Chapter Text
On September 9th in Gaiesburg Fortress, Siegfried Kircheis stopped an assassin and saved the life of his friend—and, as it would turn out, of himself.
When Ansbach aimed the hand cannon at Reinhard von Lohengramm, Kircheis had tackled the man with such force that he broke the assailant’s wrist. As it turned out, that had prevented Ansbach from using his second weapon, a laser gun concealed in a signet ring. There was no telling what would have happened without this singular stroke of fortune. This would not be evident until they examined the assassin’s body, at which point Reinhard grew paler than Kircheis had ever seen him.
“Kircheis, how could you do something so reckless?”
“I could not have done anything else, Lord Reinhard.”
That much was true. His body had moved before he consciously willed it to. In that moment he had known no fear—no, that was not exactly correct. He had not feared for himself, but when the assassin took aim at Reinhard, he had stood on the precipice of the greatest fear he had ever known.
And now, with both of them safe, he was overcome with an incomparable relief. So much had changed in an instant, against such odds—it was as though anything was possible.
“What if something had happened to you? Who did such a poor job of searching Ansbach before he entered this room? I thought I made it clear incompetence was not to be rewarded.” Whenever Reinhard was shaken, he concealed it with righteous fury. This was transparent to Kircheis, who almost found it comical. If they were still boys, now would be the time to take Reinhard aside and console him with a cup of hot cocoa, listen to him rant while his fingers idly found their way to Kircheis’s hair. But things were different now—oh, they were very different now. (Because anything was possible.)
“It would have been simpler if I’d been permitted to carry a weapon, Lord Reinhard.”
Was he cruel for saying that? Cruelty was not in Siegfried Kircheis’s vocabulary, but he knew his words were meant to discomfit. That was for Reinhard’s benefit, surely. It was ever his role to remind his dear friend of his mistakes. If he had a selfish motive it was only a very small portion. He could allow himself that, surely?
In the past, it had always been Reinhard who made him feel that anything was possible. But he, Kircheis, was the one who changed the course of history today. (Because of himself, anything was possible. And what did that signify?)
A shimmer like the melting of ice flashed across Reinhard’s eyes. “You will be permitted to do so from now on. It was a mistake for me to think otherwise.”
“Your Excellency, if I may—” Oberstein interjected.
“Haven’t you done enough? I wished for a subordinate, not a sower of dissent or a human shield. Neither of which you have been particularly good at.” This last part because Oberstein, to his credit, had tried to shield Reinhard during the attack, but it was ultimately a superfluous gesture.
Oberstein excused himself, looking neither offended nor surprised. Heroically ignoring the fact that the admirals were beginning to whisper amongst themselves (Bittenfeld, in particular, was wearing a shit-eating grin), Reinhard took Kircheis by the arm and pulled him from the room.
“Forgive me, Kircheis.”
Since taking Gaiesburg Fortress, Kircheis had not been in Reinhard’s private quarters, which had been appropriated from one of the higher-ranking nobles. The rooms were ornately decorated, the bed covered in the most luxurious sheets he had ever beheld. Reinhard sat down on the bed with a dramatic thump and looked up at him. “I’ve been sleeping dreadfully,” he added.
“In here, Lord Reinhard?”
“Strange, right? This is objectively the most comfortable room I’ve ever slept in.” There was something charmingly petulant about Reinhard’s face when he remarked on the most unremarkable of matters, but the look was quickly replaced by one of sincerity. “I’ve treated you terribly.”
“That isn’t important. What is important is that you do the right thing—”
“I placed you in danger. I dared to imagine that I could do without your counsel. If anything had happened—no, I can’t even think of it. I swear to you, Kircheis, I shall never do such a thing again.”
It was impossible for Kircheis not to be swayed by these words. The adrenaline of the earlier encounter had worn off, and he felt a softening of his heart, a weary warmth in his limbs. He knew very well how difficult it was for his friend to overcome his pride and make a genuine apology. The thought of Reinhard in this room, alone and anguished, sleepless…if he’d known he would have come to him earlier, decorum be damned.
But still, that newly selfish part of him wanted to ask: what is it exactly that you will never do again? Do you feel more guilt over how you’ve treated me than the deaths of the two million innocents of Westerland? What, my friend, are you actually apologizing for?
Yet he could not ask. Surely Reinhard had come to the right conclusions, and besides, when he got that look on his face, he could be awfully persuasive.
“I am ever your loyal subordinate,” Kircheis said, testing, this stubborn deference the only defiance he allowed himself.
“Enough of that! When I asked you what you were to me, that wasn’t what I meant. You are more than that, Kircheis. More than a subordinate, more than a friend, more than—oh, don’t just stand there!”
Kircheis sat.
“Well?”
“Well what, Lord Reinhard?”
“Is this not the softest bed you’ve ever sat on, Kircheis?” Reinhard now appeared to be suffering from a deep agitation entirely mismatched to the banality of his words. He suddenly could not meet Kircheis’s eyes, even though earlier he had not broken his gaze.
“I suppose so. It is true we had not known such comforts in our student days—”
“Are you stupid!” Reinhard turned his entire head away.
“I’m afraid not, Lord Reinhard.”
The smile that appeared on Kircheis’s face was blameless as he lowered Reinhard onto the bed in a swift but gentle motion. His friend blinked up at him in surprise and delight that he quickly tried to conceal with defiance. “Well, good! I’d thought all that red hair was making your skull thicker—”
“Lord Reinhard.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t say anything else.” And then he closed the space between them, found the familiarity of the other’s lips. The stars hung silent in the cosmos. The artificial planet revolved slowly underneath them. They were adrift, but—finally—they were not far from home.
(Anything was possible—and so, everything was right.)
Anything could be possible, but that did not mean anything should.
The attempt on Reinhard’s life required a culprit. There already existed a culprit who by all appearances had acted alone, but that was insufficient. It was then said that the man behind the plot was Duke Lichtenlade, the Imperial Prime Minister and one of Reinhard’s few remaining opponents. With Gaiesburg captured and no army to defend him, the minister would easily be captured and put to death. His closest associates would meet the same fate; whatever sympathizers remained would disavow him in the aftermath. No one would remain to challenge Reinhard in the Empire. So it was decided. (By whom?)
On some level Kircheis understood the rationale for this fabrication. It was a matter of political expedience. Certainly a threat like Lichtenlade had to be removed, even if the manner left something to be desired. Certainly he wanted his dearest friend to be unimpeded in seizing the universe. And yet—
“To exile the women and children of his household to the far frontier is cruel,” he said. “And to condemn the men, regardless of their guilt—that isn’t like you, Lord Reinhard. No one chooses the family they are born into.”
“I know that!” Winter lightning flashed across Reinhard’s eyes. His own family association had brought him fortune and misfortune both; Kircheis knew he did not need to be reminded. “But we cannot afford the luxury of mercy now. We cannot leave anyone free to avenge themselves upon us.”
“Lord Reinhard—”
“Suppose they make another assassination attempt, in earnest? Suppose they came after you?”
The tremor in his friend’s delicate features told the truth. Their brush with death had shaken Reinhard, and not out of fear for his own life. He desired the assurance that such danger could never approach his friend again, and for that no amount of blood was too much to spill. For a moment Kircheis was speechless. “This would set a poor precedent,” he finally said. “We must differentiate ourselves from the old empire, and show that we act for the greater good.”
“Is it not for the greater good to secure a quick victory, a quick peace? I know what you are thinking, Kircheis.” Reinhard looked as pained as some classical sculpture of a fallen angel. “This is different than what had happened before. This is…this is not Westerland. Lichtenlade’s family and associates are parasites who have profited off their status and titles. If there are innocents among them…it is a small price to pay.”
“I cannot argue with that, Lord Reinhard. I only pray you think about it for longer.”
“I could have gone ahead without consulting you, but I am here talking it through with you now.”
“I know.”
“So really this is for the best, Kircheis.”
And this was all he could ask for, Kircheis realized. For Reinhard to always give him an audience, a voice—but in the future where Reinhard reigned supreme over the galaxy, that voice would not be enough to sway him. What they discussed today was a small matter, and the fates of Lichtenlade’s household ultimately not worth defending. But tomorrow? The next year?
There would not be another Westerland, no. But all that meant was that there would not be another Westerland for which Kircheis was not present, not consulted for an opinion that would be overruled. This was what Kircheis had pledged himself to when he swore to protect his friend, to look after him, to stand by him as he took the universe. The realities of war the past few years had made that amply clear to him. There would be another deception, another atrocity, another slaughter.
And in every aftermath there would be another apology. Reinhard would look at him with the same sincerity he had worn, the day they had barely escaped the hand of fate. Forgive me, Kircheis. I shall never do something like that again. And he would believe him.
This was what Siegfried Kircheis had won when he risked his life for his friend, this was the privilege he had earned for himself. The right to forgive him and forgive him and forgive him, but not to change his mind. The right for all their future kisses to be stamped in blood.
“I don’t like it when you admonish me with your eyes, Kircheis.”
“I am not doing that, Lord Reinhard.” A moment passed, and though he could have said nothing, he chose to speak what he already knew was too harsh. “I am admonishing myself.”
“And for what? Evidently you think you are in the right here,” Reinhard said with a huff.
“I was mistaken. There was a danger to being your right hand, after all. You would compromise your principles, your mercy, for me. The moment you see me in danger, you would do it faster than for anything else, even for this entire universe.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
There was a scorching desperation to Reinhard’s voice. Their faces were very close, and Kircheis could see every detail of Reinhard’s features, the incandescent light catching on his eyelashes. His friend’s motivations were awkwardly transparent. If in the heat of the moment their dispute turned into a physical intimacy instead, then at least all would be forgotten for now. All he had to do was acquiesce.
“I cannot presume so much, Marquis von Lohengramm,” Kircheis said, and this time he left Reinhard sitting speechless on the bed.
It had been too much. Instinctively Kircheis knew that. For the first time, he felt that he was the one at fault, but how to rectify that was unclear.
He called Annerose, asked after her, asked her to advise her brother—gently, to guide him toward his better nature, words to that effect. He spent those few minutes in a daze, saying words that amounted to nothing, and the next day Reinhard appeared even more cross with him. “You both ask each other to lecture me,” his dearest friend said. “I don’t like such cowardice.”
It was not cowardice, but he did not know what name to give it. Could he change Reinhard’s course, and did he wish to? And if not, could he still be said to keep his promise?
The hour was late when he found himself in the Gun Room, the officer’s club at Gaiesburg. Kircheis was a man of healthful habits, and no one had ever seen him drinking alone. But at present he did not know what else to do with himself. He poured himself a drink and took a seat—brooded, he supposed, although he did not know how one was meant to brood. The other officers in the room looked at him skeptically, but seemed to know better than to meddle. The infamous Twin Stars put their heads together and whispered for a moment, and then appeared to commit to drinking themselves to death rather than ask him what in the gods’ names was going on. After another few minutes, Müller stood up and came to his seat.
“Good evening, Admiral Müller.”
“Good evening, High Admiral Kircheis. …Lord Reinhard is truly a godly visage, isn’t he. Personage. I meant personage.”
“…I suppose so.”
“If he seems troubled—none of us wish to see it, right? The officers’ morale…it’s like a cloud across the sun…what I am saying is…”
“What are you saying, Admiral Müller?”
The young admiral was evidently drunk. He glanced unsteadily behind himself, as if seeking assurance from more nefarious parties who had put him up to this task. “I am saying…ah, my apologies, Your Excellency. If only there was some way to put Lord Reinhard’s mind at ease…if only there was someone…right? Wouldn’t that be what everyone desires?”
Before Kircheis could respond, Müller saluted him and walked off with exaggerated formality. Kircheis shook his head and stared into his drink once more. If everyone was counting on him to make things right—he had made a promise to one person, long ago, but it seemed now his duty was to an entire half of the universe. He bristled at that, even if it was what he had wanted.
The liquor held no answers. It was the witching hour when he finally stood to leave, the club by now empty save for one other person who had appeared without a sound. Kircheis stared at him for a moment, and then, as if he had taken leave of his senses, suddenly spoke.
“What do you make of it, Admiral?”
As expected, Ernst von Eisenach made no response, only meeting his eyes with an attentive gaze. Many had wondered how such a taciturn man had ever managed to woo his wife, but Kircheis thought it was natural that one could communicate to one’s beloved without words. That was something they had in common, so he felt comfortable spilling his thoughts to Eisenach now.
“I do not mean to prolong this quarrel with Lord Reinhard. But I fear that, even after all we have been through, he will not choose the path of greater benevolence. That I shall make him worse. That perhaps even those slanders are right and I am his weakness. He asked me what I am to him, once. Now I have the answer, but I fear it is not one that is good for this universe.”
His listener blinked.
“Ah, but why am I asking someone who I do not expect to respond? Just look at me. I suppose I’m all out of ideas.”
Eisenach looked toward the window, so Kircheis looked as well. So late at night the vastness of space seemed especially dark, the stars especially brilliant, every light a spark of defiance against the void. This was what he had sworn to give to his friend, when they were both young and the grandeur of that promise had not yet been steeped in blood. Anything had seemed possible, then.
(Anything was still possible, but should it be?)
“I must not lose sight of what is important—that is what you are trying to say, right?”
Eisenach shrugged, as if to indicate that he was not, in fact, trying to say anything. Kircheis laughed. “My apologies for imposing myself on you, Admiral. I shall be off—”
At this Eisenach held up one hand, a gesture imbued with a strange sort of gravity. And then—Kircheis already knew that no one would believe him if he repeated the story—the silent admiral looked at him and spoke.
“Go to bed,” he said.
And that was precisely what Kircheis did.