Post by Seek on Sept 17, 2016 7:30:07 GMT 10
Title: Neutrality
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Choose A Side (MPP #81)
Summary: Taybur Sibigat tries to balance the different sides. He really does.
Notes: Partly influenced by the Decathlon series I did on Taybur--The Drowned and the Saved.
-
He’s young, the day the regents summon him before them, and barely a day has passed since they’ve witnessed the Mithran priest administer his oath of service to the new king. His charge, now. “Young, but accomplished,” Princess Imajane says, thoughtfully, and holds out a beringed hand for Taybur Sibigat to kiss.
He brushes it briefly with his lips and listens—straightening up, now—as they speak of the potential rewards for service and a watchful eye, and he reads between the lines: third son of a politically-insignificant baron on Imahyn, destined for mediocrity without our patronage; be appropriately grateful but know your place.
Prince Rubinyan pours him a cup of wine; dark as the gemstone glinting on his earring. “You must be thirsty,” the prince observes.
“Begging your pardon, your Highness,” Taybur says, and he turns on the charm that had the servants and slaves giggling at him for a full week, back when he was a fresh recruit in the Rittevon Guard. “I’m on duty now, and I need to set a good example for my men.”
Imajane’s eyes narrow to almost-slits as she studies him. “It’s just a cup,” Rubinyan murmurs, “Though of course, your dedication to your duty is to be commended.”
“The king’s continued health is, of course, our greatest concern,” Imajane smiles sweetly. “It is no small cause of relief to know we have picked Captain Duipang’s successor well.”
And there it is: the honey and the sting, Taybur thinks, idly. A reminder that his predecessor was made an Example of, and a reminder that they’ve picked him, a mere sergeant in the Rittevon Guard, the third son of the Baron of Asawang, time to display his gratitude.
The truth is, Taybur might have nearly been their man. But he’s sworn an oath before Mithros, and he takes his oaths seriously. Still though, there’s no reason to think their interests don’t lie with Dunevon’s, for now.
“Of course,” Taybur murmurs, keeping his expression sober and composed. “I understand, your Highness. I will see to it.”
-
Dunevon is sobbing, and the first and only thing Taybur can think of is to open the door and peer outside cautiously, making sure the hallway is cleared. (It is; the only people he sees there are his people—he does see a guardsman he’s fairly certain is working for Topabaw and makes a mental note of that. He won’t have anyone near Dunevon whose first and only loyalty isn’t owed to their king.)
He closes the door again, quietly.
He’s supposed to be the Captain of the King’s Guard. He’s not a glorified babysitter, and he can’t be the boy’s friend. The problem is, that’s what Dunevon needs, and Taybur knows that. The boy is scared and lonely and that’s the crux of the problem: he’s surrounded by playmates who defer to him because they know he’s the king and because they see Taybur looming in the background, and the only adults in his life—Imajane and Rubinyan—ignore him at the best of times and openly treat him as a nuisance at the worst.
He understands all of that, and still, Dunevon’s sobs tug at Taybur’s heart.
He’ll be honest and admit to himself: this wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d become a guardsman because there’s little else for a baron’s third son to do: he wants to be useful, not a glorified drain on his father’s meagre resources. He’s been doggedly working his way through the ranks of the Rittevon Guard, not because of ambition but because he simply can’t accept anything less than perfection from his men. Lives depend on them, he knows, and intrigue and assassination and poisonings are par for the course in the Grey Palace.
And more importantly, because Taybur has always believed that if a thing is worth doing, then it is worth doing well, and he feels a sense of pride and accomplishment when his squad transforms from a rag-tag band of raw recruits to easily the most trained and reliable men in the Rittevon Guard.
He draws in a deep breath and lets it out, and then crosses the room to where Dunevon is still wailing away and takes the boy into his arms.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what he can say.
He lets Dunevon cry into his tunic until the boy is exhausted, the tears fading into soft hiccups. Taybur pats him lightly on the back.
“Better?”
Dunevon makes a sound that might be agreement. Or just possibly, a concealed yawn.
Taybur almost, almost smiles. “It’s bed-time, you know,” he observes, quietly. “Your Majesty.”
It’s difficult not to pass judgement on the boy. Being the Captain of the King’s Guard means that he sees the king more often than most, and to be very frank: Taybur doesn’t like what he sees. Dunevon has absolutely no compunctions about hitting out or yelling at people who ruin his fun and don’t do what he wants them to—he throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way, and more often than once, Taybur has to school his features to blandness when Dunevon throws his toys and shouts at Imajane and Rubinyan.
But he’s young, Taybur thinks, and the cold hard truth is that many people can be absolute brats when they’re younger. (He thinks of his older brothers.) And the truth is that while Dunevon has been sheltered, he has also been neglected; left to play in a corner and ignored.
He’s a brat—The Brat, Imajane calls him, as if Taybur can’t hear; the invisibility of being a guardsman, Taybur supposes. But children can change. In some ways, they’re more malleable than adults, and the one thought in his mind is: maybe he can make a king out of the boy. To do that, though, Dunevon has to survive. He’s fairly certain it’s crossed Imajane’s mind, that there’s one fragile boy (and, admittedly, the Balitang heir) between her and the throne she so obviously covets.
Dunevon, Taybur realises belatedly, has been suspiciously silent. He glances down, and then relaxes. The boy—his king, he reminds himself, and his charge, it doesn’t do to get too attached; it ruins the objective distance a guardsman needs to maintain—has fallen asleep in his arms.
-
“Captain Sibigat,” Rubinyan greets. His back is turned to Taybur; he’s apparently busy scrutinising a series of reports on his desk. Taybur simply assumes a position of respectful attention and waits. Eventually, Rubinyan grows tired of the game. He turns about and studies him. “Topabaw has made a complaint.”
Taybur almost, almost laughs aloud. I imagine he did, he thinks. To the prince, however, he says, “I regret to hear it.”
“I wonder,” Rubinyan says, ironically. “Topabaw claims you refused to cooperate with his investigations.”
Taybur elects for bluntness. “He’s been buying off my men.”
Rubinyan does hesitate now. He blinks, rapidly. A liar’s sign, Taybur knows, from the rudimentary spycraft training they give the officers of the Rittevon Guard, indicative of nervousness. “I see,” the prince says, slowly. He reaches for the decanter on his study table and pours himself a glass of wine. “I’d offer you some wine, Captain, but I remember you mentioned you don’t drink on duty.”
Taybur waits.
“It is…a startling accusation, Captain,” Rubinyan says, eventually. “Surely we’re all on the same side here. We have, after all, Dunevon’s best interests at heart.”
Mithros take him, Taybur thinks, he actually does believe Rubinyan. Perhaps not Imajane, but Rubinyan…perhaps. Still, he replies, “I did think so, your Highness. But then, if we’re on the same side, then it shouldn’t trouble Topabaw to stop bribing my men. I’d hate to think our king is being guarded by those who owe first loyalty to coin…or even worse, to the spymaster alone.”
He’s caught Rubinyan, there. There’s no way the man can admit to finding this state of affairs acceptable, and they both know it.
“Of course,” Rubinyan smiles, but the expression is slightly strained. “I’ll speak to Topabaw.”
“Thank you, your Highness,” Taybur says, gravely.
-
Topabaw still tries to put a few spies amongst Taybur’s guardsmen. Taybur throws them out of the King’s Guard—one of them very literally.
The spectacle of young Tomas covered in duckweed and soaking wet is the talk of the Grey Palace for the next week, until Dunevon gorges himself when left unattended and then throws up publicly at a feast.
-
This interview is less cordial. As he steps into Rubinyan’s study, Taybur is already aware of the tension in the air.
“Captain Sibigat,” Imajane smiles, but her pale eyes are cold. “How pleasant of you to join us.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Taybur says, quietly, even though it really isn’t. “Your Highness.” He greets them both, taking his time with the formal gestures. The rituals calm him, give him time to set aside his own frustrations. It’s been one of Dunevon’s recalcitrant days, and Taybur is nearing the end of his own patience.
It is Rubinyan who cuts to the chase, this time. “There are rumours, Captain. Doubtless you might not have heard of them—” Mild insult, here; likely intended. “—But the raka are growing restless. Plantations are in open revolt, and the luarin nobles…”
“The luarin nobles should know better,” Imajane says, and now Taybur is quite certain he can see the ghosts of Rittevon madness burning in those eyes. “And will know better, once they have been brought to heel.”
“Your Highness,” Taybur tries, “I’m just the Captain of the King’s Guard—”
“You are capable,” Rubinyan says. “You are exactly what we need: a leader of men, meticulous—your private war with Topabaw indicates you’re more than competent with spycraft, and we’re running out of men and officers since we’re trying to put out so many fires.”
“I don’t understand what you want with me, your Highness,” Taybur finally says.
“Tell me, Captain,” Imajane cuts in. “How much do you like your king?”
Taybur goes very, very still. “I’m not paid to like him, your Highness,” he says, at last, his mouth dry. “I gave my word to defend him with my life, and that’s all that matters to me.” He thinks very hard about the men posted at the door to the prince’s study—his men, but in any case, he doubts he’ll need them. Not just yet.
“A third son’s answer,” Imajane sneers. “And the truth?”
He meets her gaze, steadily. “I don’t play games, your Highness. I find my job leaves me with very little time for them.”
Intently, Imajane says, “It is a war, Captain. Have no doubt about it. The battleground may be Rajmuat, but it is rapidly expanding to include the entire Copper Isles. We need every loyal and skilled man.”
“I am sworn to Dunevon, your Highness.”
Her voice is ice. “You are with us, Sibigat, or you are against us. I do not accept half-answers.”
“Then I cannot offer you an answer that will satisfy you, your Highness.”
Imajane does raise her hand to him, at this point, and she might have very well slapped him, and Taybur isn’t sure what he would have done if she had, because her hand never makes contact. Rubinyan catches his wife’s arm, mid-swing.
“Your candour is appreciated, Captain,” he says, as if Imajane isn’t spitting at him, a perfect picture of Rittevon insanity and rage. “Please leave.”
-
He doesn’t understand the significance of the conversation until he’s pulled the drowned, limp body of his king from the waters.
The truth is, it’s been a long time coming.
Taybur stumbles to the harbour. He’s frozen to the bone, but his thoughts are still more chilling. They knew, of course. They’d planned it, since the day he’d turned them down.
But the the trained officer doesn’t just ask why an ambush happened: he asks what moves were made; what led to this particular point in time and space.
And then he locates the mistake, because of course, it was a mistake. You can ignore the political realities of the world. He had done so, because he was the third son of the Baron of Asawang, and it was a mark of their insignificance that they could close their eyes to the political games of the Isles.
But when you have been elevated; when you have reached beyond what you could reasonably have hoped to expect—when you now guard the most significant figure in the political landscape of the Isles—then you can no longer expect the world to ignore you.
It is a war, Imajane had said, and that is the truth he least expected to be blindsided by: there is no neutral ground. He opted to tread on no toes and to focus only on guarding Dunevon, not realising that choosing to close his eyes was still a choice. Choosing to turn down Imajane and Rubinyan’s advances was still a choice.
Is still a choice.
He sees himself, now, through the political eyes of others, and realises that all along, he’s never been politely rebuffing both sides, but that he’s taken a side: the enemy’s, in particular.
Neutrality is the lie; a comforting one, but hollow, and as cold comfort as the unmoving body of his king.
-
There is no neutral ground, and you’re either with Imajane or with the raka.
Taybur calls together his officers; the former men of his squad.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Choose A Side (MPP #81)
Summary: Taybur Sibigat tries to balance the different sides. He really does.
Notes: Partly influenced by the Decathlon series I did on Taybur--The Drowned and the Saved.
-
He’s young, the day the regents summon him before them, and barely a day has passed since they’ve witnessed the Mithran priest administer his oath of service to the new king. His charge, now. “Young, but accomplished,” Princess Imajane says, thoughtfully, and holds out a beringed hand for Taybur Sibigat to kiss.
He brushes it briefly with his lips and listens—straightening up, now—as they speak of the potential rewards for service and a watchful eye, and he reads between the lines: third son of a politically-insignificant baron on Imahyn, destined for mediocrity without our patronage; be appropriately grateful but know your place.
Prince Rubinyan pours him a cup of wine; dark as the gemstone glinting on his earring. “You must be thirsty,” the prince observes.
“Begging your pardon, your Highness,” Taybur says, and he turns on the charm that had the servants and slaves giggling at him for a full week, back when he was a fresh recruit in the Rittevon Guard. “I’m on duty now, and I need to set a good example for my men.”
Imajane’s eyes narrow to almost-slits as she studies him. “It’s just a cup,” Rubinyan murmurs, “Though of course, your dedication to your duty is to be commended.”
“The king’s continued health is, of course, our greatest concern,” Imajane smiles sweetly. “It is no small cause of relief to know we have picked Captain Duipang’s successor well.”
And there it is: the honey and the sting, Taybur thinks, idly. A reminder that his predecessor was made an Example of, and a reminder that they’ve picked him, a mere sergeant in the Rittevon Guard, the third son of the Baron of Asawang, time to display his gratitude.
The truth is, Taybur might have nearly been their man. But he’s sworn an oath before Mithros, and he takes his oaths seriously. Still though, there’s no reason to think their interests don’t lie with Dunevon’s, for now.
“Of course,” Taybur murmurs, keeping his expression sober and composed. “I understand, your Highness. I will see to it.”
-
Dunevon is sobbing, and the first and only thing Taybur can think of is to open the door and peer outside cautiously, making sure the hallway is cleared. (It is; the only people he sees there are his people—he does see a guardsman he’s fairly certain is working for Topabaw and makes a mental note of that. He won’t have anyone near Dunevon whose first and only loyalty isn’t owed to their king.)
He closes the door again, quietly.
He’s supposed to be the Captain of the King’s Guard. He’s not a glorified babysitter, and he can’t be the boy’s friend. The problem is, that’s what Dunevon needs, and Taybur knows that. The boy is scared and lonely and that’s the crux of the problem: he’s surrounded by playmates who defer to him because they know he’s the king and because they see Taybur looming in the background, and the only adults in his life—Imajane and Rubinyan—ignore him at the best of times and openly treat him as a nuisance at the worst.
He understands all of that, and still, Dunevon’s sobs tug at Taybur’s heart.
He’ll be honest and admit to himself: this wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d become a guardsman because there’s little else for a baron’s third son to do: he wants to be useful, not a glorified drain on his father’s meagre resources. He’s been doggedly working his way through the ranks of the Rittevon Guard, not because of ambition but because he simply can’t accept anything less than perfection from his men. Lives depend on them, he knows, and intrigue and assassination and poisonings are par for the course in the Grey Palace.
And more importantly, because Taybur has always believed that if a thing is worth doing, then it is worth doing well, and he feels a sense of pride and accomplishment when his squad transforms from a rag-tag band of raw recruits to easily the most trained and reliable men in the Rittevon Guard.
He draws in a deep breath and lets it out, and then crosses the room to where Dunevon is still wailing away and takes the boy into his arms.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what he can say.
He lets Dunevon cry into his tunic until the boy is exhausted, the tears fading into soft hiccups. Taybur pats him lightly on the back.
“Better?”
Dunevon makes a sound that might be agreement. Or just possibly, a concealed yawn.
Taybur almost, almost smiles. “It’s bed-time, you know,” he observes, quietly. “Your Majesty.”
It’s difficult not to pass judgement on the boy. Being the Captain of the King’s Guard means that he sees the king more often than most, and to be very frank: Taybur doesn’t like what he sees. Dunevon has absolutely no compunctions about hitting out or yelling at people who ruin his fun and don’t do what he wants them to—he throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way, and more often than once, Taybur has to school his features to blandness when Dunevon throws his toys and shouts at Imajane and Rubinyan.
But he’s young, Taybur thinks, and the cold hard truth is that many people can be absolute brats when they’re younger. (He thinks of his older brothers.) And the truth is that while Dunevon has been sheltered, he has also been neglected; left to play in a corner and ignored.
He’s a brat—The Brat, Imajane calls him, as if Taybur can’t hear; the invisibility of being a guardsman, Taybur supposes. But children can change. In some ways, they’re more malleable than adults, and the one thought in his mind is: maybe he can make a king out of the boy. To do that, though, Dunevon has to survive. He’s fairly certain it’s crossed Imajane’s mind, that there’s one fragile boy (and, admittedly, the Balitang heir) between her and the throne she so obviously covets.
Dunevon, Taybur realises belatedly, has been suspiciously silent. He glances down, and then relaxes. The boy—his king, he reminds himself, and his charge, it doesn’t do to get too attached; it ruins the objective distance a guardsman needs to maintain—has fallen asleep in his arms.
-
“Captain Sibigat,” Rubinyan greets. His back is turned to Taybur; he’s apparently busy scrutinising a series of reports on his desk. Taybur simply assumes a position of respectful attention and waits. Eventually, Rubinyan grows tired of the game. He turns about and studies him. “Topabaw has made a complaint.”
Taybur almost, almost laughs aloud. I imagine he did, he thinks. To the prince, however, he says, “I regret to hear it.”
“I wonder,” Rubinyan says, ironically. “Topabaw claims you refused to cooperate with his investigations.”
Taybur elects for bluntness. “He’s been buying off my men.”
Rubinyan does hesitate now. He blinks, rapidly. A liar’s sign, Taybur knows, from the rudimentary spycraft training they give the officers of the Rittevon Guard, indicative of nervousness. “I see,” the prince says, slowly. He reaches for the decanter on his study table and pours himself a glass of wine. “I’d offer you some wine, Captain, but I remember you mentioned you don’t drink on duty.”
Taybur waits.
“It is…a startling accusation, Captain,” Rubinyan says, eventually. “Surely we’re all on the same side here. We have, after all, Dunevon’s best interests at heart.”
Mithros take him, Taybur thinks, he actually does believe Rubinyan. Perhaps not Imajane, but Rubinyan…perhaps. Still, he replies, “I did think so, your Highness. But then, if we’re on the same side, then it shouldn’t trouble Topabaw to stop bribing my men. I’d hate to think our king is being guarded by those who owe first loyalty to coin…or even worse, to the spymaster alone.”
He’s caught Rubinyan, there. There’s no way the man can admit to finding this state of affairs acceptable, and they both know it.
“Of course,” Rubinyan smiles, but the expression is slightly strained. “I’ll speak to Topabaw.”
“Thank you, your Highness,” Taybur says, gravely.
-
Topabaw still tries to put a few spies amongst Taybur’s guardsmen. Taybur throws them out of the King’s Guard—one of them very literally.
The spectacle of young Tomas covered in duckweed and soaking wet is the talk of the Grey Palace for the next week, until Dunevon gorges himself when left unattended and then throws up publicly at a feast.
-
This interview is less cordial. As he steps into Rubinyan’s study, Taybur is already aware of the tension in the air.
“Captain Sibigat,” Imajane smiles, but her pale eyes are cold. “How pleasant of you to join us.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Taybur says, quietly, even though it really isn’t. “Your Highness.” He greets them both, taking his time with the formal gestures. The rituals calm him, give him time to set aside his own frustrations. It’s been one of Dunevon’s recalcitrant days, and Taybur is nearing the end of his own patience.
It is Rubinyan who cuts to the chase, this time. “There are rumours, Captain. Doubtless you might not have heard of them—” Mild insult, here; likely intended. “—But the raka are growing restless. Plantations are in open revolt, and the luarin nobles…”
“The luarin nobles should know better,” Imajane says, and now Taybur is quite certain he can see the ghosts of Rittevon madness burning in those eyes. “And will know better, once they have been brought to heel.”
“Your Highness,” Taybur tries, “I’m just the Captain of the King’s Guard—”
“You are capable,” Rubinyan says. “You are exactly what we need: a leader of men, meticulous—your private war with Topabaw indicates you’re more than competent with spycraft, and we’re running out of men and officers since we’re trying to put out so many fires.”
“I don’t understand what you want with me, your Highness,” Taybur finally says.
“Tell me, Captain,” Imajane cuts in. “How much do you like your king?”
Taybur goes very, very still. “I’m not paid to like him, your Highness,” he says, at last, his mouth dry. “I gave my word to defend him with my life, and that’s all that matters to me.” He thinks very hard about the men posted at the door to the prince’s study—his men, but in any case, he doubts he’ll need them. Not just yet.
“A third son’s answer,” Imajane sneers. “And the truth?”
He meets her gaze, steadily. “I don’t play games, your Highness. I find my job leaves me with very little time for them.”
Intently, Imajane says, “It is a war, Captain. Have no doubt about it. The battleground may be Rajmuat, but it is rapidly expanding to include the entire Copper Isles. We need every loyal and skilled man.”
“I am sworn to Dunevon, your Highness.”
Her voice is ice. “You are with us, Sibigat, or you are against us. I do not accept half-answers.”
“Then I cannot offer you an answer that will satisfy you, your Highness.”
Imajane does raise her hand to him, at this point, and she might have very well slapped him, and Taybur isn’t sure what he would have done if she had, because her hand never makes contact. Rubinyan catches his wife’s arm, mid-swing.
“Your candour is appreciated, Captain,” he says, as if Imajane isn’t spitting at him, a perfect picture of Rittevon insanity and rage. “Please leave.”
-
He doesn’t understand the significance of the conversation until he’s pulled the drowned, limp body of his king from the waters.
The truth is, it’s been a long time coming.
Taybur stumbles to the harbour. He’s frozen to the bone, but his thoughts are still more chilling. They knew, of course. They’d planned it, since the day he’d turned them down.
But the the trained officer doesn’t just ask why an ambush happened: he asks what moves were made; what led to this particular point in time and space.
And then he locates the mistake, because of course, it was a mistake. You can ignore the political realities of the world. He had done so, because he was the third son of the Baron of Asawang, and it was a mark of their insignificance that they could close their eyes to the political games of the Isles.
But when you have been elevated; when you have reached beyond what you could reasonably have hoped to expect—when you now guard the most significant figure in the political landscape of the Isles—then you can no longer expect the world to ignore you.
It is a war, Imajane had said, and that is the truth he least expected to be blindsided by: there is no neutral ground. He opted to tread on no toes and to focus only on guarding Dunevon, not realising that choosing to close his eyes was still a choice. Choosing to turn down Imajane and Rubinyan’s advances was still a choice.
Is still a choice.
He sees himself, now, through the political eyes of others, and realises that all along, he’s never been politely rebuffing both sides, but that he’s taken a side: the enemy’s, in particular.
Neutrality is the lie; a comforting one, but hollow, and as cold comfort as the unmoving body of his king.
-
There is no neutral ground, and you’re either with Imajane or with the raka.
Taybur calls together his officers; the former men of his squad.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!