Cocoon

Amanda K. Johnson

a tale of Silesia

Going back hurts more than going forward. One step forward, two steps back. Before his appointment to the position of general, Fado had seen even worse. Ilekano's not his kind of hero, but he's a good enough sort of emperor. He's going to do what needs to be done.

The main fortress in Shirikh, Camwyn An Shirin's headquarters, is surrounded by black trees. They're long dead and charred to stalks of ebony ash by the smoke and fires from within. Such reckless disregard for the landscape and life around him is probably a sign of Camwyn's growing desperation. He's readying the fortress for his wake.

At Fado's side, Ilekano shifts impatiently. "Is the waiting difficult, Your Highness?”

"I'm ever an impatient man, Fado. The sooner Shirikh falls the better. Of course, that isn't to say I didn't wish they would capitulate peacefully."

"We both know the likelihood of that at this point." He feels a laugh, black at the gates of the netherworld rise up and then choke to death in his throat. Ilekano doesn't laugh either, but Fado thinks he is smothering the same ill urge. The emperor's eyebrows raise meaningfully. "...Unless you know something I don't, Your Highness?" Fado ventures.

Ilekano knows better than to continue with that train of optimistic thought. "What we know of Camwyn is all the same," he says, coolly.

"I suppose that's for the best." Ilekano gives him a look and he feels the sudden urge to defend his remark. "Not to say that you should know more than the rest of us, Your Highness, but that-"

"I know, Fado," the emperor cuts him off, "I understand what you're trying to say to me."

Ilekano's words shoot straight to the heart of things as they tend to do, in court, on the battlefield, and in personal encounters. He isn't much for rambling or poetry. He prefers simplicity. He prefers for things to quietly run the way he wants them to from the get-go. This is the only thing that causes friction between him and his head general. Fado is fond of baroquely structured speech, ornate lyrics, and over-long titles. Their personal styles are at odds in all ways. Ilekano even conducts war more simply than Fado. Sometimes too simply. And for that reason, he relies on this man.


"Give me the telescope."

"It's not a telescope, Your Highness," Fado can't resist the urge to speak out and have the thing called by its proper name, even when speaking to his emperor. He leans away from the embankment and passes Ilekano the looking glasses. "They're called binoculars."

"What does it matter?" Ilekano frowns back.

"That's just what they're called."

"I don't care about that kind of thing."

He would be going too far to call the older man lacking in culture for his uncaring attitude toward the proper designations of people and items. Even Fado cannot speak to Ilekano that way, and Fado says many things to his master that even the other emperor cannot, or dares not.

"You should be too busy with the war to care what things are rightly called," Ilekano remarks, taking up the binoculars and turning them onto the black fortress walls.

"If things are not rightly called in war, there can be misunderstandings."

"As long as we are all calling things wrongly together, there will be no misunderstandings," Ilekano insists.

"It is as you say," Fado agrees to the meaning, if not the sentiment, and opens his eyes. He had not even realized they were closed and had been since he had set the binoculars aside. He takes a step away from the stone ruins they have made into a lookout post.

"Are you going?" Ilekano asks him, when the answer is obvious.

Fado makes a small sound meaning "yes," but doesn't speak. It is up to the emperor whether he will choose to follow or not. They are each their own masters, even while Fado answers to the older emperor. Despite the presence of a deep loyalty, it is also an awkward sort of allegiance.

The stone winds down for some distance in the form of something close to steps, but actually just a curving trail of blocks strewn down the hillside. The evening if darkening and the camp has lit its first torches. Fado is halfway down when he realizes Ilekano is following, stepping fast, stepping only on the stone and not the packed earth in between. His cloak flows behind him like a wayward shadow.

Fado stops to watch him. "Well, keep going," Ilekano urges when he is only several steps behind.

"Watch your step," the general answers mildly.

His master does not respond to this, perhaps out of annoyance at the unnecessary advice, or perhaps merely because he prefers to keep silent.


The men are all stirred up.

When they rest from fighting, they do so impatiently. They brush down the horses and speak in whispers. They are close to the fortress here and there is a rumor making the rounds that the enemy war mages possess the skill of far-hearing. If there exists a form of far-hearing powerful enough to catch their voices at this distance Fado thinks that it is useless to bother with whispering.

"How are you?" his aide approaches and asks.

Fado raises his head from the terrain map he has been studying. He can hear the continued scrape and sniff in Captain Gan Alion's normally sweet, honey-like voice. "I don't think it's a cold. I think I'm allergic to something out here," he says when after a certain space of time Fado does not respond to his question. Whether Fado really wants to know about his health problems he can't say, but the general has been so kind to him throughout the course of the entire campaign he figures saying so can't hurt any.

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing," Fado remarks. The nearby torches flicker with a passing breeze.

Gan Alion rubs the heavy fabric of his military tunic between his gloved fingers. He doesn't like the feel of the material when he touches it with his bare hands, but its weight between his leather gloves felt nice. "Maybe I'm developing an allergy to war," he tries to joke.

"Maybe I am too," Fado agrees.


Fado wakes with a start and immediately after does not know what kind of dream awakened him. He has been a general for years now, a soldier for longer. He is not unaccustomed to the sight of the strange and terrible things people do to each other. He pulls one hand out from under the warm of his brown blanket and touches his forehead. There is the distinct feel of sweat on his brow. The air is cold and after a moment he tucks the hand away again.

"What's there to be afraid of?" he asks himself, staring at the deep sienna of the inside of the tent. This is must be sort of what it's like to be in a cocoon. He goes in one thing and will come out another. In between there is only sleep.

"A scorpion, Fado?" Ilekano inquires, impudently opening the folds of the tent to peer in at this general. It is dark inside the tent, but not all that light outside either; another cloudy day in Shirikh.

The thought hadn't occurred to Fado and he gives the area directly around him a quick scanning with his eyes. Some of his men have awakened before to spiders or scorpions walking across their limbs. Those tiny creatures have proved far deadlier than An Shirin's warriors. For one thing, they actually come out of hiding.

Neither Fado's nor Ilekano's glance reveals anything and Fado props himself up on his elbows, turning his eyes to the emperor. Ilekano does whatever he wants, that's for certain. Was he just walking by being nosy or had Fado's cry actually been loud enough to attract outside attention? The later conclusion would be rather embarrassing.

It isn't until this juncture that he notices that Ilekano's hair is down. It is thick and black, taken to curling slightly at the edges where it grows the longest. He tends to wear it swept back in a topknot, which is convenient for wear with the armor of war, and also flattering to his lines of his well-defined face. When he was younger, he looked awkward and sharp, but age has refined him and made him handsome. The opposite effect had been observed on his rounder-faced younger brother.

"There are lots of enemies in Shirikh," the emperor says. He doesn't come any further into the tent, but he doesn't leave it either, hanging listlessly between the stale air inside and the fire-scented calm without. "Even the animals are unhappy that we have come here."

"It will be good when this is over with," Fado agrees. He reaches up and brushes back some hair, which is sticking to the side of his cheek. At night when he takes out the tie keeping his hair, just past shoulder length and black like the emperor's, out of his face, it all comes falling back in. It does not tangle easily, but tends to stray in every direction like bindweed choking a garden if it is not restrained.

"Camwyn doesn't have much strength left in him," Ilekano continues optimistically. "I'll have unified Greater Silesia by this time next week. Then my reign can truly begin. Do you think it'll be glorious when it happens, Fado?"

"I don't know anything about glory, Your Highness," he admits.

It's a disappointing statement, as far as Ilekano is concerned. Fado is the imaginative one, isn't he? He's a poet, isn't he? Shouldn't he be able to use all those fine words of his to conjure up a picture of the coming glory? He is quite displeased with Fado for the first time on this long campaign. If Fado wants the end to come that badly, shouldn't he be ready to envision a wonderful conclusion to all of it? Maybe he does not understand his general the way he thinks he does. Being wrong is not a pleasant sensation. He doesn't know what to say next after thinking these things. He does not want to give air to his bitterness.

"I'll leave you to dress," he settles on, tossing back the flap of the tent. He shouldn't be wasting his time with Fado anyway. Not when the end of is so close. He will brush back his hair and bind himself up in his most beautiful armor in hopes that this will be the day that An Shirin is felled by his army. He wants to appear at his most heroic when that moment comes. It doesn't matter whether he is the one who actually finishes off the defeated An Shirin or not, but he does want to appear in such a way that he is the one who is remembered. His moment of destiny is approaching. He is sure of it.


The battle begins with a blast of wind.

An Shirin may have allies from Catalonia supporting his claim to the land, but they do not have the authority of the actual Catalonian court. Elisa has enough troubles of her own to ask for more by siding against the emperors on any matter. The Ghirans are needling her along her southern border and she cannot seem to even control her own men. She is not foolish because she is a woman, but because that is her nature. Ilekano does not much care for her. The heir apparent is better.

"Which side is weakest?" Ilekano wants to know.

"Side of the wall, you mean?" Fado clarifies. They are not speaking in the same terms. For this reason, there are going to be misunderstandings. Fado has known this will happen, partially because it has already happened before. Still, there is only so much he can do. His emperor will do as he wishes. No one can truly tell him otherwise.

"Of course, the wall. Assuming An Shirin has sense remaining he will focus his efforts on defending whatever part of the wall is naturally weakest or has been made weakest through our offensive. For that reason I want Lindini and the War Mages to focus on that area, creating as big a fuss over it as they can manage as cover for you and I. You will circle to the west and I will circle to the east and we will reconvene on the side opposite from Lindini's position. Bring ladders or men with the magic to sculpt a wall for scaling. The whole thing cannot be protected from transformation- and if it once was, that coating has certainly worn off by now. There is no magician so strong in Shirikh to hold up a paling over the whole place that long."

"You're correct in thinking so. Lindini has had limited success already with chipping out bits of the wall and hurtling them back to smash their defenses," Fado notes. Ilekano is serious now, not that he was joking before. He has come to the end of his patience with this tiresome province. The state of Shirikh has been renegade far too long. What stubborn spirit pervaded that bushy-whiskered An Shirin and kept him from surrendering when he still had a chance? From the moment the First Imperial Army marched to Shirikh it was a foregone conclusion that he would fall. Had he capitulated early he could've secured himself something- a title, a castle, some military post- but by fighting, he has forfeiting everything. He had a wife and child or so Fado had heard. What were the chances Ilekano would show mercy on them? He had a heavy hand, and not only that, he was proud of it.

"Which side is weakest, Fado? You haven't answered my question."

That was true. He hadn't. It was no jab. It meant nothing more than a lapse of memory as he wondered at the fate of Sola Av Shirin and her child. He had heard she was very beautiful. "It's the south, Your Highness."

Ilekano laughs at the predictably of his army. They have been facing the south side of the fortress for most of their time here. Inevitably they would focus their attack on the closest target. He knows it is the nature of most men to do such things, but he finds it amusing that they would not expect him to call them on such slothfulness. In the end they are right. He hasn't. He has a good army because he has good men.

Suddenly he likes Fado again. If he likes his men, how can he dislike Fado? Fado is first among his men.


Night falls on the day after what was not the last day. Ilekano's earlier suggestion of a possible week remaining proves wiser than his hopes for final day. Still, he is pleased with what he has accomplished. His combined attack with Fado was quite destructive. Yet more important to him, as a man, not an emperor, is something that came after.

He feels like he is dreaming when he thinks of what transpired in that zelkova grove. The woman he met there is sleeping now in his tent, the son of An Shirin at her side. With her he has made a better deal than any he managed to wring out of the states that surrendered. He wants to let her sleep in peace, so he wanders the camp, just looking at things. Everything he sees makes him smile, but not with his teeth. When he bares his teeth he is intimidating. When he smiles with only his lips, he is friendly, paternal, more man than emperor. For the first time in a long time he likes himself better in his capacity as a man than as an emperor.

He climbs to the lookout post on the ruins on his own. Fado is not there, nor is there a sentry posted. Under other conditions he would be annoyed and go back into the camp to see what kind of error has led to this lack of vigilance, but now he is happy to be alone in the cool night air. The stars are rising over Shirikh and he speaks a few words to himself and to the night, pleased by the sound of his own voice. "So that's that."

He feels like singing, but doesn't want to ruin the moment. He likes how he sounds when he speaks, but not when he sings. He only likes to sing when he knows his own voice will be drowned out by those of his men or his courtiers or his sons. He leans against the wall and hums instead. His humming is fine. Maybe the woman will sing for him.


He tells Fado about the woman the next day over breakfast. He is eating as heartily as ever. As emperor, he can choose to eat whatever he wants wherever he is. He doesn't try to make things hard for his chef, but he does ask for volume. Fado is only nibbling a little ham on toast with his tea. Ilekano wonders how it is that Fado manages so well on so little. Perhaps he has a stomach condition that dampens his appetite.

"The lady you met in the zelkova grove," Fado asks when Ilekano is elusive about his meaning, "She is Sola Av Shirin, am I right?"

Why is his general so downright somber as he poses this question? Ilekano fills his mouth with a particularly large forkful of scrambled eggs to gain a bit of buffer time before he must answer the question. He needs to do some chewing to allow his gut reaction to run its course. Can't Fado be happy for him about anything anymore?

Fado knows he has done something wrong as he meets Ilekano's eyes over the table. He wonders at himself, that he did not pause longer or weight his words better. He is not usually so brusque. Perhaps Ilekano is rubbing off on him and he is rubbing off on Ilekano. Their traits are becoming rather mixed these days. He'd swear that there's some poetry in the emperor now, even if it only appeared along with this woman.

Ilekano swallows his annoyance along with his food. He is finding new reasons to hold his temper. Sola would not want him arguing on her account. She would not be shy about who she is or what she has become. She was noble to do what she did for the sake of her son. Ilekano thinks he likes pragmatic women. His brother likes them stupid.

"That she is," he relents. Although he has decided not to be angry with Fado, he still hopes that his man sees the way he stabs his fork into the slices of ham. "I am not angry, but I could be and have every right to be," the gesture means. He is an emperor, and accustomed to getting his way.

Fado does not look annoyed or defensive, but wistful. "I would like to see her sometime," he comments. "Is she as beautiful as they say?"

"I had not heard them say it, but she is beautiful," Ilekano is glad to announce. This is a side of Fado he has not seen. Clearly the general is at least a little jealous.

The last of his anger leaves him.


The prophecy of one last week is fulfilled. Fado is the one to meet Camwyn in his desperation. This is a man who wants to be finished. He can tell.

He does the finishing, without cruelty or comment. An Shirin does not know his wife and child are in the hands of his enemy. Fado thinks it best that he dies with the hope that they managed to flee into the safety of Catalonia. This might not be the worst fate they could suffer, but for a man of honor, it would be the hardest to swallow.


Ilekano feels quite glorious indeed when he returns to the capital. Fado rides a little ways behind him at the head of the column. They are welcomed with cheers and flowers- the doing of Emperor Tiokihawa who greets them with two bouquets of daffodils and crocuses. They are his favorite flowers and Ilekano doesn't fail to notice this concession to the tastes of a man who has never set foot on a battlefield, let alone taken part in any aspect of this specific campaign.

"Say a few words," Tiokihawa invites them, assembled before their men and all the court.

"I hope that the steps I have taken these past few years will bring forth another golden age for the Silesian Empire. I did not do battle from Osaffria's gates to the edge of Shirikh for the enjoyment of some fleeting glory, for myself, but for the sake of all my lands and all my citizens. On this day celebrating our victory, may we all be immortalized together! We are one Silesia once more!" Ilekano proclaims, holding his bouquet above his head like a sword.

"Fado?" Tiokihawa asks, seeing that his brother, after the cheers have subsided, has nothing more to say.

"Thank you," Fado tells them simply, “None of us could have done it on our own."

"Modest, isn't he?" the younger emperor laughs.

Because of the crowd before them, Ilekano and Fado laugh too.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.04.2010

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