My Enemy, My King

Posted on Wed Aug 21st, 2013 @ 7:26am by Morgo Le'Shaad & Daneel Dreyfus & Egon Jotunnson II
Edited on on Wed Aug 21st, 2013 @ 12:44pm

8,069 words; about a 40 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Palace Hall, Zkovos Isle, Dromache
Timeline: 1,202 ABY ; 15 years ago

15 years ago on Dromache...


Above, the ceiling arched high overhead, evocative of the more ancient structures on the Zkovos Isle, like the Royal Court House or the old arena. Upon it, painted in golds, warm peaches and faded blues were scenes of the great battles of their history—and the great peace talks. Large pillars of white stone ran the length of the hall, stopping at the end where the seat of the Jotunnson was placed upon steps—different than the seat the Grandsire sat upon in the throne room, but equally glorious in its own way. Capping the entire area above the Grandsire’s seat was a coffered dome with a single glass oculus allowing the sun to shine upon the seats of the Royal of family before their table. Today however, there was no sun. Only the blinding white of the raging blizzard in the dead of night.

And at the center of the hall upon its ceiling hung a fearsome chandelier of monstrous size, beautiful and elegant all at once, running the entire length of the hall’s ceiling, snaking and intertwining like vines upon it. Like a representation of the sun, tendrils of gold crept in tentacle like masses along the ceiling itself, reaching out and below. From within it, a warm illumination suffused the entire room with bright light, and at the tip of every tendril, some dropping high, some curling low, was a glittering light of its own, like a diamond. In its entirety the chandelier looked like a massive orb of radiant gold and white, the scintillating tips of every outreaching tendril giving the illusion of movement, winking like night stars, its roots spreading across the room—dripping light.

There wasn’t hall of its like anywhere on the planet. Or the Core for that matter.

Sumptuous silks and satin of every jewel tone and shade rustled over the marbled floor, a barely noticeable noise in the grand hall amidst the chatter of hundreds and the feast's music.


But Morgo could hear it. She could hear most anything now that everyone and everything had stopped to stare at her, a girl standing tall before the towering, carved doors—so heavy and large it took sophisticated machinery to open and close the colossal doorway.


"Her Grace,” the herald’s voice had rang out like a well-rung bell, “The Duchess of the Abysstone Isle in her father's absence—the Lady Morgo Le'Shaad!"

Without a single hitch, the herald had declared her. And Morgo was impressed. No one had expected her to attend, least of all the herald, who was knew all the faces of all the major Houses by heart. The shock that had been apparent on his face upon seeing her had been quickly covered up with his usual blank expression as he had turned to announce her.

Already on her way to womanhood at the tender age of 12, Morgo was a vision in white—luxe furs draping across her shoulders, dripping to the floors behind her, styled just so that it left the pale expanse of her neck and shoulders exposed. The illusion of vulnerability it gave was quite useful, Morgo had found, in getting many to underestimate her.

Fair hair woven into a complex bun behind her head, silver drops hung from her earlobes, glittering gently like the first of Winter's snows. And upon her forehead hung a simple tikka, a dark sapphire set in its center, drawing attention to her shapely brow and pale eyes.

And like the winter now settling on Dromache, Morgo could practically feel the hall's temperature drop a few degrees as a tall, thin figure emerged from the doors, coming to stand so close behind her that she could feel winter's chill still clinging to the surface of his clothes.

He had made haste to follow her then, through the raging blizzard.

His long shadow falling over her, Morgo did not stiffen. She had more control than that.

Now that they were in public, he refrained from touching her—and Morgo was infinitely grateful for it. Stifling a reaction then would be much more difficult.

Morgo didn't know if she could stomach being touched by him for one more second.

"Father." Morgo acknowledged emptily, not bothering to turn around.

"Daughter." He returned, tone clipped as he surveyed the room with detached interest, his voice a low, dry rumble she could feel vibrate her backside.

The herald's eyes didn't widen upon recognizing her father as the Duke. He had more decorum than that. But Morgo could tell that he had wanted to react. Her father hadn't been an expected guest either. Now wasn't this evening just full of surprises?

"And...and..." The announcer began, voice returning to its loud volume, "His Grace, The Lord Acheron Le'Shaad, Duke of the Abysstone Isle—returned from off-planet!"

There was a ripple of murmurs in the room that spread from the two of them like earth tremors from its epicenter, before dying down again.

Not batting a lash, Morgo tilted her small head, looking to her side form the corner of her eyes "You're early." said Morgo as both father and daughter stared down the masses of the hall, daring them to utter a word of unwelcome with identical, icy grey eyes.

None did, subverting their gazes.

For though House Le’Shaad was respected and feared as much as the ruling House Jotunnson, the reasons why were vastly different. House Jotunnson, a valorous and honorable family of warrior scholars, commanded the fear and respect of Dromache because they did everything in their admittedly immense power to protect and safeguard their beloved planet…and because the entirety of the Jotunn North and her armies stood behind the Grandsire and the Grandsire alone.

House Le’Shaad on the other hand, had the fear and respect of Dromache because they simply demanded it. With a history and reputation like theirs, there was little doubt that House Le’Shaad could achieve most anything they put their minds to.

Risen from the ashes of a dishonored clan, a slaughtered patriarch and a home-turned-penal colony for Dromache, ‘The Le’Shaad’ were once the outcasts of society, nothing more than a community of criminals, thrown together in the abyss, condemned to lives of exile by good society.

But society had forgotten that the mind of a criminal could be infinitely more brilliant than that of a scholar. Certainly more brilliant than that of a warrior.

And so ‘The Le’Shaad’ , as they had been branded, bound together by their shared fate and boundless ambition, studied their betters and learned the game. And found a new way to rise against they who had condemned them. By becoming a legitimate source of power, unable to be denied nor ignored.

And if the Le’Shaad had risen to power and legitimacy and wealth through means that were criminal in nature, well…nobody has quite been able to prove it.

Taking on the name Le’Shaad as the name of their house, proudly wearing what was once shameful as a badge of honor, in time, the name became synonymous with all things shadowy, illicit, and ruthless.

With most eyes satisfactorily averted in the meantime, the large hall more or less returned to the way it had been before young Morgo had so suddenly disturbed them by entering the room.

"I did not expect you until tomorrow." continued Morgo, her voice high as all little girls’ were. Yet in hers was a sharpness seldom found in even adults.

"Which is precisely why I returned today." Said Acheron tersely in a low tone, "To stop whatever foolhardy plan you are no doubt going to enact."

At that, Morgo sneered, a cruel thing to see on a child’s face, “You can’t stop me, father.” She chuckled darkly.

Bony hand coming up to grasp her small shoulder, her father’s voice was cold stone, “I can and I will.” He ground out as his grip on her shoulder tightened into a vise-like hold, “Your mother contacted me, telling me what you did.”

Not even reacting to the pain of her father’s grasp, Morgo had the gall to sound bored, “And what have I done, father?” She asked lightly, with such deliberate innocence it was clear her tone was artificial.

“Sent 4,047 of our men into battle for the Grandsire!” He hissed in dangerous, low voice, “Have you forgotten, fool girl, that the Jotunnson is our enemy?”

“You do me an injustice, Father. I have not forgotten.”

“Then why have you sent aid to the Grandsire?” Acheron asked with something edging on impatience in his voice, speaking like he spoke to a soft-headed moron.

“Because.” said Morgo, for the first time an edge creeping into her voice, “Unlike you, father, I have thought of the future. In no less than 2 years, the Grandsire will have the grounds to petition for your Renouncement , which House Jotunnson has been dying to do since the beginning of time. In 2 years, your research into midi-chlorians will have not advanced far enough to save this family from utter disgrace. I’d rather not give the Grandsire more grounds to remove us from the High Court at the moment.” And pausing, Morgo exhaled haughtily, “Do you follow my line of thought? Or have I lost you behind that foggy wall of House rivalry hardwired into your brain?”

Acheron’s only reaction to Morgo’s words was a minute flaring of his nostrils. Morgo took his silence as victory.

“If 2 years is to be the time in which our great House falls, then 2 years I will give it. No sooner will I allow the Grandsire to touch this family.” Morgo declared to her father, giving no quarter.

And wrenching herself from his iron grip (and there would surely be bruises), Morgo turned to face her father for the first time in weeks, meeting his steely eyes with her own hard gaze. It was a little like looking into the mirror. Two immovable objects clashing.

Wearing the deep blue to her white, father and daughter both wore the colors of their house. His outer robe tailored out of smooth velvet, it clung to his thin frame like a second skin, cinched at the waist with a silver belt. Beneath the richly embroidered robes was a high collared silver tunic and black leather trousers, tucked into expensive polished boots—the entire ensemble most likely costing more than most people made in 5 years of wages.

He was a slender man with thin lips and a beak like nose, standing like a skeleton over Morgo. The only one in court who could rival the Grandsire’s height, Acheron was an imposing and frightening man, not for his fighting skills or battle prowess, but because he simply oozed menace like an aura—threatening without an uttered word. Mouth forever tilted downwards in a thin frown, Acheron was a man who seldom smiled. And when he did, it was a grim thing to behold.

Though graying, the dark blonde of his hair was still very visible, and it shone under the warm light of the hall. Yet even light couldn’t bring warmth to her father’s demeanor, forever cold.

Acheron looked down at his upstart offspring with an impassive glare that could chill blood.

“I should have had a son.”

“Why?” Morgo countered, mocking, “So that when hair finally grew on his balls he’d go around rutting into anything with legs and an orifice, instead of challenging you?” she scoffed with the skill of one who’d been doing so their entire life.

“I think not, father. I need not remind you that in our past, it was a Le’Shaad patriarch that nearly killed us all by openly rebelling—and it was a female matriarch that rose up and brought the Le’Shaad back from the brink of extermination.”

And blinking coldly at her father, Morgo continued, “She had a plan, as I have a plan. And I will not allow you to stop me. For I am no longer yours to command.”

Stepping forwards threateningly, Acheron loomed over his daughter, his expression unreadable. But Morgo knew from the way his jaw moved that he was murderous on the inside, beneath his mask.

“You will always be mine, daughter.” He said ominously, “And if you try to escape me I will hunt you down to the ends of the galaxy.”

Undaunted, Morgo stood her ground, “Then you will have to hunt me to the Jotunn North, Father, for that is where I will be.”

And bowing her head with mock deference she knew full well he would take as disrespect, Morgo looked up at her father’s gaze—full of dark promises of what he would surely do to her later tonight when she returned home—and turned, leaving him at the top of the steps before the door.

For her brazen insolence, Morgo would suffer tonight. Her father would no doubt strap her down and teach her many lessons before the witching hour struck, but Morgo was glad. Closing her eyes as she glided down the stairs, she ignored the throbbing of her latest injuries from their last session, her dark lashes fanning long and delicately across her cheeks.

Yes. It had been worth it. To see the grim realization dawn in her father’s eyes as he looked at her had been worth it. His control over her was slipping. And he knew it.

Tonight was more than just about outmaneuvering her father, however, or about getting as far away from him as possible. Tonight she had an appointment with the Grandsire. One that hadn’t exactly been arranged, but one Morgo was going to have with him nonetheless. Now that she had lended aid to him in his war, there was no way he could turn away an audience with her without losing face. All according to plan.

Opening her pale eyes as she reached the last of the steps, Morgo’s eyes washed over great hall, seeing fresh and exotic flowers bursting from their vases and twisting up and around the pillars like vines—the last of the blossoms, now that Winter had finally come, freezing everything in its wake. The décor was done in sandy tones, of reds, burnt oranges and beiges, celebrating the end of Autumn and the abundant harvest.

It was most likely to be the last of the celebrations in a long while, for war had come upon them. Ignoring the subtle stares from prim ladies behind silk fans or from finely dressed men from above their dance partners’ delicate (or burly) shoulders, Morgo made her way across the room’s dance floor, not ignorant of the fact that many of the dancing couples quietly waltzed out of her path and away from her as she neared.

She would have smirked had she felt inclined to waste a twitch of a muscle on their behalf. But it was still nice to know that even as a girl of 12, they were wary of her.

Setting her cold eyes on the throne on the far end of the room, watching as the Grandsire conversed animatedly with an adviser, a goblet of wine in his hand, Morgo narrowed her eyes and quickened her pace—

—only to be accosted by a red headed young man, his hand wrapping itself around her bony wrist as he dragged her away and behind a pillar, near the tables.

“Morgo!” he exclaimed in hushed tones, “What the Sith hell are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Daneel scowled, his 16-year old face still yet hairless, olive green eyes wide , “From your face before,” he scoffed, “Like you’re here to assassinate the Grandsire by the power of your glare alone.”

Morgo lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, “Astute observation Daneel, though I must admit I haven’t yet managed to weaponize my glare, so you’re off quite a ways.”

Daneel’s expression was one of long suffering as he let her go, the tips of his fingers brushing the soft skin of her inner wrist as her arm fell back at her side, “Please tell me you’re not here to cause trouble, Morgo.”

“Oh I live for it.”

Brows furrowing, Daneel reached out to grasp her bare shoulders, perhaps to shake some sense into her, his mouth opened to speak when Morgo’s voice suddenly cut through the air between them, taking on an edge.

“Please Daneel.” Said Morgo suddenly, eyeing his outstretched hands with a detached distaste, “Not in front of the Court.”

Freezing in mid-air, Daneel’s hands stopped mid-way. Ah yes, he had forgotten again. Morgo had never liked to be touched, especially in public. But Daneel simply couldn’t help it. He was a tactile person, touching and interacting with everything he saw.

The compulsion to touch Morgo was just something that came from within him.

Hands falling back against his sides, Daneel’s flexed his fingers, “My apologies.” He said quietly. But never one to be deflated for long, a devilish smile soon tugged at the corners of his lips.

“But if you’re suggesting there is touching you wouldn’t be opposed to, behind the eyes of the Court,” Daneel mock leered, green eyes twinkling, “Do tell, my Lady.”

“Ugh, you swine.” Morgo said flatly, looking fairly unimpressed with the smile aimed her way. The same smile that he no doubt turned on every female he encountered, unwittingly charming their hearts with a single flash of his pearly whites , “Finally grow that ninth chest hair of yours and I’ll consider it. Child predator.”

Merry laughter rang like a clear bell from Daneel as a happy smile split his face, drawing a few looks from passing nobles.

Yet in his eyes was a little sadness as well.

“You and I both know you’re no child, Morgo.”

None of them were. Here on Dromache in the High Court, the heirs of such major Houses didn’t have the luxury of being children, happy and innocent. Not for long.

“And neither are you.” Morgo answered solemnly, voice quiet, her grey eyes clear, “What does that make us?”

Green eyes flicking up from the floor to the pale face of his betrothed, a wry half-smile played across Daneel’s soft lips, “Well matched.”

His mind going to Morgo’s father and the first time Daneel had glimpsed Morgo’s injuries at his hand, unbidden, a familiar anger and helplessness welled up within him. Commanding his hands to unclench from the fists they’d formed on their own, Daneel smiled at the floor, a forced thing, clear from the way his eyes remained strained.

“Do not mourn for something long gone, Daneel.” The girl said to him, and for just a second it seemed to him that her eyes had softened… just a little. Must have been a trick of the light.

Daneel chuckled, tilting his head back to look at the vaulted ceiling as he blinked, a bitter and bright smile on his face, “I will always mourn.” He said with quiet determination, and looking down at Morgo, lovely in white, he looked into her grey gaze as he bent down close, as if to tell her a secret, kind eyes imploring.

“Just don’t make me mourn for you as well.”

After a moment, Morgo nodded, understanding his meaning, “I’ll be careful.”

And Daneel would have hugged her had he felt she would feel comfortable with it. Smiling gently, genuine this time, Daneel nodded, “See that you do, Morgo.”

Seeing it for the reluctant consent it was, Morgo tilted her head in farewell, “Try not to break any hearts tonight on the dance floor, Daneel.”

“I’ll try.” He said, smirking cheekily before motioning towards the right side of the hall, “The servant’s exit it behind that red curtain there, if things make a turn for the worse.”

“I’ll be sure to remember it.” Morgo said as she left Daneel behind the pillar, feeling his green eyes following her as she continued on.

Daneel was…special to Morgo. A friend. And she was glad that at least one person would mourn her should she be banished or worse yet, killed.

Yet as she walked determinedly, eyes set on the table at the other end of the hall, all thoughts of Daneel fell away as she reminded herself of why she was here—and what she had yet to accomplish.

At the royal table sat Egon Jotunnson the II and his family, a grand variety of meats, fruits and dishes laid out before them. Today was a day of feasting and celebration, not official business, and so the throne sat empty. To the Grandsire’s left sat his queen, Gylla of Corvost, gently feeding their 2 year old daughter, Princess Ravenna. Morgo’s mind went back to the day of the child’s birth. In accordance to Jotunnson tradition, the sex of the child was kept secret from the public until birth. And when it had been formally announced that the Grandsire’s and his Queen’s child had been born female, there had been a collective sigh of disappointment.

It was no secret that House Jotunnson favored males for their strength, who seemed to inherit more of the traits of the ice giants than the females did, who were patently more human than their male siblings. Morgo figured it was a sex-linked trait that the ‘Y-chromosome’ determined, rather than the ‘X-chromosome” . Of course that was not always the case. Occasionally there would be Jotunnson female that was a fiery warrior of her own, but that was a study for another time.

Not to mention, there were quite a number of disappointed fathers, looking to marry off their infant daughters when they came of age. Of course, if Ravenna wanted to marry another woman when she came of age, it was of no consequence. DNA recombination technology had allowed same sex couples to have viable children for millennia now. But chances were Princess Ravenna was going to be heterosexual. And said noble infant daughter was then quite useless in that regard.

As Morgo approached the Grandsire, her eyes flicked to the empty seat at his right—reserved for his son and heir. As the Grandsire had not yet had a male child, the seat remained empty. Or at least, Morgo thought to herself, no official male child had yet been born. Egon Jotunnson was no doubt a potent man, and if recent rumors were to be believed, the Grandsire had quite a bit of explaining to do. Starting with how his seed had managed to get all the way to the Jotunn North. And perhaps why they were now starting a war to retrieve this Jotunn bastard.

As if reading the acid lined edge of her thoughts, impossibly blue eyes from above a golden goblet found hers in an instant as she neared, unyielding and inscrutable. It felt like she was being scanned by one of her father’s machines, seen through without her consent, and Morgo suppressed a shiver. With deep blue eyes of the Jotunn like his, Morgo didn’t doubt a calm stare from him could stop wars.

Setting his goblet down, eyes never leaving hers, it clinked lightly the surrounding plates. As he ran two fingers down his bearded chin contemplatively, his large signet ring glinted gold in the light.


“My Lady Le’Shaad.” He spoke, his voice deep, smooth and melodic to Morgo’s ears, “To what do I owe the… pleasure of your presence tonight?” Egon spoke, unerringly polite, save for the stiffness of his face that clearly spoke of how unpleasantly surprised he was.

Bowing from the waist, only just enough to skirt the edge of disrespect, Morgo openly smiled up at Egon, who towered over her small form even seated, “War, Your Imperial Majesty. War has brought me here tonight.”

At that, Morgo watched as all polite intent and pleasantries evaporated from the Grandsire’s face. House Jotunnson was never known for their patience or skill in disguising their emotions, and so it was of no surprise to Morgo that as soon as a sensitive topic was broached, the Grandsire reacted as a warrior would—instantly on the defense.

And Morgo would not deny that it gave her great pleasure to know that little girl or no, the Grandsire took her seriously.

“Of course it would be war.” Egon said, voice still impeccably smooth, leaning back in his chair, not caring that every eye in the room was now glued to him, “I would expect nothing less than a declaration of war to draw a Le’Shaad out of their hole in the ground.”

“If by ‘hole’ you mean the best equipped, staffed, and advanced laboratories in Dromache, then yes,” Morgo countered seamlessly, her mask not twitching a muscle that even showed she registered the Grandsire’s insult, “It takes quite a grand show of foolishness to draw us out of our laboratories, where we strive to innovate new technology and science every day.”

There was a deathly quiet in the Grandsire’s stony expression as Morgo let a silence fall between them, as her direct insult to Egon sank in.

“I mean,” Morgo continued, casually smug, “How can the Jotunn North believe they can resist the full might of Dromache’s combined forces? Quite foolish, is it not?”

Deftly dodging social ruin, Morgo looked the Grandsire in the eye as she watched him realize that he could not punish her for blatantly insulting him. Not when she had veiled it so. And it was a wonderful thing to behold, the Grandsire’s frustration. The man looked down on her like he’d never seen her before this night.

And letting the fierce fire of her flaring satisfaction reach her grey eyes, Morgo silently goaded the Grandsire to speak on the topic she knew he would.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Le’Shaad.” The Grandsire said, a thunder storm brewing in the deep blue of his eyes, “We are not at full force. Thanks to none other than you , we are nowhere near full force.”

And leaning forward towards her with a quiet menacing air about him, clearly angry about the whole affair, the Grandsire narrowed his eyes to sapphire slits, “Mind explaining why you sent only 4,047 Le’Shaad men when I requested 20,000?”

Fighting the urge to step backward, Morgo was suddenly reminded of an ice giant, dangerous in in its elegance, untamed and barely restraining itself from tearing her apart, seeing quite suddenly how much Egon had inherited his ancestor’s blood. Heart beginning to beat faster in her chest, Morgo absently wondered whether a beast like Egon could hear her little heart racing, or smell her fear.

A Le’Shaad’s keen survival instincts were what made the family nigh unkillable as a whole, coming back from historical disaster time and time again, stronger as a whole. And Morgo’s survival instincts were kicking in full force right now, screaming at her to run from the Grandsire.

But Morgo steeled herself, reminding herself of the one thing that she feared more than the Grandsire at this moment. She had something to accomplish tonight, and she would . Taking her irrational fear and channeling it into raw confidence to push on, Morgo’s little mouth smirked—not allowing her façade to crack just yet.

“I sent 4,047 men to you, Your Imperial Majesty, because I refuse to let any number beyond that die for you. To put it bluntly, Grandsire—you do not deserve them. And as the current Duchess of the Abysstone Isle, it is my right to withhold aid to you.”

Egon, rising to the challenge set out by the young Le’Shaad Duchess, scoffed at the girl, his rich golden armor shining as he shifted, “Your father would have sent me the men I asked for.”

“On the contrary, Grandsire," Morgo said, arching a small brow, “He would have sent none. His hatred for you is legendary, as is yours for him.”

“Then that would be treason.” Egon growled out in low tones, “He would stand trial for such an act and risk imprisonment, exile and Renouncement.”

“And he would win such a trial.” Morgo declared coolly, “For though the other Houses, out of loyalty or a desire to curry favor, have promised support to you in this war of yours without much question, House Le’Shaad will not. And if you bring this to trial with my father on the stand, he will most certainly ask questions about this war.”

With eyes half-lidded, Morgo’s expression was one of subtle knowing, “Questions I know for a fact you will not want asked as this war begins.”

The Grandsire’s eyes seemed to burn bright with a myriad of emotions as he lowered his voice to a dangerous hush, “Are you threatening me, Le’Shaad?”

“I am warning you.” The little girl stated simply, blinking slowly, “That if you choose to deal with my father, through a series of investigations and trials, the truth will come out.”

And it would come out at a most inopportune moment, too. Dromache needed to be a unified front now that war was now upon them.

“And what truth is that?” The Grandsire challenged. But wariness had crept into his expression.

Morgo leaned her blonde head closer and lowered her voice so that only she and the Grandsire would hear her next words. Strands of gold falling into her eyes, Morgo brushed them aside, resigned to the fact that as she grew older the color would eventually darken to match that of her father’s.

“That for the past 16 years, a young boy has been sneaking his way to the Abysstone Isle to educate himself—the only place non-citizens can get an official education on par with that of the Zkovos Isle. That his particular academic interests lie with Dromache’s history and the Grand Scholar’s curriculum. That this boy, now a young man of 17, with a head of black hair and blue eyes of the Jotunn, comes every Summer and leaves every Winter, returning to who knows where. Perhaps to his family in the North.”

Morgo’s eyes glinted with a sly light of their own as she watched the Grandsire digest this new information, as he closed his eyes for just a second, as if he was pained. As to why such information would pain him, Morgo had no idea.

When Egon opened his eyes, they were clear of any anger or pain—simply solemn in their clarity. Standing slowly, he looked to his left where Gylla the Queen, in all her black and gold finery, was still feeding their daughter, Princess Ravenna. Placing a slender white hand on his arm in a gesture of silent support, the Queen nodded almost imperceptibly to her husband as he took leave of the Jotunnson table, ascending the steps to the Hall’s throne, motioning Morgo to follow with a twitch of his fingers.

Tonight was a night of celebration, but now the Grandsire had business. And a throne was where he would conduct it.

Witnessing such a show of private intimacy between the Queen and the Grandsire had struck Morgo, disturbing her perhaps more than it should have. Such silent encouragement and…. love, communicated through a simple touch was beyond Morgo.

Such depth of emotion, Morgo could never begin to understand. No matter how much she observed or studied, this was perhaps the one thing she would never know or comprehend in her lifetime.

And Morgo didn’t know how she felt about that.

Ignoring the Queen’s not so subtle glare as she passed and ascended the steps to follow the Grandsire, Morgo shook off the strange sensation of hollowness in her chest and watched as Egon sat with all the finality of a king, coming into his element.

Now that they were truly alone, the world of festivities and music and laughter faded into the background as emperor looked upon girl, and girl looked upon emperor.

“Yes.” Egon finally said at length, “He is my son. A son I never knew I had until very recently.” And tilting his chin, Egon leveled the young girl before him with a quiet glare, daring her to pass judgment on him.

Wisely, she did not.

“And this war is for him.” Morgo said. It was not a question.

“The Jotunn will not give him back to me.” Egon ground out quietly, frustration returning. Though this time, Morgo was grateful it was not directed at her, “I am his father! They cannot keep my son from me!”

Nodding slightly, Morgo’s voice was clear and deceivingly diplomatic, “Quite awkward isn’t it, when the nation that used to be your army is the one you’re now fighting?”

For though the Jotunn North—a separate nation in itself, seated at the north most pole of Dromache— recognized the Grandsire as an ally and would come to his aid, need be, the Jotunn were nevertheless not governed by the Grandsire. They had their own separate ruling system and a culture of their own. And as a separate species from the Humans of Dromache, they appreciated being left alone.

Patience at its limit, the Grandsire’s voice was as tight and restrained, “What do you want, Morgo Le’Shaad?”

Uncharacteristic as was, Morgo could have cheered at finally being asked the one question she’d been gearing towards the entire night.

“You and I both know that should the truth be known of why this war against the Jotunn is being waged, there would be division amongst us.” Morgo began smoothly, grey eyes glinting, “Something you and I recognize as being detrimental to the war effort. And while I am aware that you will no doubt inform the whole of Dromache at a later date of the necessary deception—we both agree this is not the time, do we not?”

Warily, Egon slowly nodded.

“When the clock hits midnight and we pass into the next day, the Duchy of the Abysstone Isle will officially pass back into my father’s hands now that he has returned from off-planet. But for the time being, the power of House Le’Shaad lies with me. As it was given to me by my father to rule in his absence.”

“Le’Shaad…” Egon nearly growled out, never one with much patience for winding words.

“And seeing how I am willing to give you the full support of 20,000 men in this war of yours, as opposed to my father, who would give you nothing more than we already have—does this not make me the Le’Shaad you want to be dealing with?”

Suspicious, Egon’s eyes narrowed on their own accord as he looked over the girl before him, already blossoming into a fearsome woman.

“And why would you give me 20,000 men when you have already stated how undeserving I am of their lives?”

Morgo’s smile was sweet as she batted her delicate lashes, “My reasons are my own, Grandsire. And as a man without an army, I don’t think you are in any position to question any aid I give you.”

Visibly bristling at her remarks, Egon sat forward in his chair, knuckles white on the armrests of the throne, “How dare—”

“How can I dare to challenge you, you ask?” Morgo insolently interrupted, a fierceness in her expression, “I dare because I can. Because the proposal I have for you is better than any you’ll get from my father.” She shot back, “And you need me.”

Silently fuming at such disrespect, yet unable to put Morgo in her place at the moment, Egon forced himself to settle down, schooling his features into one of calm derision. She was just a child. And a child should not have such an effect on mature men.

Yet cutting a look Morgo’s way from the corner of his eye, Egon inwardly growled. Those from House Le’Shaad had always had talent in getting under the skin of others, however.

“And what is this proposal?” Egon asked, his voice hard as he flicked back black hair from his eyes.

“In exchange for 20,000 of my elite troops, you take me with you when you go to war.”

There was a moment of silence between them before abrupt laughter erupted from the Grandsire, a hearty and powerful sound that echoed throughout the great hall, stilling many dancers mid-step as they turned to look upon towards the Grandsire and the girl before him.

As the Grandsire openly laughed at her, young Morgo flushed with humiliation, almost thankful that as her back faced the crowd, no one but Egon could see her break in control.

“May I ask why my words have caused you such amusement?” Morgo bit out, unable to stop herself, her discipline lapsing for just a moment, off-balance.

“Because, Le’Shaad.” Egon said vehemently, his amusement seamlessly switching to a vicious whisper, “War is no place for a little girl. And while the thought of the line of House Le’Shaad ending with you might make me sleep better at night, I am not so much a devil to let a child die needlessly in a war she has no business sticking her nose in, so far from her home.”

“Oh spare me.” Morgo spat, unable to stop herself from a fit of childish defensiveness, recognizing his patronizing words for what they were, “You make it sound as if home is something worth returning to. Something worth living for.” And pausing to narrow her eyes into pale slits, her voice was pure ice, “Well allow me to enlighten you, Your Imperial Majesty—it isn’t.”

Egon was taken aback. And by the look on Morgo’s face, it seemed as if she too were surprised by her sudden outburst. Revealing too much and too little all at once. The Grandsire was unable to shake the unmistakable feeling that something had just been shared with him. Something he was not meant to ever see. And it bothered him.

He watched as she collected herself once again, her face closing off to the raw emotion he’d seen color her cheeks just moments ago. Like an ironclam shutting its shell from the outside sea, protecting itself from threats, so too did this girl draw back.

“Besides,” She said, a Le’Shaad once again. And if you’d looked at her, you would never have guessed she’d ever lose her cool, “Someone needs to be there in your council tent with the power to ensure you won’t be constantly putting my men on the front-line vanguard.”

“You think me low enough to do something like that?” Egon questioned, still unable to not be a little concerned with her acid words from before.

“I think you intelligent enough to recognize that expending the men of your blood-enemy is wiser than sending the men of those Houses allied with you to die.”

Egon shook his head, “Your father’s generals will be there to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“And who will be there to ensure it doesn’t happen to my generals? Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you when you say you would not stoop so low as to have my people assassinated.”

“And why would I do that?” Egon said sharply, not unaware that his honor was being questioned, “Loathe though I am to admit it, your generals are among the best. It would be counter-productive to have them killed when I still need them.”

“A valid point.” Morgo conceded, “But you are not the only House with a grudge against the Le’Shaad.”

Turning subtly face the hall, Morgo’s grey gaze washed over the hall with detached interest, pausing to settle on the faces of both House Tengeli and House Rames in particular. Voice contemplative, Morgo locked eyes with Rojanna Rames, viper green in their intensity, her chocolate brown skin a beautiful contrast with the glittering gold sari she wore.

“I doubt you would have to lift one finger in order to have my generals mysteriously killed in their sleep. You have loyal allies, Grandsire, who would gladly do such things for you.”

And not even allowing Egon to interrupt to no doubt defend the honor of his allies, Morgo turned back to face the king in his imposing gold armor. With a wry smile amusedly playing across her small bow of a mouth, Morgo blinked as one contemplating something warming, “You forget, Your Imperial Majesty, that after this war is over The Le’Shaad will once again be your primary enemy. We will never cease to be, even as we fight as your side. And your allies know that.”

Egon watched her for some time, as if searching for something in particular, eyes hard like blue diamonds.

“Why then, should I trust you?” He said quietly with a fierceness that made Morgo’s skin prickle, his voice so richly baritone she swore she could feel the reverberations in his chest, this close to him.

“You would be a fool to trust me.” Said the girl with the golden hair, “But you need my men. Without them, your war effort is severely crippled, and you and I both know it. So before you now lies a choice.”

And stepping closer to the man so that she stood between his seated knees, a little girl that was only eye level with his armored chest, Morgo held out two small hands, palms up as if offering the golden king two gifts.

“One,” she said, lifting her left hand, “You can turn me away and the 20,000 men that come with me, all for the foolish sentiment that I might get myself killed in the Jotunn North. I suppose I should assure you that I am entirely capable of taking care of myself,” And tilting her head with a sly smile on her pink lips, the expression on her pretty little features was knowing “But I’m sure you are aware of that.”

“Or two,” Morgo continued, lowering her left hand and lifting her right, like an ancient weight scale, “You can accept my offer, take me and 20,000 of my men to fight with you in the North, and get your bastard son back from the Jotunn. All the while, the true reason of why this war is being fought stays underground until the appropriate time for it to surface.”

“Rorek.” The Grandsire said suddenly, a look of concentration on his face, “His name is Rorek.”

For a moment, Morgo’s gaze was quizzical, as if wondering why such a thing mattered to the Grandsire. But in the end it was of no consequence. Egon was not a man she wanted to anger right now, not when she was so close to her goal.

“Rorek.” She repeated, as if testing the sound of the name on her tongue, feeling it slip from her lips like a sigh. Which was when a sneaking sense of foreboding washed across her being. Foreboding of what, Morgo was unsure. But she did not like it.

“Rorek needs you, Grandsire.” Morgo said quietly, purposefully targeting the man’s strong bond for family, his sentiment for their well being, “And I can help you take him back.” she offered, voice smooth.

“But only if you let me.”

Jotunn blue eyes snapped up to meet hers, full of a warrior’s hardness, an emperor’s frustration, a man’s pride—and a father’s love. For a moment Morgo was transfixed by the emotion in the deep blue fire of her emperor’s eyes, breath hitching for a fraction of a second, almost believing that if she stared long enough she might feel the warm life of them pass to her.

But it did not. And the moment passed.

Footing firm, Morgo held the Jotunnson’s gaze with her own stare, willing him to give in to her. She had come too far to be denied now.

“You truly want this, don’t you.” Egon stated, not asked.

For her part, Morgo was silent, as if the act of admitting that yes, Goddess, yes she wanted this was too much of a weakness to bare to him.

And as if understanding that, Egon nodded, the black waves of his hair shifting as he did so, “Then I expect you and your men to be ready by the morrow. We leave when the green moon rises.”

Like a true king and commander, calmly doling out orders like it was his right to do so, expecting his mandates be obeyed, Egon was once again the Grandsire of fable, not a sign of weakness in his eyes as he looked upon Morgo, an unflinching steel in the blue of them.

And for once, Morgo did not mind his orders. Eyes glittering with a strange kind of mischief, a corner of her lips kicked up.

“They were ready before I left tonight.”

The implications of that hung between them, and there was some consternation in Egon’s expression as he studied the little girl before him, wondering for just a brief second what kind of woman she would grow to be. A formidable one no doubt—a force of nature to be reckoned with, like all her ancestors before her. It boded well that she would ally with him for this war, but when it ended, Egon was uncertain where they would stand.

At opposite ends of the dejarik table, no doubt, as Jotunnson and Le’Shaad had always stood. And would continue to stand, until one or both Houses fell.

If Egon managed to get his son back, this little girl, this Morgo would be the next Le’Shaad to oppose him. Just as Egon had locked horns with Acheron Le’Shaad for the entirety of his life, so too would Rorek and Morgo face down one another.

The golden haired child before him was already shaping up to be a worthy opponent. Yet without knowing who his son was or his character, Egon could not know whether Rorek would be able to confront Morgo and bring her to heel. It was a point of no small concern to Egon to think that a life lived away from Dromache’s politics might have made Rorek ill-suited to rule, ill-suited to combat the Le’Shaad—for rule he would.

He was Egon’s son after all. And should the Goddess wish it, Rorek would become the heir Egon knew he was meant to be the moment he heard of his existence. He’d never felt anything with more conviction than this.

Let him be strong. Egon had prayed silently.

Let him be worthy.

With a grim smile on his face, Egon’s expression was firm as he looked Morgo in the eye. Looked into those pale, grey eyes of the accursed Le’Shaad.

Unbidden, a legend of the Jotunn North came to Egon, flooding his mind with memories. As the ice giants believed, there lived a giant eagle of myth that perched upon a sacred mountain. And between its eyes sat a sly hawk that that was said to be the whisperer of wisdom and knowledge to the great bird-of-prey. Storm Pale, they called the hawk—Wind-Witherer.

He had no doubts its eyes were as grey as the Le’Shaad.

Grim smile still in place as he stared at the girl in white before him, Egon’s voice was determined, if a touch wry.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

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