Distinguished Guest
Nov. 7th, 2018 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shinonFandom: FE9-10
Characters: Bastian, Renning; minor Volke
Word count: ~2400
Warnings: Canon-typical discussions of slavery and shady quasi-medical experimentation. Renning's whole situation in Radiant Dawn. Y'know... Tellius stuff.
Notes: For![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
Hyacinthus via ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
trickortreatex. Bastian POV poses some interesting challenges, I gotta say.
Dawn found the fourth Rider of Daein trussed up and lashed to a horse outside Fayre Castle, not that anyone would recognize him. There was some risk that he might be recognized for the man he had been before falling into Ashnard's clutches, but staring into that slack face, Bastian granted this was unlikely. To see no glimmer of Renning in that once-noble visage was a boon, but one with teeth to bite at him.
"I must return to the front, there to assist Her Majesty. But when the assault on Melior ends, whether for good or ill, I will take charge of you." Renning shifted against his bonds and hissed, giving no sign of comprehension. Bastian nodded grimly and led the horse along.
He had employed, in the various capacities of groom, assistant cook, and maid, a few select persons he respected for their strength and taciturnity. To these he said, "The traveler is overwrought, and may offer you injury. I trust you will bear this calmly. He shall not leave the grounds, and he shall not be permitted to come to any harm. Should matters go awry beyond your capabilities to manage, send a courier telling me the orchards have flooded. If you see any unfamiliar person in the castle environs, send a wedding invitation. The paper in the third drawer of my desk is of a quality to pass. Is all understood?" He waited for acknowledgment. He mastered the urge to explain more, or emphasize the gravity of the charge - restraint and obfuscation had long been habit, but sometimes, when emotions ran high, there was still need to watch himself. He watched his own movements as he collected Renning from the stable, and was satisfied with his performance. No sign emotions were high at all.
It had once been expected that this man should be king. Bastian would have been proud to serve him. Now he untied Renning and helped him dismount, noting to send extra consideration to the cleric who had treated "Bertram's" wounds before sending him along. "Forgive me the liberties I take with your person, good sir," he said.
To be handling like a sack of potatoes a man whom you formerly called "Your Grace" - was that a service to be proud of? No matter. He had undertaken worse.
Once Renning struck him, with a hand he'd forgotten how to use as a hand. Other times he remembered exactly what hands were for, and would improvise other weapons and stand with his back to the wall, swinging a chair or a poker or broom handle in a wide arc. Bastian would stand outside his range and speak calmly to him until he subsided, although it wasn't clear that talking did anything. He might have tired out on his own.
Sometimes there was a man behind those eyes, but not often, and not one Bastian recognized. Those days were peaceful, but it was on those days that he most despaired of success. He would engage the man in games of strategy, as they had done before in times of idleness - and he would be unable to get into his opponent's head at all. Was the old Renning truly gone? What was to be done, if the duke was made whole again, but a different whole than before he was broken?
"You will be proud of your niece," he said during one of these games, trying to assess whether Renning remembered having a niece. The games themselves had been meant to tell him how severely the man's intellect was affected, as well as his impulse control. "She is as brave and as capable a scion as any could wish, and moreover" - he paused to capture two more of Renning's pieces - "she surrounds herself with capable people, who diligently pursue your family's best interests." He spoke of "your family" when he meant "Crimea," among other assorted code words and euphemisms, always hoping Renning would see through them. But in this case, the statement was also true in itself. "We are also appealingly modest," he said, with the customary affected laugh.
He waited for Renning to make a move. No move was forthcoming. He waited in silence to the count of fifty, watching Renning's face, before he resigned himself to the fact. The moment was gone; Renning's mind had fled again. Bastian turned the board around with a sigh and played the rest of the game against himself.
An exchange of ciphered letters by a dead drop in Flaguerre eventually brought him word of a useful priest. The household celebrant for a mid-sized noble family in Begnion, the man had belatedly developed a conscience and no longer wished to continue repairing the house's laguz slaves for further abuse. Bastian had him smuggled upriver into Crimea.
Daein under the Mad King had not been a hotbed of innovation. Whatever methods or devices had been used on Renning more likely had their origins in the Empire.
Lightly disguised, and with the better part of his vocabulary stowed away where it wouldn't betray him, Bastian met the priest in the private room of a tea shop (Volke had recommended this one for the purpose; Bastian had made a note and subtly implied he already knew about it). They made small talk about the priest's passage and his plans for life in Crimea, enough to get an idea of the man's character. Once satisfied, Bastian proceeded to business. "Now, are you aware of any others in Begnion who share your sentiments?" He raised a hand to forestall the immediate reply. "You needn't name them to me. Our mutual friend will help you to convey any letters to them you may wish. Ask them what they need - resources, organizational support -"
"To sabotage the lesser houses?" The priest frowned. "Crimea and Begnion are at peace."
Ostensibly. The rapacious Senate was never at peace with anything. "Am I Crimea, here in person? No, my friend. Some elements here are motivated by the same scruples that drove you to the foothills. We wish an end to that cruel institution."
Of course, Bastian's current garb suggested "prosperous merchant," implying "stands to prosper yet more if Begnion competition is hampered." The priest would read this motivation into his actions, feel mild to moderate contempt, and ask no further questions. This fictitious Bastian was on the side of justice for sordid and petty reasons, which were the most believable reasons of all.
"I'll write some letters."
"I am overjoyed." A pause. "Perhaps you can sate my curiosity on another question. Are any tricks or devices used to overcome the laguz's willpower? I need no details - if such secrets exist, they are better lost. I merely wonder if any supply lines may be cut."
"There are... potions."
"Say on."
"The - the recipient becomes disoriented, and more suggestible. Commands given while they remain in that state may be carried out for months afterward. I don't know how it's compounded."
Bastian rubbed at his chin. "I see. Does it pose any threat to beorc? Were a party of beorc mercenaries to intercept a shipment, should they need any precautions?"
"I've never seen it used on a hu - beorc."
"I see. Well. Idle curiosity only."
Renning's minders said he was calmer in Bastian's presence, so Bastian read Volke's report in the guest chamber. Today the duke sat listless in an armchair, staring blankly in his direction. This was "calmer."
The sedative used in Begnion was a formula generations old and closely guarded. Its compounding was partly magical, but physical components included a fungus harvested from trees on the Crimea-Gallia border. Bastian drafted a letter to be sent to border towns establishing a reward for collection of these mushrooms, which must then be burnt at a safe remove from any beorc or laguz habitation. The wealthy of Begnion no doubt had a stockpile, but this should at least needle them.
Accounts told that the drug had been tried on beorc prisoners of war, and they had displayed similar mental and behavioral changes to those seen in Renning, lasting months or years in proportion to the dose administered. But physical strength had been sapped as well; they had not the power or the coordination to be used for manual labor or in battle. Bastian had watched "Bertram" fight. This was not the same formula.
"I... know you," said a rusty voice. Bastian snapped his gaze on Renning. "I know you. You... help me."
This had happened before, and had never led to any sustained improvement. Bastian rationed his hope: this warranted only an infinitesimal speck. "Methinks you flatter me, good sir. This year and more, I've gathered but a handful of gauzy threads. All the while you wax and wane, independent of my influence." Then he shook his head, smiling. "Somber thoughts with which to burden my distinguished guest. Pray pardon my maundering." He leaned forward, looking Renning squarely in the eye. "What else can you remember?"
"Ramon," Renning wheezed. "Elin...cia."
"Yes." Bastian's pulse had quickened. "By your efforts, Her Majesty escaped that first attempt on her life. She has weathered many others. She lives still, and rules as Queen. Perchance you saw her on a white steed, leading her army." Against you, he thought, but no sense bringing that up.
Renning fell silent. Bastian knew that thoughtful expression of old. "Months or years," the report said; it had been nearly two years. Perhaps the drug wore off. Perhaps - no, that was profligate optimism. Still Bastian crossed to Renning's chair, knelt before him, and took hold of his hand. "You remember her. What else?"
Silence.
Renning's hand was cold. Bastian looked down. He had given instructions that his guest's nails should be trimmed closer than this. Someone could come to harm.
The man said, in a voice recognizably Renning's, words that were not. "Who was I?"
"You were a good man, and strong. You are one still." Bastian looked up again. The eyes had gone distant. "Endure a little longer."
Whenever he was obliged to travel now, Bastian read treatises on healing magic in the carriage. He discovered little that could address mental or spiritual injury. At least he gained a rudimentary understanding of the use of staves, so that there was no longer need for anyone else to know when Renning hurt himself.
The formula for the sedative had been taken out of Begnion by a defrocked scholar named Izuka. King Ashnard's gladiatorial games needed more bodies, and Izuka had gone to Nevassa promising to deliver them. The story came in bits and pieces from Daeins who had once worked in the colosseum - Bastian had paid off a captain in Begnion's occupying army to shift some priorities, and thereby passed the burden of investigation on to her. Some laguz, when arising from the drugged stupor, had been violent. Izuka had, through successive modifications to the process, amplified this tendency. The drug numbed their reason and shattered inhibitions, and once the sluggishness wore off, they would be turned out into the arena and fight until they dropped.
The Mad King had been delighted. One former attendant reported that he'd asked Izuka to try it "on real people," but could not recall what Izuka had replied, and had never heard anything more on the subject.
"Refresh my memory, dear Volke. What are your rates for a swift and judicious kidnapping?"
"This man Izuka is near the heart of the liberation movement."
"Too difficult to abstract, say you?"
"No, just expensive."
Bastian considered angles. "We bide a short while. Daein's future is in flux. A better opportunity may yet come."
Renning was aware of Izuka's presence. Even before the signal indicating the prisoner's arrival, he was pacing the chambers, scenting the air like a hound, his eyes wild.
"Calm yourself," said Bastian. "This evil is as necessary as it will be brief."
He had attempted other treatments while waiting for Volke to capture Izuka, and should this endeavor end differently than he hoped, a few options yet remained. But ideally, Izuka would confirm from his own lips that Bertram had been created with the same drug that created the Feral Ones, identify anyone else who knew the formula or any place it was recorded, and die the death he deserved. If it was the same drug, the fate of the late Prince Rajaion pointed to a simple reversal. The Serenes royal family remained friendly to Elincia, and would likely grant this small favor. It would only be a matter of bringing them to Renning, or conveying him to them, with appropriate timing and discretion. It could be done.
"Blood," said Renning. "I will... have his blood."
"He will pay. Be assured of that. But for you to personally dismember him is neither needful nor proper. The time is not right."
"He broke me. Took me... from myself. I want to see his insides."
"Duke Renning" - so long since he had spoken that name here - "you must try to remember yourself. Izuka is a villain, and I promise you he will die. But these are not the words of the man I -"
Renning swung an arm. His fingernails ripped into Bastian's cheek. "He's here. I smell him. You would keep me - keep me from -" He lunged forward, but Bastian caught his arms.
"I would keep you from doing what you will be ashamed of. Have I ever failed you yet?" Renning thrashed. His heated breath rasped in Bastian's ear. Bastian held firm. "Please, place your faith in me a little longer. Even if you can't remember why. All of this I will mend."
Renning could have overpowered him with ease, had he been resolved. He was, evidently, not. At length he subsided, and allowed himself to be guided back to a chair. "That man. Take him from me."
"He will never trouble you more. I commend your restraint."
He had miscalculated, trying to house them both in Fayre. Izuka would have to be moved to another secure location until he had given up all the information that could be wrung from him. Bastian considered his options as he descended, stair after stair, to the holding cells.
Then there he stood, facing through the grate a bent, liver-spotted creature still railing at his rough handling. "They tell me you're Izuka." Twin rills of blood ran down his cheekbone and into his beard. "We have much to discuss."
Outside, without his knowledge, the world turned to stone.
Characters: Bastian, Renning; minor Volke
Word count: ~2400
Warnings: Canon-typical discussions of slavery and shady quasi-medical experimentation. Renning's whole situation in Radiant Dawn. Y'know... Tellius stuff.
Notes: For
trickortreatex. Bastian POV poses some interesting challenges, I gotta say.Dawn found the fourth Rider of Daein trussed up and lashed to a horse outside Fayre Castle, not that anyone would recognize him. There was some risk that he might be recognized for the man he had been before falling into Ashnard's clutches, but staring into that slack face, Bastian granted this was unlikely. To see no glimmer of Renning in that once-noble visage was a boon, but one with teeth to bite at him.
"I must return to the front, there to assist Her Majesty. But when the assault on Melior ends, whether for good or ill, I will take charge of you." Renning shifted against his bonds and hissed, giving no sign of comprehension. Bastian nodded grimly and led the horse along.
He had employed, in the various capacities of groom, assistant cook, and maid, a few select persons he respected for their strength and taciturnity. To these he said, "The traveler is overwrought, and may offer you injury. I trust you will bear this calmly. He shall not leave the grounds, and he shall not be permitted to come to any harm. Should matters go awry beyond your capabilities to manage, send a courier telling me the orchards have flooded. If you see any unfamiliar person in the castle environs, send a wedding invitation. The paper in the third drawer of my desk is of a quality to pass. Is all understood?" He waited for acknowledgment. He mastered the urge to explain more, or emphasize the gravity of the charge - restraint and obfuscation had long been habit, but sometimes, when emotions ran high, there was still need to watch himself. He watched his own movements as he collected Renning from the stable, and was satisfied with his performance. No sign emotions were high at all.
It had once been expected that this man should be king. Bastian would have been proud to serve him. Now he untied Renning and helped him dismount, noting to send extra consideration to the cleric who had treated "Bertram's" wounds before sending him along. "Forgive me the liberties I take with your person, good sir," he said.
To be handling like a sack of potatoes a man whom you formerly called "Your Grace" - was that a service to be proud of? No matter. He had undertaken worse.
Once Renning struck him, with a hand he'd forgotten how to use as a hand. Other times he remembered exactly what hands were for, and would improvise other weapons and stand with his back to the wall, swinging a chair or a poker or broom handle in a wide arc. Bastian would stand outside his range and speak calmly to him until he subsided, although it wasn't clear that talking did anything. He might have tired out on his own.
Sometimes there was a man behind those eyes, but not often, and not one Bastian recognized. Those days were peaceful, but it was on those days that he most despaired of success. He would engage the man in games of strategy, as they had done before in times of idleness - and he would be unable to get into his opponent's head at all. Was the old Renning truly gone? What was to be done, if the duke was made whole again, but a different whole than before he was broken?
"You will be proud of your niece," he said during one of these games, trying to assess whether Renning remembered having a niece. The games themselves had been meant to tell him how severely the man's intellect was affected, as well as his impulse control. "She is as brave and as capable a scion as any could wish, and moreover" - he paused to capture two more of Renning's pieces - "she surrounds herself with capable people, who diligently pursue your family's best interests." He spoke of "your family" when he meant "Crimea," among other assorted code words and euphemisms, always hoping Renning would see through them. But in this case, the statement was also true in itself. "We are also appealingly modest," he said, with the customary affected laugh.
He waited for Renning to make a move. No move was forthcoming. He waited in silence to the count of fifty, watching Renning's face, before he resigned himself to the fact. The moment was gone; Renning's mind had fled again. Bastian turned the board around with a sigh and played the rest of the game against himself.
An exchange of ciphered letters by a dead drop in Flaguerre eventually brought him word of a useful priest. The household celebrant for a mid-sized noble family in Begnion, the man had belatedly developed a conscience and no longer wished to continue repairing the house's laguz slaves for further abuse. Bastian had him smuggled upriver into Crimea.
Daein under the Mad King had not been a hotbed of innovation. Whatever methods or devices had been used on Renning more likely had their origins in the Empire.
Lightly disguised, and with the better part of his vocabulary stowed away where it wouldn't betray him, Bastian met the priest in the private room of a tea shop (Volke had recommended this one for the purpose; Bastian had made a note and subtly implied he already knew about it). They made small talk about the priest's passage and his plans for life in Crimea, enough to get an idea of the man's character. Once satisfied, Bastian proceeded to business. "Now, are you aware of any others in Begnion who share your sentiments?" He raised a hand to forestall the immediate reply. "You needn't name them to me. Our mutual friend will help you to convey any letters to them you may wish. Ask them what they need - resources, organizational support -"
"To sabotage the lesser houses?" The priest frowned. "Crimea and Begnion are at peace."
Ostensibly. The rapacious Senate was never at peace with anything. "Am I Crimea, here in person? No, my friend. Some elements here are motivated by the same scruples that drove you to the foothills. We wish an end to that cruel institution."
Of course, Bastian's current garb suggested "prosperous merchant," implying "stands to prosper yet more if Begnion competition is hampered." The priest would read this motivation into his actions, feel mild to moderate contempt, and ask no further questions. This fictitious Bastian was on the side of justice for sordid and petty reasons, which were the most believable reasons of all.
"I'll write some letters."
"I am overjoyed." A pause. "Perhaps you can sate my curiosity on another question. Are any tricks or devices used to overcome the laguz's willpower? I need no details - if such secrets exist, they are better lost. I merely wonder if any supply lines may be cut."
"There are... potions."
"Say on."
"The - the recipient becomes disoriented, and more suggestible. Commands given while they remain in that state may be carried out for months afterward. I don't know how it's compounded."
Bastian rubbed at his chin. "I see. Does it pose any threat to beorc? Were a party of beorc mercenaries to intercept a shipment, should they need any precautions?"
"I've never seen it used on a hu - beorc."
"I see. Well. Idle curiosity only."
Renning's minders said he was calmer in Bastian's presence, so Bastian read Volke's report in the guest chamber. Today the duke sat listless in an armchair, staring blankly in his direction. This was "calmer."
The sedative used in Begnion was a formula generations old and closely guarded. Its compounding was partly magical, but physical components included a fungus harvested from trees on the Crimea-Gallia border. Bastian drafted a letter to be sent to border towns establishing a reward for collection of these mushrooms, which must then be burnt at a safe remove from any beorc or laguz habitation. The wealthy of Begnion no doubt had a stockpile, but this should at least needle them.
Accounts told that the drug had been tried on beorc prisoners of war, and they had displayed similar mental and behavioral changes to those seen in Renning, lasting months or years in proportion to the dose administered. But physical strength had been sapped as well; they had not the power or the coordination to be used for manual labor or in battle. Bastian had watched "Bertram" fight. This was not the same formula.
"I... know you," said a rusty voice. Bastian snapped his gaze on Renning. "I know you. You... help me."
This had happened before, and had never led to any sustained improvement. Bastian rationed his hope: this warranted only an infinitesimal speck. "Methinks you flatter me, good sir. This year and more, I've gathered but a handful of gauzy threads. All the while you wax and wane, independent of my influence." Then he shook his head, smiling. "Somber thoughts with which to burden my distinguished guest. Pray pardon my maundering." He leaned forward, looking Renning squarely in the eye. "What else can you remember?"
"Ramon," Renning wheezed. "Elin...cia."
"Yes." Bastian's pulse had quickened. "By your efforts, Her Majesty escaped that first attempt on her life. She has weathered many others. She lives still, and rules as Queen. Perchance you saw her on a white steed, leading her army." Against you, he thought, but no sense bringing that up.
Renning fell silent. Bastian knew that thoughtful expression of old. "Months or years," the report said; it had been nearly two years. Perhaps the drug wore off. Perhaps - no, that was profligate optimism. Still Bastian crossed to Renning's chair, knelt before him, and took hold of his hand. "You remember her. What else?"
Silence.
Renning's hand was cold. Bastian looked down. He had given instructions that his guest's nails should be trimmed closer than this. Someone could come to harm.
The man said, in a voice recognizably Renning's, words that were not. "Who was I?"
"You were a good man, and strong. You are one still." Bastian looked up again. The eyes had gone distant. "Endure a little longer."
Whenever he was obliged to travel now, Bastian read treatises on healing magic in the carriage. He discovered little that could address mental or spiritual injury. At least he gained a rudimentary understanding of the use of staves, so that there was no longer need for anyone else to know when Renning hurt himself.
The formula for the sedative had been taken out of Begnion by a defrocked scholar named Izuka. King Ashnard's gladiatorial games needed more bodies, and Izuka had gone to Nevassa promising to deliver them. The story came in bits and pieces from Daeins who had once worked in the colosseum - Bastian had paid off a captain in Begnion's occupying army to shift some priorities, and thereby passed the burden of investigation on to her. Some laguz, when arising from the drugged stupor, had been violent. Izuka had, through successive modifications to the process, amplified this tendency. The drug numbed their reason and shattered inhibitions, and once the sluggishness wore off, they would be turned out into the arena and fight until they dropped.
The Mad King had been delighted. One former attendant reported that he'd asked Izuka to try it "on real people," but could not recall what Izuka had replied, and had never heard anything more on the subject.
"Refresh my memory, dear Volke. What are your rates for a swift and judicious kidnapping?"
"This man Izuka is near the heart of the liberation movement."
"Too difficult to abstract, say you?"
"No, just expensive."
Bastian considered angles. "We bide a short while. Daein's future is in flux. A better opportunity may yet come."
Renning was aware of Izuka's presence. Even before the signal indicating the prisoner's arrival, he was pacing the chambers, scenting the air like a hound, his eyes wild.
"Calm yourself," said Bastian. "This evil is as necessary as it will be brief."
He had attempted other treatments while waiting for Volke to capture Izuka, and should this endeavor end differently than he hoped, a few options yet remained. But ideally, Izuka would confirm from his own lips that Bertram had been created with the same drug that created the Feral Ones, identify anyone else who knew the formula or any place it was recorded, and die the death he deserved. If it was the same drug, the fate of the late Prince Rajaion pointed to a simple reversal. The Serenes royal family remained friendly to Elincia, and would likely grant this small favor. It would only be a matter of bringing them to Renning, or conveying him to them, with appropriate timing and discretion. It could be done.
"Blood," said Renning. "I will... have his blood."
"He will pay. Be assured of that. But for you to personally dismember him is neither needful nor proper. The time is not right."
"He broke me. Took me... from myself. I want to see his insides."
"Duke Renning" - so long since he had spoken that name here - "you must try to remember yourself. Izuka is a villain, and I promise you he will die. But these are not the words of the man I -"
Renning swung an arm. His fingernails ripped into Bastian's cheek. "He's here. I smell him. You would keep me - keep me from -" He lunged forward, but Bastian caught his arms.
"I would keep you from doing what you will be ashamed of. Have I ever failed you yet?" Renning thrashed. His heated breath rasped in Bastian's ear. Bastian held firm. "Please, place your faith in me a little longer. Even if you can't remember why. All of this I will mend."
Renning could have overpowered him with ease, had he been resolved. He was, evidently, not. At length he subsided, and allowed himself to be guided back to a chair. "That man. Take him from me."
"He will never trouble you more. I commend your restraint."
He had miscalculated, trying to house them both in Fayre. Izuka would have to be moved to another secure location until he had given up all the information that could be wrung from him. Bastian considered his options as he descended, stair after stair, to the holding cells.
Then there he stood, facing through the grate a bent, liver-spotted creature still railing at his rough handling. "They tell me you're Izuka." Twin rills of blood ran down his cheekbone and into his beard. "We have much to discuss."
Outside, without his knowledge, the world turned to stone.
no subject
Date: 2022-07-05 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-07-07 02:47 pm (UTC)Bastian and Renning are another situation where I'm like "I get why many people wouldn't want to tackle something this weird and somber in fanwork, especially because canon doesn't give a lot to go on. BUT ALSO WHY ISN'T THERE MORE FANWORK FOR ME PERSONALLY TO LOOK AT"