Lessons of the Past || Always Accepting
"With age comes bias. With bias breeds dissent."
It is one of the rules of conquer, of assimilation. One that every warlord should know. Past, present, and future. Empires have fallen to those who do not abide by the rules of conquest.
Fariah is not afraid of this facet of her existence. She may not have seen true warfare just yet, a low excitement pooling in her chest as the armada carves its way through tropical waters to their destination. But she knows this important part of who she is and who she is meant to be.
Papa is a force, standing next to her in his full war regalia. Sleek plate in art, formed to fit his body and his alone. The peek of it through strategic points on his silken garb, a reminder not all armoring is visible. Imperial Sidhe has perfected warfare and combat over many generations. To them, it is an artform. Beautiful lines and motions like a rehearsed dance as expected of a bloodline born and curated from a war goddess.
Sidhe warfare is considered as magnificent as it is horrific. An aesthetic masterpiece of death and despair, and all commanders-in-chief show it.
She does not have such a set of plate yet. This is her first acquisition. She wears something more akin to what a common soldier would wear, more for protection than to line her young gangly body. She has not even hit puberty yet, all awkward angles and strange limbs. Her armament is a basic sword from the infantry's armory.
But she has bested her father in sparring combat. A proud moment in Papa's life, his broad smile and the affectionate wobble of his head enough to tell her so. A proud moment in hers, armed with such sharp teeth of youth. She is ready to accompany him into real battle. She is here now to do so.
It is a small principality, run by nothing short of a feudal lord in stature. But he has made some ostentatious claims of toppling his neighbors, the Imperial Sidhe. Such claims have reached the ears of the Imperium, and the Imperium is preparing to teach any would-be upstarts here a firm lesson.
The little island is open to the world, no walls or fortification to speak of. Papa says this is stupid and arrogant. No protection means people and things can enter unhindered and unchecked. He is not surprised to see the glowing eyes and dripping form of a mermaid within town limits. He warns his soldiers to watch for prowling faer. One mermaid is hardly a threat, but it may not be the only thing hiding in the shadows here.
They make landfall with disturbing ease and no resistance, ignoring the scattered fishermen on the night-drenched beach as they scurry for cover from the invading force. Fariah follows close to her father as he makes his way inland, watching and listening to his army as they swarm through the avenues between houses. Adversity meets a swift end, be it an opposing force dispatched on landfall or those things he knew would be hunting among them.
"We leave those citizens who are not hostile. It eases the social transition later, my pup. For a territory conquered without people is hardly a conquer. A kingdom is no kingdom without the people in it, an empire crumbles without population.
"We are not here to clear and gather resources. We are here to remind hubric others of our power. We are here to teach a lesson."
Papa's lessons are always so forthright. He does not seek to massacre, despite the pull of Katya's influence. He does not seek to drench streets in unnecessary blood, unlike Manis the Demon King who married the war goddess and is therefore as intrinsic a part of the lineage as Katya. He seeks to make his bloodshed a statement in the treacherous politics of the south tropics. He seeks to remind others of Sidhe's unwavering shadow over them, conquests or allies.
"Our lord has a son. He is not very old, a few months younger than you. But that is too old to teach. He already knows bias, and bias breeds dissent."
The Zenith begins to sing as Papa pulls the meteoric blade from its sheath, his coronation gift from the Clouded Isle when he was crowned Emperor, long before she was born. The lord's estate looms before them, the fighting against any form of resistance having been passed with little consequence to the Imperial party of the Emperor and his Princess and a couple of Imperial guards. Papa lays his eyes, glowing reflective in low light of torches nearby, on a window of the second floor where a shadow of a man looks down at the sweeping wave of carnage moving closer.
Fariah can feel it, her father is using the hive to orchestrate the movements of the army behind them. The way they ebb and flow through the streets, fueled by ripples of rage and malice. She is not susceptible to this, a small twinge of the emotion rooting in her for her task ahead because she allows it, being of the direct lineage herself. She already knows what she must do.
"He has an infant daughter. She will survive. She can be taught."
A broad sinister expression. Every one of his shining teeth is bared before he roars his battlecry from the base of the steps in front of the manor ahead. The world erupts in a returned audial fury behind them and to feel every emotion of rage and brimstone as it reverberates over the hive back to her makes her heart stutter and her nerves alight with the want to join. He is slowly losing his faculties to rationalize thought, though he turns to his pup still near to his side with eyes ablaze in battlelight.
"K̡ Iͯ̐ L L̰͜͡ _ T̟̬͌ H̤ E _͑ͯ W̮ Hͬ E L̿ P͎ !̓!̠"
The command is screamed as the High Emperor of Imperial Sidhe loses himself to the bloodlust that is his inheritance from his goddess ancestor. He flies across the ground with blazing wrath, his guard not far behind with glazed eyes as he automatically pulls taut the hive's tethers.
She is overwhelmed with being at the epicenter of the activity, waylaid by the force of the hive swirling around her, the command of her father adding weight against her will. Whether it is that she is young and doesn't know how to stand her ground in such reckless use of her Emperor's power or that she feels Katya's blood in her boil, she surrenders to the deep thumping heartbeat and the fire in her veins. With a high warcry of her own and a glaze of her eyes, she feeds into the feeling of elation she has yet to understand, only knowing that it leaves her craving more.
Fariah does not remember much of her own advance, the haze over her head blocking out what it deems to be unnecessary details, only recalling that she draws her own blade before slipping around the main battlefield. But she does remember the singing arc of light that is the Zenith blade. That Papa is as much a dancer as he is a warrior and a soldier. That her father moves like air and water in broad beautiful strokes, quick and precise, that tickle the remainders of rationale in her brain and inspire it.
The screaming and crying of the main hall is behind her as she descends further into the manor on her own set task. Hunting, drawing on every sense to propel her gangly mess of a body through halls and up stairs, stopping to check rooms and corners, corridors and shadows. Her ears twitch and flick, zeroing in on the sobbing shuffle of children in a room on the second floor. An infant crying, the sounds of a boy.
The pull of the hive is lessening now. Moreso that she is a little more aware of her surroundings. The soldiers and security that would be stationed here have been pulled to the murderous rampage of Papa's massacre in the main hall. A woman is all that is left to watch and protect the lord's son and his daughter. The baby is ignored, it is not Fariah's target.
Gilded eyes harden as she levels them into the boy's. Emotion is wiped off her face as she observes. He is as promised. A few months younger than she is, Papa said. That makes him ten, almost eleven. He is pleading. Not for his life. He pleads for his sister. It's an astute trait for a child his age, despite not being too much younger than she. She says nothing in response, no assurances or rebuttals in the case of the infant.
She just stares. Analyzes. Her ear twitches as she simply decides when to perform her given goal. There is no internal struggle, there is no inner monologue about the 'pros and cons' of letting the boy live. There is only the command. The driving tone embedded in her memory, echoing in her head. Children are supposed to listen to their parents.
He tries to get up and run as she enters the room. He is spry, as ten-year-olds are, especially fueled by the panic of impending death so near to them. She has the advantage already of a soldier's discipline. Swift and precise.
Her sword doesn't sing, not like the Zenith. The arcs are a little clumsy still, due in part to being unfamiliar with this sword's balance. But with only a couple of broad strokes, as she has seen her father perform, it doesn't take her long to dispatch her victim.
It is a strange feeling to her. She has not taken a life before this. It is surreal, not one she is used to. What was alive is now dead. How easily the blade moved through him, how short of a window to carve him to a point he is incapable of registering anything more. He stares straight ahead from where his crumpled form has fallen, the last spark gone. It is hard to process any emotion she is feeling at the revelation that she has ended a life so suddenly.
Fariah is vaguely aware with a twitch of an ear of the muted sound of the infant still crying, the waning of the energy before calming her heartbeat and silencing her nerves. Papa is standing there when she turns around to see the woman of before. She too is dead. The Zenith sticks out of her chest, a gory trench carved over her neck as precursor to being stabbed through. He is holding the baby now, delicately as a proud father, the spark of recognition back across his face and eyes.
And he is very proud. Proud of his pup, of her first conquest.
"Bias breeds dissent. But with this little baby girl, she will be Sidhe and she will help Sidhe maintain its presence here, whether she knows it or not."
A continuation of his lessons to her. A conclusion of her first campaign. They have absorbed a smaller nation, and she has been instrumental in their victory. Any residual feelings of apprehension melt away now. They are replaced with a swelling sense of pride for her family and her country, and pride of herself for being able to serve both.
She is eleven. She has conquered and killed for the first time.
@herswxrd || @infernalpursuit
