Work Text:
Wyrmward of the Drakenkirk docks, Year 167 of the Era of Rebirth
He was sitting there like any other day. On any other day he would come and smoke and watch the ships sail by as the dockhands obscured his vision. He didn’t mind though, he used to be one of them anyhow, until he retired, at least. He was fortunate like that, all his life. People always commented on it, on how he went about life and things simply turned out well for him.
He was hoping today was one of those special days.
His eyes gazed down the dock by chance as he spotted the new duke strutting along. He had mindlessly bumped into a young man no older than some twenty winters. A mistake anyone could make, especially when they don’t pay attention to where their feet are taking them, gazing at all the fancy cranes and weathered ships.
“Why, you insolent brat!” cried the duke. Or at least, that’s what the old man thought he heard, his hearing wasn’t what it used to be, “How dare you bumble into me like some brainless child!”
“A thousand apologies, m’lord!” the poor lad mumbled back as he desperately failed to gather the spilled contents of the crate he was carrying. His hands were shaking so much so that he struggled to pick up the fruit, or the bundles, or the balls, or whatever they were. The old man couldn’t see, not from this distance.
He groaned as he stood up, slowly making his way down the docks towards the growing commotion. His bones may as well have been dust by this point, he’d made this walk far too many times. The briny air had become equally familiar to him. He still relished the way it hung in his nose, though he could do without the hints of fish and sewage in all honesty. He always hated fish. And sewage, but that went without saying.
“That’s not good enough” declared the good duke, the gracious duke, the most kind and wonderful duke, “on your knees” he finished, tilting his nose in the air.
“W-what?” the dockhand stuttered out, dropping what gourds he held as they plopped to the ground, cracking open in squishy thuds over the boards of the docks.
“You heard me, peasant—” the lord protested, “—I said on your knees. Grovel.” The duke’s foot stamped the ground, and it reminded the old man of a child demanding a toy or pastry. Utterly shameful.
“I…” the boy trailed off, looking at the crowd gathering around them, and he looked back at the duke, stomping his foot in a much more forceful fashion that caused the duke to startle back, “No, I don’t think I will, my lord. I’m sorry for our bumping together, but I was raised with honor and pride. Pa always said: never kneel to the undeserving, and better to never kneel at all.” Pride beamed through his eyes as his expression remained steely, though there were the tiniest cracks in his armor; a twitch here, a darting gaze there, and a step back upon realizing the dragon he just poked awake. This boy was made of iron, but that would not save him.
“Oh. Oh! That does it!” shrilled the duke, stomping over and over and over again back and forth, “I’ll have your head! Guards! Seize him!” and with those words sealed the boy’s fate. Burly men in chainmail and orderly tabards emblemed with the sigil of the city—the silhouette of a dragon’s head topped by three crowns—step from either side of the duke and grab the boy who struggles to keep his footing amidst the fruity carnage at his feet. He can’t help but think that’s what he’ll look like in the box sent home to his mother and father.
But before they could drag him to his demise, the old man stepped forth from the crowd, calling out with hands waving in the air. Something he learned in his time laboring was that, sometimes, the sewage simply must be delt with, “Wait! Wait! Please, I beg of ye, wait.”
“Who is this stinking madman?” the duke said, turning a nose up to the old man only to pinch it with a gilded metal clamp, bejeweled with cushioned pincers specially for his comfort. The old man could barely keep his stomach from turning over at the sight of him.
“I’m a simple ol’ dock worker past his prime” the old man continued in an even tone, “I have seen many great days, many horrible days. This lad has yet to see many at all. I beg of ye, take your wrath out on me and spare the lad for his insolence” at which said lad looked mildly offended, but knew better than to make a scene of it as the duke weighed and measured the old man before him. Carefully, he looked the man up and down before gazing him in the eye. It was long and hard fought, peering into one another’s souls in a battle of will and charisma.
The duke broke first, his vision stuttering to the young man and waving his hand in a slightly more fluid motion from the dock worker to the old man. The guards let the lad go, moving to the old man and slapping manacles on his wrists in a painful jolt against his worn joints.
But it was alright, the lad would go free and he would die in his place. He had lived a long life, a full life, he was content with what the gods had served him. He had loved, lost, and gained so much more. He was ready to go. It was his time. Though he couldn’t help but sense the unease from the crowd, the fear. All they could do was stand by and watch as terror reigned over their heads. They needed to be provoked, reminded of the power they held.
And he had enough left in his old bones to do just that. Or so he hoped.
“Hear me now!” The old man mustered with all his might, barely raising his weighted hands above his head. He had nothing left to lose, let his final hour be grand “I save this boy not just for his life, but for the lives of all our sons and daughters! For the people preyed upon by this child of a lord!” he said, waving his hands towards the duke with the ringing clang of restraining metal, “Rise up, I say! Do not let your fear hold you back from doing what is right! What is necessary! What is just!” emphasizing his words with the clanking of the steel that bound him, his volume grew louder and louder until all around could hear as clear as a phoenix’s cry. With the wind passing from his lungs with every word, his vision blackened further around the edge.
But he would not be swayed.
The duke, dumbfounded, finally gestured to his guards once more, “Shut him up! Gag him, knock him out, do something!” he whined.
A blow landed against his temple sent the world flying leftwards as he fell, his vision finally tunneled into naught but all-consuming darkness.
Today was special indeed.
An Excerpt from Book 2 Volume 14 of the Terru Indexus, written by Armeila Crowsent
It is a basic fact that the identity of the Elder, whoever they were, will likely remain a mystery of history for the rest of time. No amount of research, my own included, has yielded any results nor will they ever, I think it is safe to say.
As for their impact, that cannot be understated in the slightest. The Elder Rebellion was arguably the birthplace of Kostinian I’s thoughts on imperial reform. Having grown up in Drakenkirk—now known as Drakenheim—he was well acquainted with the local history of the capital, potentially having even seen the inciting incident firsthand. He knew of the plight of the people under the corrupt feudalism of the time, and so set out to change the system. He rose to grandeur, eventually gaining the crown and establishing the Vox Publica constitution that we know and follow to this day. It was not perfect, but it was revolutionary in establishing rights and privileges for the people beyond being the servants of the nobility. It gave them a voice.
Without the Elder changing the course of history, Kostinian I may never have pursued the path he did for this reason or that, and as such the Terrusian Imperium may well have fallen centuries ago instead of becoming the bastion of freedom and diversity it is today. People of all races and creeds now find shelter in the empire because of Kostinian reforms born ultimately from the actions of a single elder to whom we all owe thanks.
But perhaps we should also thank the one who was supposed to die that day by the duke’s hands. Perhaps they are worthy of praise, for their supposed insolence was the catalyst that tipped it all over the edge, that forced those around them into action. Some say that he even led the initial charge against the duke in the opening days of the rebellion, but such things are of mixed accounts and difficult to establish as concrete fact. Regardless of this, perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from this. That nothing stands alone, that everything is a symphony of action and reaction, and maybe, just maybe, if we’re fortunate and brave and seize the moment, we might have a say in that grand symphony and our part within it.
All it takes to change the course of history is the right people at the right place and the right time.