Snippet #2361839

The Lieutenant took a right turn, then hesitated, backtracking a few steps. Had he gone down the wrong hallway? There had been days where he could have navigated the ship blindfolded, spun in dizzying circles, with a broken leg. But, now, he'd found himself on more than one occasion turned around in the long hallways, meandering in the opposite direction he'd meant to go, only to find himself in the engine room. He scratched at his chin, grumbling softly. He'd never admit to going soft, or not being able to find his way through the holds, but he couldn't deny, at that moment, that he'd taken a couple wrong turns, and was now in another part of the ship. He was getting older; his bones ached, and his vision was something less than desired – he was degenerating quickly, far quicker than his species usually did, and if he'd been bereft of his enhancements, then he might've been able to direct himself back to his chambers. Power always came with a price.

He pressed his forefinger and thumb to his forehead, rubbing his temple with the heel of his palm. Everything – his spine, his mechanical joints, his prosthetic limbs and bolts and attachments – would pay it's own dues, in due time. It was something he'd accepted long ago, so there was no point whining about it. The offending limb, as if listening in on his internal rantings, creaked by his ears, twitching against his forehead until he jerked it back down, gripping it by the wrist with his living limb; his strong, healthy arm. Relaxing his hand, the Lieutenant tromped back through the hallway, occasionally peering into rooms, and offering only a low rumble in the form of an apology when he interrupted the inhabitants, brusquely moving back into the hallway. He wasn't even sure whom he was searching for until he paused in front of another doorway, throwing it open and climbing the stairwell back onto the deck.

Percy.

Reading a book, no less. The boy, ever since they'd welcomed the guilds-men aboard the ship, seemed to solely busy himself with new books or a cluster of documents with papers slipping every which way. He couldn't fault his drive. She'd loved reading, too. Fanciful books about unlikely fairytales and books about the very mechanical devices that plagued him. She read through the mornings, through the evenings, until he reminded her that she'd better go eat before everything got cold. Of course, she didn't read anymore. The Lieutenant strode forward, looking up and down the deck. He dropped down onto the nearest bench, whittled into the ship's railings, and let his head loll back, so that he was staring up at the sky. It was a surprisingly clear day. He closed his eyes, frowning.

“Vhat you are reading?”

Percy looked up from his book and up to the owner of the baritone voice. So intent in his reading, he didn't even notice the man when he had sat down, despite the staggering wall of muscle he possessed. Percy stuttered for a minute, trying to shift gears in his mind from reading and learning, to socializing and talking. Once the gears caught though and they began to spun, Percy finally began to spit words out. "Err. History, actually. Well, a mix of history and myth I suppose. Sprinkled with a bit of legend," Percy explained. "Old King Alsont, one of the Old Kings we revere today, his story teaches that skill, intellect, and wisdom can trump raw strength."

He watched the man for a moment before folding a dog ear on the page to mark his place and closed it. "Some think it's a dying religion, now that Artorias broke the lineage but... I'm not so sure. The men we revere were good men, even if their ancestor was overthrown by a soldier. We shouldn't forget them just because the bloodline is severed. There are more important things than blood, after all," Percy said before shaking his head, brown lock flying around. He had since reverted back into his human form, sans the antlers, once they boarded the ship. No use walking around with things specifically designed to poke an eye out on a ship. "Sorry Sven, I'm rambling. What do you believe in?" He asked.

The Lieutenant knew that he wasn't always such a big softie – or maybe he was, and it was the opposite, perhaps he was gruffer than usual, and a little less put together, but the crew, and the guild, had managed to whittle him down into someone he hardly recognized. It was a lot easier to pretend he wasn't lonely when there was no one else around, but alas, there were far too many people aboard the ship to entertain himself with his gloominess. Not that he would've ever admitted to seeking anyone out for conversation. He watched the flustered boy compose himself, very nearly patting down his ruffled feathers, before answering his unsubtle question. History, was it? She liked reading those sorts of books, as well. Used to tell him that anyone who'd done something for the greater good, or on the other hand, chosen to do abominable terrors, could write themselves into future generations, in literature. We could make history, she'd say to him, dark eyes alight.

Intellect, skill and wisdom trumping raw strength? Too true. He admired cleverness, patience and scholarly virtues. Believe it or not, the Lieutenant had to have other skill sets to earn his rank – he was accomplished in military operations, in formal planning and strategy, where his strength had been little more than an afterthought. A clever, ruthless tactician; one who was always getting the job done. Those were only teasing half-memories of when his body obeyed his mind, of when his joints didn't creak, so completely mutinying against his wishes. He nodded his head curtly, communicating that he agreed with the statement. It was one of the many reasons people like Percy were indispensable aboard the vessel. “Ihr recht. You are right. But people vhill alvays be thinking of Artorias, now. People remember vhat vhe destroy, and not good things. Good people,” He mused in a low rumble, frowning when the man's name was mentioned.

He came to the conclusion, whilst looking at Percy's shaggy head, that he wasn't all too knowledgeable about his race, at all. The Lieutenant had had the pleasure of working alongside different species while he served, but never a boy, or man, who'd occasionally sported antlers. Could he control his appearance at will? What, exactly, was he? A deer, a man, or something in-between? He wasn't curious by nature, but it seemed peculiar that he'd only noticed now that his antlers were missing. “It's fine vith the rambling,” He rumbled, dismissing his apology with a paw-of-a-hand. She used to talk his ear off until dawn, until the dusk, chattering endlessly about her legends and heroes and courageous foot soldiers. Entering another world, another era, she'd say, like he really understood what she was talking about. 

What did he believe in?

The Lieutenant leaned forward, elbows poised on his knees. His thumb and forefinger twitched a little, annoying him with shuddering twitches, numbing his fingertips. He ignored it, for the most part. The question was strange, seemingly out of nowhere, but he still looked at Percy, unwavering and thoughtful. He'd had many beliefs, in the past, but just like all things in the past, it felt as if they'd all been left behind. “I vhas believing in people, once,” He responded, tilting his look skyward, then thumped his chest, rolling his eyes back down, “and in goodness, in justice. Doing the right thing, alvays. But, even family can be ruining everything.” He sighed softly, scratching the back of his head. What did he believe in? Friendship, in the way that they wouldn't leave him alone, even if he wished it. Faultless loyalty, as well. “I'm no good at believing.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “And you, kleine?” Little one. It was suiting.

Closing his mouth, Percy collected his thoughts and smiled. "No one's terrible at believing Sven, their beliefs only change," he said sagely. "Even so. Justice. People. The right thing. All good things to believe in," And he wondered what made him stop. Sven had the look of a soldier about him, plain and simple. The man knew how to fight, that much Percy knew without having to see it first hand. But it had to have exposed him to some things, perhaps some things left alone. He didn't know what Sven had went through to for his beliefs to shift, and Percy wasn't going to ask. Not yet. While the changeling lacked tact, he knew better than to apporach heavy topics like that.

"Now, don't think me too sentimental," Percy began, slowly raising his book, "But I believe in the past." Simple from a literal standpoint, deep metaphorically. "You know. The history of the world, the history of people. What has happened, the past, it's unchanging. We should look to yesterday to find tomorrow's answer. Cryptic, I know. Mages, right?" Percy chuckled. But it was more than just that, than just surety in the matter. The past held meaning for those brave enough to dig. "Those ignorant of the Past's mistakes are often the most likely to repeat them, after all," He added. Nodding sagely.

"We learn through our past. We learn and we adapt. We make mistakes, but we grow stronger from them. Everyone makes mistakes, and so we should learn from them too. We should learn all that we can. From us. From the past, so that we can seize our future," Percy's gaze shifted during his spiel, looking out over the bow. The book he had held up moments ago found it's way back to his lap and he looked relaxed, sure. Then another chuckle escaped his lips. "Alright. Sentimental and naive." But it was okay. He'd make his mistakes, but he'd learn from them and become stronger for them. It wasn't his past that would define it, it would be his future. And with examples like Alsont and the rest of the Old Kings, he'd learn enough to seize it for himself.

Finally, he looked down back to his book and flipped open to the middle, practiced fingers playing a rehersed action as he came to the page he was looking for. "Did you know Alsont was only fifteen when he inherited the throne? Right in the middle of the Inhuman Uprising-- the war between the civil races and the Orcs and Goblins. He was still a boy-- like I have room to talk. Thin, pale, weak in everyone's eyes but his own. However, he had intellect and wisdom beyond his years. A brilliant and spotless mind, he was able to put down the Uprising and begin to assimilate the brute races. It's said that he never held a sword in his life, and that he always looked for a peaceful solution before resorting to violence. He'd win a war through discussion rather than strength. But when arms came to bare, his tactical knowledge was astonishing-- I'm sure you've even seen some of his tactics. It's because of him that we can leave in peace with them in the cities," he said, looking up at Sven. He knew this story, it was one he had memorized, imprinted on him. Summarized in an attempt to cut his rambling. But to him, this was his favorite story.

There was an unbidden youth in Percy, like a flower with the inability to wilt. He admired that in the way he admired how plants could survive brutal storms, catastrophic winters, stagnant pools, and still find a small rock to peep out from. However, the Lieutenant couldn't agree with him on one thing; half-believers usually never made it past the front door, let alone anywhere else without losing their wits, their friends, their youth, their faith. His disintegrating body was a loud, unconquerable testament. He hadn't doubted even for a moment that he was the only one with a tragic past, with broken pieces puzzling their histories, aboard the vessel – even Percy must've been through something harsh enough to rattle his beliefs. The only thing the Lieutenant had retained from his experiences was a shambling anagram making up his code of ethics, but he did not believe as one normally would. His boyhood was far behind him.

A small, imperceptible quirk lifted his lips, then faltered back into his neutral frown. Sentimental.Being hopeful, and looking towards the future, through the past, or through his books, might have seemed sentimental, but he only shrugged in response, arching heavy eyebrows. He didn't need to agree; never needn't to, because people like Percy, or her, or even Gwendolyn could never be dissuaded from their beliefs. They were righteous, truthful, honest things. He still believed that struggles made you stronger, or completely destroyed you, and that changes made you wise, and happiness always took its sweet old time to appear, and sometimes it chose not to show up at all. These beliefs, however, were dark, gloomy things that hid under bed mattresses. They weren't hopeful, and they didn't involve sunrises, fixing mistakes, or doing things for the greater good. He did agree with Percy's last statement. Those who ignored what had come pass were bound to make the same mistakes, over and over again.

The Lieutenant wondered with a brackishness that surprised him what lesson he'd learned when he'd wound his hands around his own brothers throat, for what he'd done to him, and to her. Should he have killed him years before to prevent it from ever happening? Had there been signs, or minute details he'd missed? Things he could've known, and stopped. The boy didn't understand what he'd suffered, and how hesitation, at the hands of goodness, could cripple your actions, and that was fine. He'd erected cages and looming walls around himself, shielding himself from those kinds of mistakes. Perhaps, he'd become too strong. Perhaps, his problem lied in the little habits where he believed he had no future. He was a tool to be used, an arm to be moved. Soldiers often thought that way, and once they'd been retired from the battlefield, they always took up another similar cause.

Percy's silent companion hunched his shoulders, glancing down at the book he held. Watched as nimble fingers flipped through the pages, resting on one page in particular. Did you know, she used to say, as well, eyes radiant with excitement, and usually, he hadn't known whatever she'd been so adamant to tell him, either. He listened, though he was never really interested in history, nor the characters present. Though, the Lieutenant was still familiar with most occurrences involving wartime – it was taught to him by his father, his brother, and the academy. He was familiar with King Alsont, and his compassionate accomplishments. Of what he'd done to prevent the kingdom from regressing into anarchy without so much as raising a sword, without so much as slaughtering anyone. He nodded slowly towards the book, then leaned back in his seat. He wanted to hear more, if Percy was willing to entertain an old man.

“Judith vhould have liked you.”

Percy smiled and flipped a couple of pages in the book. The book was merely a formality at this point, as he'd had the story thoroughly memorized, along with a number of others. The book was only there to give him something to do with his hands-- else he'd be flailing about and generally making more of a fool of himself. There wasn't an instance of social contact where that didn't happen, mind, he just wanted to lessen it. He had heard the comment concerning Judith. He'd opened his mouth to ask but quite quickly closed it. Sven wanted him to tell the story, not the other way around and Percy was nothing if not eager to share his knowledge. He'd have to remember to ask him about it after the history lesson.

A pity that he didn't remember it. Once the story began, that's all there was for him. He spent more time looking up at Sven than he did in the book, regaling the events of King Alsont. The young King with a wizened tactician's mind. The child-King came into power during a dark time, with the Brute races gaining land on the Civilized races. Many of his court disregarded the Child, believing him too young to effectively run a war. Even so, he was King, and after he began to win battles, their tune changed. The King pushed the Brutal lines out of Genesis and into the sand sea. It was there that Alsont offered a truce. The King's army could have easily destroyed the Brutal races, but Alsont would not have an extermination. It would only have planted the idea of revenge in the midst of the descendents, and in another couple of years they would have another Uprising.

Instead, Alsont personally agreed to sign a Truce with the Brute commander, an intense Orc Warlord named Kiah Gnawbone. Kiah towered over Alsont, nearly three times the size of young King, yet he showed no fear or hesitation. Kiah respected the iron that the young King was made of, and vice versa for Alsont. "It was there that began the assimilation of the Primal races into our society. The Truce was signed not by fear, not by muscle, but by intelligence, respect, and an iron will. Can you see why this is my favorite story?" Percy said, drawing back his sleeve to reveal an arm composed entirely of skin and bone.

The Lieutenant understood, though he still leaned slightly forward, drawing up his own sleeve, revealing an arm entirely made up of whirring cogs, metal slats and twitching digits. He was right, after all. Without people like young King Alsont, like Percy with all of his books, and even Dio with her kindhearted ways – they were lost souls, banging their heads and their hearts against walls, composed of locked doors and bloody knuckles. He wondered how old soldiers fit into a world where truces were bound by honour, nobility, respect and a determination to do the right thing.