding from his back, in his own patch of blood red snow.
Distantly, he hears voices. His name. Begging, pleading calls for his input. Alexand is down, he’s in charge now. What is the plan, Prince Morion? Please give the go-ahead. The general needs to hear from you. Brodia’s survival hinges on YOU.
“If it came down to it, I know you’d do right by our people, Morion.”
His jaw clenches. How the hell could he do right by a nation if he couldn’t even protect ONE man?
Morion slowly stands, looking coldly towards the pleading soldier, and then, to the general.
“Do what you need to do. I want to see Elusian heads roll.”
The general, who had seemingly calmed down—how much time had passed?—salutes. He had no issues with that. “Yes, sir.”
Morion grabs his sword and heads back out, ready to lead the charge himself.
No more guppies.
Babies were odd little things.
All fleshy and chubby and helpless, completely prone to their surroundings and the whims of another. It was a state of being Morion found deeply unsettling, for there was rarely a moment in his life where he wasn’t in control of where he wanted to go, or what he wanted to do. What he said, went, and the people around him often had little choice but to accept it for what it was. It was just who he was, but holding the title of King certainly didn’t hurt it.
None of that mattered one wit to little Diamant, though. He drooled, spat up, and tugged at Morion’s beard all he wanted. Didn’t matter what new fearsome title he gained. Mighty king of Brodia, the Demon on the Battlefield, Morion the Conqueror… to this kid, he was just one big ol’ plaything.
The baba—boy didn’t quite have a handle on words, yet—he always greeted with a giggle and smile.
He had the wife’s eye color, but the warmth in them… it reminded him of Alexand.
Would have loved the kid to death.
Diamant babbles something, chubby arm outstretched as if he were reaching for something, and Morion coos. “Aw… what’s that, guppy? You wanna play wyvern again? C’mon,” Grunting, he holds his son at the sides, blowing raspberries into his tummy before lifting him up into the air, “Let’s do a little flyin’—”
“MORION.”
Across the nursery sits his queen, dark hair draped over her shoulder in a long ponytail as she fiddled with a thread and needle. Sewing something for the boy, he figured, though Morion knew full well how much those sort of tasks tried at her patience. “Do not toss our infant son into the air. Again. Or I swear this needle is going between YOUR eyes—”
“Aw, I’ll be careful! You know my aim is great.”
“No, MY aim is great.” She scoffs, “Archery champion, remember? Though something tells me you’re about to get a reminder… anyway, bring Diamant over here. I want to see if this shirt will fit him.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” Morion bounces the giggling little bundle in his hands as he walks over to his wife, and amends his thought from earlier—whatever she said, went, and he had no choice but to accept it for what it was:
A strong, respectable woman putting her foot down. It’s why he fell in love with her, after all.
And that love was why their boy existed.
Enemies and councilors could call him what they wanted. Morion knew he wasn’t a demon. That he wasn’t a monster.
He was a man who failed to protect his brother.
A man who wouldn’t make the same mistake with his wife or son.
His family—his Brodia—would remain safe, no matter the cost.
That would be his "right", Alexand.
“Your Majesty? Your decision?”
Morion opens his eyes to a crowded war room, and a babbling Diamant in his arms. The advisors and generals watched him expectantly, most of them having clearly reached a consensus—it was just a matter of whether or not their king would agree.
Ambushing an Elusian port town was advantageous, but cowardly. A surprise attack gave the citizens little time to evacuate, and casualties would be unavoidable.
But Elusia had done that to them. Slaughtered an entire fishing village, just to get the upper hand in this never ending struggle.
They used tricks to get Alexand like that, too. They tried it with him. And one day…
Morion looks down at his son. His guppy. Diamant was helpless now, but Morion would be sure to forge him into a fine warrior. If he didn’t, those Elusians would eat him alive—gods forbid they get to him now, when he can’t even protect himself.
Gods forbid they take his son .
“Start planning the attack.” Morion’s eyes lift again, resting upon his council, “Those Elusians won’t know what’s coming, and such a critical hit on their resources will slow their attacks, for a while. That Hyacinth’s crafty—he’ll have something else prepared before long.”
Innocents would be lost. Families torn apart. More dead soldiers littering the battlefield. More blood staining the pure white snow. This war has lasted his entire life. Alexand’s. Their father’s. How much would it take? How long would it keep going?
Until he was dead?
Until Diamant was king, or even long after? Hell—the Divine Dragon’s child might even wake up, before it was all over.
This would be the world his son grew up into, and these decisions would be the same he would have to make someday. In the eyes of the continent, Diamant would be stepping into the footsteps of a demon and conqueror.
For that—
(He was sorry.)
He would prepare him for whatever came.
No matter the hardship, or the pain, their cause was worth fighting for. Morion would do anything to protect Brodia. To stop those Fell worshippers, and get his starving people the land they needed.
Still.
There’s a thing to be said about the road to hell, and what it was paved with...