[Exalted] Heaven thy Home and Earth thy Slave

As a gift to all my dedicated readership who somehow put up with my absurd update schedule. Here is a long-awaited update for the secular New Year. The next update is mostly planned out already and I hope to be able to finish it quickly, but I have an exam coming up the 18th of January and I need to read a lot, so don't put your hopes up too much!

A Sunrise Cast in Red, Part 1

The man is already up despite the time. His soldiers will sleep an hour more, but he is up early. He is always up early.

The kind rays of the summer sun have broken the cover of his tent. They play across his well-muscled chest, reflecting on the oil-covered skin. His eyes are closed, paying no mind to them. The spear in his hands sweeps, thrusts and stabs, almost as if a serpent at its own bidding. From his swift and practiced movements, an observer could see that they are intimately familiar to him. He has done this many times before, and likely will many times in the future too. Nonetheless, the scent of his sweat slowly fills the luxurious tent as he works his muscles to a glistening state, his sweat mixing with the oil. He has been here many times before, but each morning he nonetheless tries to push himself a little further. Slowly, the movements lose speed. Then he stops completely. He opens his eyes.

He is awake, and the kata—an Immaculate ritual exercise—is over.

The man is Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign, Shogun-Mirza of the Sublime and Exalted State of Yalpagesh, ruling scion of the House of Semerw and soon-to-be conqueror of Keinginan-i-Gehan, the residence of Shoguns and Empress of Cities. But for now, he is simply a man mildly tired from his morning exercise and in need of a bath.

He would have preferred to bathe in the river nearby, but regrettably had to bow to the pressure of his servants and had them wake early to prepare him one. With some bother, he grabs the strigil next to the bath and begins scraping off the oil and perspiration that covers his body. He lets himself sink into prepared vessel and enjoys the kiss of the cold water on his skin.

The bath is covered in finery and the sides are engraved with hunting scenes meant to remind him of home. He always preferred the waters of a running river though; perhaps a consequence of having lived the hunting scenes that his bath can only depict. The still waters of the bath bore him and he sees very little reason why his servants should be bothered to carry such a luxury about. But nonetheless, he washes himself and rises from the bath, cleaning up with a silky-soft peshtemal. That is a finery that he can permit himself at least. He is royalty after all.

Half an hour is left before his soldiers will wake, and the singing of the birds calls him outside, so he takes the liberty to not call his servants to clothe him. He puts on his court robes, enjoying the feeling of swaddling himself in the double-square of fur-rimmed silk belted tight around his waist. Around him, it forms a voluminous tunic, and as he enters the sunlight, the rays play across the astral and venatorial designs, reflecting—as if they were lights themselves!—in the jewels of his high-cinched belt. His head, he covers with the royal kidaris.

He is very bored.

In the distance, the city of Keinginan-i-Gehan stands in all her ruined beauty and forgotten majesty; a sight as haunting as it is compelling. The double line of her high walls hides away her inner city from his sight, though they still bear the scars of his last assault upon them. Behind the walls, what he can see of the City looks majestic and stately; a proper residence for Shoguns. He closes his eyes again and dreams of riding along the city's streets, of being cheered on by its people, of being received by its rulers as its savior and master instead of its conqueror. He curses that fate has decreed that to save the Shogunate, he must lay wounds upon its very heart. Has the Shogunal Residence not seen enough pain? He sighs and casts his gaze about the camp.

At the center of the encampment, in accordance with tradition, is his own tent. The Mirza's tent must always be the most secure, and he has no children to inherit should he die. Only two of his brothers survived the succession conflict, and neither of them are present. Not that they should be, of course, he has full faith in his sisters to command the army in his name.

Circling his own grand tent, the companies under his personal command sleep in their own tents. They fly the banners of their commanders, of their companies and the split jian and pentacle of the house of Semerw. These companies, he has given to the command of his sister Firstborn-Beautiful. Unlike him and his brothers, his sisters were all—as is the custom for women of the Mirza's household—given to the army and the ministries and raised separate from the succession conflicts. When the time comes to take the throne, it is their presence that keeps the machinery of government outside the hands of the struggling princes.

He muses on his sister's name. It had always felt strange to him that his sisters played such a vital role—administered the ministerial posts, filled the ranks of the imperial divan, commanded the salaried troops and provisioned his armies—and yet all their names were so meaningless. His father had been Governing-Truthlike-as-Holy-Hesiesh, and his name spoke of holy duties and compared him to an Immaculate Dragon. His treacherous brother had been Seizing-Prey-as-a-Falcon and spoke of skill at hunting and prowess in combat. His own name spoke of a destiny to rule and to be exalted forever in the praises of men. But his sister's name did not speak to any grand destiny or expectations. She was simply born before her other sisters and father had hoped that she would be beautiful.

A shame, he thinks. The Shogunal Residence, in such dire straits, had named its scion Holiest Gift in the expectation she would bring about its deliverance from terror, and her mother was named Gentle Palm. Perhaps he would name his daughters like the Showgunis do. Perhaps he too would name a daughter "Holiest Gift" one day. He looks towards the distant shape of the Empress of Cities, his perceptive eyes making out the shapes of murals on the walls and many other things.

He spends much time lost in thought like this.

And then the cymbals ring out, company commanders shout and suddenly the entire camp is in movement and every tent becomes an ant hive. He sighs. He has spent too much time thinking. He moves back to his tent and prepares to receive the reports of the company commanders. The first to report to him, as always, is Firstborn-Beautiful. Despite complaining at every opportunity that her company is full of useless maggots and bottom-feeders who will never accomplish anything, it somehow always manages to perform best in these reviews as well as the battlefield.

He thinks she is just unpleasable. Not that he would ever say that.

Slowly but steadily—and well within the allotted time—the other company commanders report and are adjourned from his tent. He leaves his tent to observe the camp muster, seating himself in his curule chair as the companies form up into regiments outside the camp. He always enjoyed this. The wind has picked up and is blowing westwards, and the banners are fluttering in the wind. Regiment after regiment are standing at attention for the review, armor gleaming in the sun and the sound of weapons softly clinking at the belt mixed with the chirping of the birds.

And in the distance, a single lonely rider catches his eyes, and though the rider cannot see it, The Shogun-Mirza has already caught his gaze from miles away and smiles a warm and happy smile.

As the muster is dismissed, soldiers are given reminders of the midday muster and go on with their daily duties, but Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign appropriates for himself a soldier's horse and rides out to meet the approaching man.

The rider's long hair trails behind him from underneath a conical helmet and he laughs when he sees the Shogun coming out to meet him. From top to bottom, anyone who looked could see that he was not like other Yalpageshi men. There is not a hint of facial hair on his chin or cheeks and his long eyelashes are darkened with cosmetics. His red lips seem as if made for kissing and his perpetually blushing cheeks—a sign of Sextes Jylis' blood within his veins—and high cheekbones both make him look more like one of Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign's sisters than a brother. The slim frame of his body is visible underneath the curvature of his armor, and despite seeing him almost every day, the Mirza cannot stop his eyes from wandering up and down his armored body.

In a single elegant motion, the other man brings himself from horseback to prostrate himself on the ground before the still-mounted Shogun who swiftly grabs the reins of the rider's horse to stop it from riding away. He cannot stop himself from roaring with laughter.

"Jewel, you bottom, have we not done this song and dance enough times? Must you insist on prostrating yourself in this fashion. Get up with you!"

He jumps off his horse and grabs his hand to pull him up. They laugh together.

"Thou art my Shogun and I am but the humblest of slaves", the Showguni man named Seven Cerulean Absolute Jewel laughs, the sound of his voice like the gentle ringing of bells.

"You're a waste of my time is what you are." Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign laughs and pulls the man in for a kiss on the cheek.

"You were supposed to be here yesterday. Here I was worrying about you! Did some girl or boy catch your fancy?"

"Nothing so interesting, I apologize! I was merely delayed by losing my provisions." Jewel chortles, clearly enjoying the attention of his Shogun. Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign indulges him and gives him another kiss.

"Clumsy idiot. You had a whole company of one person to take care of and you still managed to lose provisions for every single one." He pulls the helmet off him and gives him a light smack over the head.

"Mercy! Mercy! Great Shogun, I beg thy mercy!" Jewel playfully begs, and Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign laughs again.

"You know my heart too well. Once I commission my reign-book, I will make sure the chroniclers make you the cause of all my troubles," he pauses "or at least some of it. Now give me the news! Spit it out! How fares the north?"

"The rebellion has been defeated, they will be arriving with today's reinforcements and will be ready for your judgment. The craftsmen have already been notified of the event and your prepared statement will be raised in stelae. I found a place earlier that would make for a good relief. You can come see it once your obsession with this city is over." He pauses. "Maybe you can bring your Showguni mistress too. With how much you talk about her, I'd love to meet her." He grins mischievously.

Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign rolls his eyes and snorts.

"I should have you punished for referring to a high lady of the Shogunate like that, but you would probably find some way to enjoy it. I figure you women would get along perfectly."

Referring to the lady Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift as his mistress had quickly become Jewel's favorite irreverent joke the last month. If anyone else were to make the same joke, the punishment would not be a joke.

Jewel laughs and accepts defeat, and Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign turns where he stands.

"Come! We have much to do." Jewel laughs behind him but patiently follows, both men leaping to their horses again.


When the armies arrive, it is like the earth shakes.

Outside the camp, a muster square has been made ready. The ground has been flattened and earth has been raised in a small hill of packed earth to make room for the Mirza's dais. It would be impossible to fit the army that comes marching to the Nezremand by midday into a single camp. His personal companies and the troops of the encampment are already mustered and standing at attention, and he as Shogun observes from the dais. And from east and west all Yalpagesh comes to greet them.

From Yalpagesh, where the empire was first built and the twelve Alpa tribes reside and drive their herds across the hilly landscape, come armored soldiers upon horses. Their armor clatters and their banners flutter in the wind. Their helmets are fitted with long, flowing horsehair crests, whether infantry or cavalry. From the salaried infantry troops to the aristocratic cavalrymen, they are the richest of his soldiers and the most well-equipped. They will join his personal companies under the command of his sister Thirdborn-Radiant.

From the lands of the Sea Peoples, where men never live the same place for long and always sail on their communal boats, come troops equipped in bronze and iron. No two soldiers look the same, for among the Sea Peoples, all men must arm themselves. They go armed with bronze and iron alike, and only their distinctive waxed tunics meant to hold against the waters of the sea is a uniform to them. Their skin is harsh from the air of the sea and the sun of the open heavens.

From the northern lands, formerly under the command of rebellious princes who resisted his father's conquest, come loyal soldiers in colorful tunics bearing rattan shields. "Worthy! Worthy! Worthy!" they shout as they pass him in their lamellars, and with them come riding the same princes who betrayed him and made rebellion against his rule. Those he will punish when the army is fully assembled. He smiles at them. Their loyalty is a gift.

From what the Showguni language terms the Eastern Military District and the Shabkhost, come troops from lands conquered by his father and his grandfather. In those provinces, many own land of their own, and in the finery of their equipment, they come only second to the Yalpa. In the Showguni tradition, there are many women among the soldiers as well. He has gotten used to see their faces among the Showguni soldiers. Some of his own soldiers gawk at them. It is an unusual sight in Yalpageshi domains.

And from the other provinces come more soldiers, more regiments, each exemplifying the martial traditions of their land as an addition to Yalpagesh. Each regiment and host marches in the order of the Yalpageshi army described in the Unfolding of Ten Thousand Scrolls. He hopes that if the Showgunis are watching from within their walls, the literary reference will not be lost on them. He has little doubt it will. Fallen as they are, they still know their classics. They wrote them, after all.

The Shogun-Mirza looks upon his army, fivefold the size of the greatest host in all the classics in which Yalpagesh figures. And twice the size of what his father could command. And he looks upon the distant City and smiles.



With the exception of Yatta Asma all of the rebels, who now before him and await his judgment, are men. All of them are nakharars; powerful northern landowners. His father had delegated the task of government in the northern provinces upon such people in exchange for autonomy in their own affairs. A wise decision on his part, the Shogun-Mirza reflects. A wise decision and a frustrating betrayal, that such a favorable compact betrayed. He stops himself in the thought.

"It is tradition," He begins, and they immediately tense up, "that any who heareth the voice of the Shogun at court, from his own throat, must be brought to death." He leaves a pregnant pause.

World-ruling
sovereign of Creation,
in thy shadow: refuge
in thy piercing gazes: death.
O sun.

The poem comes to him naturally. He doesn't recite it, merely lets it flow through his mind, playing around with the syllables, substituting the characters for others as he desires. It's a panegyric. A praise-poem written for Eight Vermilion Grasping Creation. Though perhaps its author may have had other thoughts in mind than executions when he wrote of the famously desired Shogun-Banu—who remained unmarried until her death—and her "piercing gazes" bringing death. Though, perhaps it came to his mind for other reasons than the execution about to unfold as well.

"Ye have revolted against the authority of the crown-dispensing Shogun, to whom is granted the Creation-Ruling Mandate, and in accordance with Heaven's will ye have been brought to heel and made to kneel. Heaven hath never pardoned an unrighteous rebel against the Creation-Governing Shogunate." He catches the eyes of a few of them, locking his gaze with the slightly balding Virqosh of Esmekhat, who swiftly looks away.

He suppresses a smile.

"Heaven hath ever given death as a reward to those who betray." The last time he had someone utterly at his mercy, she did not give him the courtesy of kneeling. Would he have preferred that? He furrows his brows at the intrusive thought. He steels his voice, and tries to look at none of them in particular.

"A decade and two years ago, my virtuous father—may the Dragons protect his soul—brought into the patrimony of the House of Semerw, ye and all your land. Whoever went against him was killed, whoever bowed to him was spared. The cruel rulers of the northern lands, he deposed, and ye, the powerful, the nakharars, he took into his court and made his most devoted of slaves. Alas, when my treasonous brother sought to bar me from the throne that was rightfully mine, ye broke loyalty to the domain of my father, who had broken bread with ye."

He pauses. The mood of the room is somber. They know they are going to die. Why aren't they protesting? Why aren't they shouting at him? He grits his teeth in annoyance, and the image of the lady Eight Vermilion—who was now acclaimed co-Shogun with her mother—standing in front of him with the sword in her hand, comes to mind.

She had also been so perfectly calm. She had met his poem with one of her own, even. At least none of the rebels that now kneeled before him had any poems to recite, or any clever refutals. Instead, a voice inside him laughed bitterly: They happen to be perfectly content and resigned with the fact that you are going to order their deaths. That is certainly going to win the hearts of the City. Behold our coming Yalpageshig lord and his slain prisoners; here passes the barbarian conqueror who has destroyed the Shogunate and all who resist him are condemned to death.

His hand is raised; ready for motioning to his Voice to enumerate their crimes and call for their deaths. He doesn't move it. It is as if a lump has formed within his throat. His arm has the weight of lead. Heavier. Much heavier. Even the passage of air against his skin annoys him. It is so fresh; the breeze distracts him! He should not notice such things, he tells himself, it is merely the difficulty of the situation.

But why is it difficult to him?

Lady Holiest Gift standing before him, returning his taunt with an elegant poem of her own.

He lowers his hand and closes his eyes in contemplation. He can sense his Voice's gaze on him. This is not how the ritual is meant to go.

Lady Holiest Gift and her City; prizes he could not have without ruining or hurting them.

He sighs and raises his hand. Conscience and desire are too powerful, he concludes, and men are too weak. He doesn't open his eyes, but in his mind, he can see the surprise and he can hear the gasps.

He signals to his Voice and bids the pardoned be escorted from his tent.

Shining jewel,
glittering for all.
The hand that grasps,
smothers light and the luster

He preserves the caesura in his mind. Tries to feel the way his heart all but ceased to beat at the silence. Tries to imagine how he could have responded and comes up dumbfounded as every other time.

is lost.

When he is alone in his tent. He laughs bitterly to himself. What is the point of seizing a crown if one cannot have its crowning jewel?



The shrines are not impromptu or ad hoc, every unit has one, and they are expected to maintain them and keep them ready. Today on the occasion, Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign leads his companies in meditation, as individual heads of the tent groups lead their tents in meditation. On the open field where tens of thousands of soldiers are now assembled, he does not think all the soldiers of even his companies alone can see him, let alone hear him. But they do not need to. As long as they mimic the movements of other soldiers, they will perform correctly. And they do perform correctly.

His back is facing the altar, he is facing his soldiers. All of them are standing. There are noises in the background, but it is like the world is silent.

The great bells and cymbals ring. The drummers begin. He turns to face north like his soldiers. They chant in tact with the slow rhythm of the drumming.

He calls out with the chant's first line. They respond. He calls out with the fourth and the fifth. They fall to their hands and feet. They prostrate themselves five times before the Five Dragons, and the legacy of their ancestors.

The cymbals call out. They rise. They face east, west and south. They repeat the prayer.

The cymbals call out. They seat themselves. They meditate. He does not know what his soldiers think of. Hopefully nothing. He thinks of not-so-distant cities and a harsh-eyed woman, of his brother's punctured lungs upon the spear, of Jewel's smile and a burning sun within him.

He wishes he thought of nothing.

He calls for the meditation to end. The cymbals call out. He is first to leave.



He is alone in his tent again. The sun is not going down yet, but it won't be long. He can sense it. He always can. Every time he closes his eyes, it is as if all barriers are dispersed with, and his inner eyelids become the sky. The sun is always shining in his mind. His eyes idly follow its position through the walls of the tent. Clouds would have made no difference.

The army is routing. The Showgunis and their traitor Yalpageshis have destroyed his center, and they are fleeing the monstrous pursuit. The battle is lost. He thinks he shall not raise a new army after this. He will be defeated forever. Anger fills his heart. His brother may have made himself a servant of this Showguni general, but he will die free as a man of Yalpagesh should.

"Thy divine presence, my heavenly Shogun, thou desired my presence?" The woman's voice calls out, uncertainty filling her voice. She is unsure of the meeting's purpose and falls back on court speech.

"I did. Drop the court speech. I have no need for a subject." He sounds tired. He is.

"Thou art my Shogun and I am but the humblest of slaves, but very well." Her voice is not uncertain. It is concerned.

He grimaces, and she cannot see it. How, he wonders, would the world have been different if he had died that day?

He rallies his cavalry, he raises his spear for blood. He impales one, two, three, four. His flank is making a return while the center caves in. He thinks of an ancient Yalpageshi—not Showguni—poem and recites it in his head:

Do not cultivate a vineyard, you'll be bound.
Do not cultivate the grains, you'll be ground.
Pull the camel, herd the sheep.
A day will come, you'll be crowned.

He lets his body drop and sinks into a chair with his whole weight. It is as if his spirit leaves him in the blink of an eye, and his body suddenly feels so heavy. This would be most unacceptable behavior for a Shogun before anyone else.

It is still unacceptable. Just because you like the person does not make it not unacceptable.

The sun is in his eyes and with the Showgunis, but it does not blind him. His sight is only clearer. As if thousands of clashing soldiers across the battlefield did not exist, he can see the infantry on the other side are following. They are slower, and they are hesitating, but they see him - they see him! - and they are following in a bloody crescent. The Showgunis are without the protection of their wagons. Where is his treacherous brother?

"Men were not meant for such a throne." He sighs. "Though I suppose you would not know much of that."

He doesn't look at her, and she carefully approaches him. She takes far too much care not to disturb him. He sighs again. Why must women be so careful with all things? He often wonders. Though if men are all like this, perhaps it is only sensible that they are so careful. He dismisses the thought.

"No, I suppose not." She agrees. She is next to him now. One of her manicured hands is on his cheek.

"Thrones are meant to support their inhabitants, not to be borne by them like a burden." She adds gingerly.

He closes his eyes in frustration. He did guess she would say something like that. He wants to roll his eyes at her and bite back, but she's still right. Unfortunately. She's right, but nonetheless does not understand. Can she be made to understand?

The Showguni line is surging forward and his line is buckling, retreating. It's a controlled retreat. He realizes. They are seeing him. Somehow, they are seeing him. They have faith in him. Worthy! Worthy! Worthy! He thinks he can hear them chanting. He looks around the battlefield for his treacherous brother or at least the Showguni general. He finds the former and spurs his horse onwards.

"Is this the matter of your woman, lord, or deeper matters?" Her voice is tender, so careful. As if he is a piece of glass that could shatter. One of her hands is on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.

"Not everything that troubles men is about women. You of all should know that."

He cannot see her face, but he knows that she is blushing and smiling. The touch of one of her hands disappears briefly, likely to adjust her tresses. He has seen the same gesture many times.

"Many are." She responds. He can hear the smile in her voice, and he permits himself a weak smile as well. An indulgence.

"Though I take it this one is not?"

He hesitates and sighs again. Perhaps he sighs too much. It might be unhealthy. His father had always said that if you sigh too much, you might breathe out your soul and fall to the ground. Just like that. Though he always smiled as he did. It did not take much work for a little boy named Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign to figure out that he was being tricked.

"I do not know." He finally says.

His brother sees him coming. He loosens an arrow from his bow, but it strikes his armor ineffectually. His brother, not to be dismissed, spurs the horse onwards and loosens more arrows. His skill is beautiful. He remembers his brother teaching him how to string his bow when he was younger, and how to hit a bird in flight. He always liked to joke about it: "When you must kill me to take the throne; make sure to shoot at my head like this!" He had enjoyed those kinds of jokes. Perhaps too much. He spurs his horse onwards, towards the brother-turned-traitor.

He closes his eyes and furrows his brow, letting himself sink deeper.

"Just earlier today, you saw it today, the soldiers from the north, they chanted my name. Worthy! They called me." He begins, and can already feel the bitterness seeping into his voice.

"And here I am: Sparing rebels because I see her judging me, lamenting that I murdered my own brother—the traitor he was—that I was raised to think of defeating in the first place, and Anathematized by heaven. You know these things. You were there."

He clenches his fists, so his knuckles go white. He can sense her opening her mouth to speak, but he won't let her. He continues.

"And here, my soldiers chant that I am worthy, that I am a radiant and divine Shogun who will resurrect the glories of the past and walk in the footsteps of the one who grasped Creation and that I will seize the City and raise her up carefully with the tenderness that one should treat an empress. It is a facade, a farce."

She is silent, and the pause is pregnant. For a while, neither of them say anything at all. He cannot bear it. He speaks again.

"And then I tell you—whom I have entrusted to hold my life in your hands—that this is not a matter of women. And I lie to you, because the goal that every Agha of Yalpagesh loves to fantasize about with his brothers when he is still a boy and which every Mirza has dreamed of in silent nights is within my grasp: The ability to take the City, to grasp Keinginan-i-Gehan and once again clothe her in the robes of majesty and make her a lady to outshine the Imperial City of the Realm. And it is outshone. Outdone. All the City and its majesty is nothing to me when I know that she is also outside my grasp!"

He presses the horse on, whirling and circling. He doesn't answer the challenge, doesn't try to shoot any arrows back. His brother is the superior in this game, and knows well to keep his cavalry screen around him to prevent his little brother's cavalry from encircling him. But in the charge, Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign is his brother's superior.

He is almost spent and has nothing more to say. Almost. The words come stumbling out of his throat as if on their own accord.

"She steps into my life for just an hour and I am made obsessed with her. All my predecessors and all my forefathers, all of them have had one dream-" he is raising his voice, "-to seize the City and make it theirs! Why am I the one cursed to be Anathematized to all Creation and have the strength to take the City and then to fall madly in love with a woman who should rightly despise me for everything I represent and rather kill herself than suffer a heartbeat in the captivity of the Anathema?"

She reaches out for him, and the cursed mark on his brow lights up. He cannot see it, but he knows the source of the light that now radiates from his forehead is an eight-spoked sun.


As with last time the mark crowned his brow, memories that feel like his own but which he does not remember living through caress the edges of his mind. He forces the thought away, presses it to the dark corners of his mind.

She flinches at the display. He winces, deflated. The voice that escapes his throat is hollow.

"Forgive me. I should not have…"

He trails off and looks at her. He has nothing more to say.

One would not think that she had once been a slave of the lowest kind. Dark and curly tresses frame a face that he is sure has broken many hearts. Her blushing cheeks have been compared to roses in poetry and the smile that plays even now on her red lips, he is sure, must have inspired many dreams in hopeless suitors. Her aristocratic cheekbones fit well in a face that has perfectly outgrown the emaciation of slavery and her emerald eyes are perfectly accentuated by the jade side comb that secures her loose hair bun. To him, she is simply a treasured companion and friend.

She is silent.

"I am going to be her death." He says, frankly. She remains silent.

"I am going to drive her to suicide. If my soldiers do not kill her. If I do not do it myself." He slumps over. All power has left his body.

They dance for what feels like days. One by one, he cuts off his brother's escape routes, no matter how difficult. And it is difficult. His brother is so very skilled. He should be dead by now. Many times over. But now, the two of them are facing and Seizing-Prey-like-a-Falcon has no more arrows. And now two brothers can speak like brothers should. Like brothers should when they are on a battlefield and are trying to murder each other. This isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to his brother. Could they not simply have wrestled? Could father not simply have appointed an heir?

She reaches out to touch him. He lets her.

"When I was yet a slave," she begins and he flinches. He dislikes hearing of this part of her life, from before they knew each other. She deserved better.

Spear versus spear, the brother-princes are dancing; the boar against the falcon.

"I was in the habit of praying to the sun for my salvation. I thought that surely it would no matter who brought me my freedom. I was not misguided and knew well the selfishness for such an act, and when the man who owned me had me whipped and instructed that such worship is the act of ignorant idolaters, I remembered every kiss of the whip and listed my injuries in my prayers."

He is the boar and his might is beyond compare. But the falcon is swift, and the falcon is clever; his spear-tusk is shattered and he is growing exhausted.

"I never grew disillusioned. I did not expect my liberation, anyways. And one day came the armies of the Sublime State and your father turned his wrath upon nakharars like the man who owned me."

The falcon swoops in for the kill upon an exhausted boar, but a falcon's beak is little pain for a boar to bear and instinct takes over. He twists his body a little and lets the spear pierce straight into his arm, grabbing the shaft with his other arm.

"To the slaves of nakharars who did not bow, he promised freedom. If only they opposed their masters. It was very simple. It was thought that I was broken, that my faith was only an expression of my own idiosyncracy, and not a sign of disobedience; something for the monks to figure out. I could not secure a weapon, but a cooking knife from the kitchen proved an easy trinket to get."

The falcon's eyes are wide-open in shock. He snaps the shaft in half with merely an expression of strength and pulls the weapon from his very flesh.

"My owner never woke. Not properly. He bled out and choked on his own blood. There were others there too; other slaves like me. But we didn't know each other. Not properly. Some of them might not even have known who I was when I told them they were free."

The movement is fast. Like lightning. The spear is in his hand and he pounces.

"I almost died before I made it to your father's camp. I barely knew where to go, and I was terrified by the soldiers. But you saved me, didn't you? You and your scouting party found me half-dead by the side of the road and took me with you. When your father was told what I had done he laughed."

The falcon doesn't get time to react. He is in the path of the boar and the stolen tusk gores him in the lungs upon its bloody tip.

"He said that he had come with an army of free men and expecting to merely conquer, but that he would leave with an army of slaves, having triumphed." She smiles wistfully.

His brother coughs up blood. Is he smiling? He tries to form words, but the blood is blocking his airways. Why is the sun so bright?

"But I knew," she says in a whisper, "that I had finally been sent my sun."

The boar looks on with horror. Had he not meant this? To win the throne?

"Your woman in the City; she is enslaved as well. Not like me, by chains and whips, but by the City she serves. You know that when a Shogun is made, a torc is placed around her neck and she has to refuse the title. It is not her choice after all. And she is bound so tightly, she has nowhere else to go. She has only the City and the Shogunate. I don't think she could even think of it; did you not see how she looked when the two of you met? She has only this obligation. She is more powerful than I have ever been, but she is less free than I ever was."

The Shogunal army is routing. Their commander has been captured, he is told by a soldier he thinks looks like his brother.

"Be her sun too. Liberate her as well. She is as bound as I was." A tear is rolling down her cheek, he notices. But she is smiling.

He did it.

He sighs, but it is out of exhaustion, and fills his heart with resolve. He rises from the chair and stands more than a head above her.

"I would like to meet her, I think," she says.

He is Mirza of Yalpagesh.

He nods. And turns towards the exit of the tent.

"Do you want to for a ride?" He asks her. And it's a sincere question. He would quite likea ride.

Is his father proud of him? Will his remaining brothers acquiesce?

"I would love to." She smiles again.

It has to be worth it.

"Then let us free ourselves from this ennui and be off." He laughs. It's not a proper laugh.

But it's a start.

It must be worth it.

Is it?

Article:

The Shogun-Mirza of Yalpagesh has filled his heart with resolve and is preparing for the siege of Keinginan-i-Gehan. The next update will be a similar character study of Gift's best friend and mistress of the robes, Twelve White Calm Wave.

An enemy, a beloved, a victim. But how does Ruling-Exalted-Like-a-Sovereign see Holiest Gift? Choose one.

[ ] A Fated Tragedy: Like Nine Saffron Impassioned Exhortation, the Shogun who had presided over the City's sacking, Holiest Gift has found herself a victim of fate. Destiny's hand has arrayed her against him and only one victor can emerge. The Shogun-Mirza will gain a Major Tie of Sympathy to Holiest Gift.

[ ] A Worthy Adversary: Like Eight Vermilion Grasping Creation, the Shogun who conquered all her enemies, Holiest Gift's reach is infinite but her grasp is not. A fearsome and clever rival who will fight to the last, her ambition is nonetheless her undoing. The Shogun-Mirza will gain a Major Tie of Rivalry to Holiest Gift.

[ ] A Caged Bird: Unlike Six Gold Surrounding Glory, the Shogun who moved the capital west, Holiest Gift does not live in an age of glories. She could accomplish great things but, constrained by her circumstances, is chained to the survival of a state that only holds her back. The Shogun-Mirza will gain a Major Tie of Despondency to Holiest Gift.