By Narsus
Not half as much angst as I intended and farcical comedy thrown in just for fun. Shounen-ai? Depends on how you read it.
It’s amazing what waking up to find you’ve actually managed to paint your nails scarlet the night before will do, coupled with a mug of camomile tea… followed by lots of toast.
Night has already dissipated into early dawn, it’s bloody colours leaking across the stone battlements of Peshawar, picking out the magnificent outline of Mount Devermant in the northern horizon.
Narsus stands along on a section of deserted battlements, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon. It would be easy to suggest that the Prince’s strategist is contemplating the events that have brought them back to Peshawar once again but this is not so. He closes his eyes briefly and breaths out a sigh that is barely a breath. Lips part but no sounds issues forth, the word not spoken is almost a plea, “Father”. Narsus tilts his face upwards, quickly blinking back tears. Remembering is not easy, each memory holds it’s own joy and sadness. The sweet memories of the past and the sharp pain of that which is no longer.
There is a disturbance along the stretch of silence, of booted feet and the clank of scabbard against armour. Daryoon huffs out his breath into the cold morning air, pausing to stare moodily at the battle preparations in the courtyard below. Narsus regards him with an air of amusement.
“Good Morning.”
“If you say so.”
“Something wrong?”
“They’re too complacent, almost untrained…” Daryoon trails off, grinding his teeth for effect.
“They are complacent and I’m sure some of them have never seen real battle before.” A shrug. “You forget that we lost many good men at Atropertain.”
“My uncle…”
Narsus puts a sympathetic hand on Daryoon’s shoulder. The warrior turns to look him directly in the eyes.
“He was a good soldier… the best there was but…”
“He died. They all die in the end.”
“You say it so casually!”
“It’s true!”
“How can you…”
“The truth is never pleasant, Daryoon. My father was a good soldier too, one of the best, a warrior among warriors, blessed by the Gods some said.”
Daryoon is silent, there is really nothing to say in answer. After Lord Teosu died there was nothing to say, so how can there be anything new now. What to say to the son who adored his father, who held him up as the ideal of what all men should be, anyway.
They regard each other in the silence, then Narsus laughs.
“Death comes to us all eventually, it’s just a matter of how, and I have to admit that I’d rather know that I’ve accomplished something in this life when she finally calls me.”
“You’ve done a lot so far.”
“Ah…. But I’m not Imperial Artist yet though, am I!”
Daryoon begins to laugh too.
Like father, like son… they remembered Teosu for his laughter too.
Later in the day Daryoon finds Narsus in a jovial mood, spinning out some story in the map room that has Elam in hysterics.
“… so they believe that if they stop running then the world will stop!”
“That can’t be true, Master!”
“Oh, but it is.”
Elam continues to giggle, while Narsus remains perfectly composed. After Elam is dispatched on some errand Daryoon is left in the map room with Narsus. The strategist smiles and sips his wine.
“You’re in a better mood now.” Daryoon again wonders at himself for stating the obvious.
“I’ve eaten.”
Daryoon looks confused.
“It’s a trait I picked up from my father. We’re abominable until we’ve had breakfast, or at least my father was, I just get depressed.”
Daryoon laughs but even as he does he wonders at the darkness that Narsus is hiding.
From a father who was in fact one of the most tragic figures at court, always known for smiles and laughter, his son learnt to be the same. To always hide the pain, the loneliness behind a mask with a painted smile.
“And what’s really wrong?” Daryoon asks suddenly.
“I’m tired.” The equally unexpected reply. “Tired of this war, tired of the retched posturing of the nobles, tired of the lists of the dead that no one bothers to name! Tired of being congratulated when people die, when things are destroyed! Tired of being wonderful, brilliant Narsus! Narsus the murderer, the politician, the bureaucrat!”
The final statement is punctuated with an almost theatrical flinging of arms up into the air.
“Anything else?”
“The fish the kitchens dredge up, I really can’t stomach it.”
“There’s a quiet little tavern close by…”
As Daryoon turns to leave Narsus stops him.
“Thank you.”
A shrug, “I’m just sorry that it’s the only think I can fix.”
“What? I don’t understand…”
“The fish.”
“That’s not what I’m thanking you for.”
“What then?” Daryoon is once again puzzled.
“For listening to my rants, for not walking away, for just putting up with me in general.”
“Narsus…”
“No one else would do it. No one else would bother to care.”
Once again Daryoon is surprised as Narsus quickly turns away, pretending that he hasn’t just said what he has said, but he’s used to this now. It’s how Narsus has always protected himself, pretending that nothing affects him, that nothing can make him cry but Daryoon knows the truth now, that Pulsar’s most efficient of strategists has a heart that would be easily broken.
Later that evening, Daryoon rubs his aching head, suspecting that he’s already drunk too much. At his side Narsus lounges against him, which is odd since Daryoon is convinced that Narsus started the meal on the other side of the table. The strategist’s long hair is untied, brushing against Daryoon’s arms, which have unaccountably come to encircle Narsus’ waist. As Narsus makes another grand gesture with his wine glass, Daryoon marvels at the fact that Narsus manages not to spill the contents of the glass. He concludes that perhaps they are both drunk and proceeds to share the point.
“We’re drunk, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
“I mean, we’ve drunk an awful lot.”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Oh? Then how do you explain this?” Daryoon gestures to himself.
“I really wouldn’t like to say.”
“Narsus!”
“I mean, it’s looking like, well, um…”
“What?”
“It’s really looking like…”
“What?!”
“You can’t hold your drink!”
“WHAT?!”
“You know, you’re a light weight, a tea-totaler, one of THEM.”
“THEM?”
“I think you generally call them ‘fagots’ in the military.”
“I AM NOT A FAG-“
Narsus quickly put his hand over Daryoon’s mouth before he could shout his intentions to the rest of the tavern’s patrons.
“I’m so sorry everyone. It would appear that my friend has had too much to drink.”
There was a muffled ‘mumph’ from Daryoon.
“And we’ll be leaving now. Thank you for a most pleasant evening.” This to the innkeeper.
The next morning already sat at his place for the morning briefing Daryoon was nursing a mug of tea and a steady, pounding hang-over. The other commanders steered clear of the scowling General, choosing not to comment on the mug of sweet smelling tea in front of him. Several of them had entered before Narsus arrived. He entered quietly and enquired after Daryoon’s health.
“Don’t worry the headache will clear by lunch time.”
“You.” Began Daryoon, waving an accusing finger.
“Yes?”
“You.” With more finger waving.
“Yes? Oh, by the way last night was fun.” Narsus said with a bright smile.
Several of the commanders looked at the pair warily.
“You called me a fagot!”
There was a commotion at the other end of the room, where Prince Arslan entered just in time to hear Narsus’ reply to Daryoon, “Oh, get over it, darling.”
The commanders were relatively silent during that morning’s meeting, though whether it was due to the deadly glares of the Black Knight or the charming and frequent smiles of the strategist was open to debate.
OK, on a technical note, Daryoon is drinking Earl Grey at the morning meeting and the ‘running’ story that has Elam in hysterics was a little story made up for the amusement of a Burmese cousin, about the Pentagon in America being a giant racetrack! It was funny at the time.
Also it would appear that I’m in non-angst mode. Oh, well…
- Narsus (23/10/01)