Chapter Text
In the wake of the deaths of Varenechibel IV and three of his sons, the Court at Cetho is thrown into an astonishing mess. The Lord Chancellor’s office is buried beneath a whirlwind of papers, couriers and pages hurry every which way, and gossip runs unbridled though every corridor and every street. The Guard alone is still in order as ever it is, and Lieutenant Deret Beshelar is pleased with the constancy of his comrades in the face of political chaos.
Constant they may be, though not always educated-- several, caring little for the politics of succession, falsely believe they will serve Prince Idra until they are reminded that the crown falls not to him but to the Archduke Maia. Beyond that, the succession is not yet any of Beshelar’s concern. And then it is.
He is overseeing a training exercise when Captain Orthema’s orders finally arrive. He is to serve as nohecharis to the as-of-yet uncrowned and unnamed Emperor. The appointment is not entirely unexpected. He had known himself to be a potential candidate, but he had not anticipated there to be the need for several years yet.
He wastes no time in contemplating the great honor that has been bestowed upon him. He is from a military family, he knows his duty and his place: to serve the Empire and the Imperial household, unto death if need be.
~//~
The Emperor is not what he expected, and the Emperor is more than he expected.
He has never approved of gossip, finding it inappropriate and wasteful, and though this attitude has at times earned him teasing from his fellow guards, he has never strayed from it. But that does not mean he has not heard what is said about the unfavored half-goblin son of the Drazhada.
Whispers at Court inevitably trickle out to the Guard. It is no secret that men enjoying their drinks like to talk, both of things they know and things they do not. If confronted, they will say it is a tactical advantage for guardsmen to stay abreast of court rumor, but that does not explain the pleasure they take in trading such sordid tales.
And so he knows what they say of the Archduke, the Emperor’s youngest son relegated years ago along with his foreigner mother. Half-mad, they claim, ignorant and provincial and ugly, tainted by goblin blood.
Believing fiercely that the Imperial family is not to be mocked, he has paid these stories no heed, instead dismissing them as merely the creation of bored courtiers’ imaginations.
Yet when he enters the room to the sight of his Emperor choking hysterically at nothing, for a moment he is tempted to believe the rumors he has shunned. But to do so would be inappropriate. It is not his place to judge, though he hopes fiercely that this young man is more than he seems at the present moment.
He looks around; his partner has not yet arrived. Shameful. The Emperor should have been guarded from the moment he arrived in Cetho. To make a poor showing now only compounds the grievous error.
At last the Emperor acknowledges him, and he kneels and offers his oath, and then his partner arrives, making no apologies for his tardiness.
Beshelar disapproves of Cala Athmaza from the first sight of him. He carries himself in a casual manner with little of the dignity befitting his new position. His hair and robes are in a disgraceful state that would earn a reprimand, if not worse, from any Guard commander worth his post. Evidently the mazei do not hold to such standards.
Does he know how to stand silent guard without tiring or becoming distracted? Does he know how to watch a room for dangers? Can he hold his own in a fight? Beshelar doubts it.
Yet Cala moves and speaks as if everything is perfectly well, as if he does not dishonor his position with his disregard for propriety. He is inadequate, and worse still, he is ignorant of his inadequacy, unashamed of his appearance.
Were there no other dachenmazei available? This man looks like he belongs in a library, not at the Emperor’s back. But Beshelar does not have time to dwell on this unfortunate assignment, for there is work to be done.
~//~
One of the first things Edrehasivar does is ask to attend the funeral for the crew of the Wisdom of Choharo. Beshelar and Mer Aisava both recommend against it; it is unsuitable , and more than that it is unsafe . Cala is of no help, and Beshelar suspects he would support the endeavour if pressed. It is unwise, but the Emperor insists, and so they summon a carriage to take them across the city to the Ulimere.
The building is old and crowded and presents a thousand separate security risks, and Beshelar is glad when they are at last able to leave.
On the journey back, Cala, to Beshelar’s great chagrin, attempts to ask the Emperor about his family. It is not Cala’s place to talk. It will never be Cala’s place to talk. They are to be silent guardians, nothing else. Not advisors, and certainly not friends. They have no right to speak with such ease to the man to whom they have pledged their lives. Theirs is a sacred position, but it does not change the fact that they have no born right to associate freely with the imperial family. Cala does not seem to realize this, even when the Emperor rebuffs his questions.
They return to the Alcethmeret, where the work of governing the Empire begins. Though Mer Aisava guides the Emperor through the rest of the day’s concerns with a deft hand, there is a great deal to be done, and by the end of the evening His Serenity is clearly exhausted. And yet still he worries for those far beneath himself.
“When will you eat?” he asks, and Beshelar is uncertain as to how to reply to this unexpected question, as he has been uncertain all day of how to respond to his Emperor’s unorthodoxies. As nohecharei they are supposed to be more symbols than men, constant and unnoticed but as a force to protect their ruler. It is not the Emperor’s duty to care for their needs or their comfort. He should not concern himself with such things when he has the entire nation on his shoulders.
Cala spares him the need to speak, and if he answers in language rather too flowery for Beshelar’s taste, it seems to calm the Emperor regardless, though he persists in making inappropriate self-deprecating remarks. At last he is convinced to sleep, and when he requests that Cala remain, Beshelar returns to his post to guard against those fools who would dare harm him, and at last ponders the events of the day.
Edrehasivar is unusual, to be sure, but Beshelar will serve without question, as is his sacred oath and duty.
As for his partner… Cala Athmaza is not who he would have chosen to be paired with if given the choice. But it is not his place to question the Adremaza's decision. There must be some reasoning behind it, some reason why he must work with this untidy, ridiculous man who speaks out of turn and moves with a careless stride despite the power he wields.
Though he cannot see it, there must be a reason.
~//~
Midway through the night, they switch places, Beshelar to guard the Emperor’s bedside and Cala to watch the corridors.
“All is well?” he asks, as is expected when one takes a post from a comrade.
Cala nods, an ambiguous and unsuitable gesture. Thankfully, he speaks before Beshelar has to ask again. “He is well, though his sleep may not be entirely restful.”
Beshelar will not abide this vagueness.
“Speak plainly, maza,” he demands.
Cala looks at him with a sudden sharpness, a brief expression that vanishes as sorrow touches his features. “Nightmares. I’m not surprised, after what has happened. He woke once. It will not be the only time, I fear.”
He speaks in the informal. Unacceptable.
“Mind your words. You are overfamiliar.” If Cala will not look like a proper nohecharis, he will at least sound like one. The comment earns him another strange glance, and he responds by taking his place without another word.
He surveys the room; all is in its place.
Nightmares, Cala had said. Beshelar, watching the curtained bed for signs of trouble, hopes powerfully that it does not happen again, not only because it would cause distress to His Serenity but because, if Beshelar is to be truthful, he is not altogether certain he knows how to handle such an occurrence.
If a fellow soldier were to suffer from unrestful dreams, Beshelar would turn away and pretend he did not notice, for the sake of masculine pride. Or, if the the man were disturbing others, gruffly wake him and then never speak of the incident again.
Somehow he knows that would not be the answer here.
~//~
Thankfully, the rest of that first night passes without incident. The following morning is filled with the correspondence and audiences that take the majority of any Emperor’s time, though today they are all the more urgent due to the present circumstances.
Beshelar can tell Cala is tiring, and while that in itself is hardly unexpected, the fact that it is visible presents an obvious weakness for any attacker to exploit. He will give a correction later; it would be wholly inappropriate now.
At last, their seconds arrive. Lieutenant Telimezh and Dazhis Athmaza make their laconic introductions, and Beshelar suppresses a shock of unseemly jealousy that his counterpart should be paired with someone evidently far more suited for the position. Dazhis is prompt, composed. His clothing is neat and tidy, as is his hair. His speech is formal and proper.
Cala would do well to emulate him.