Chapter Text
Morning arrived for Swain like respite from a nightmare. At 7:00 AM, his scheduler walked to the kitchen where servants brewed coffee and basted ramekins and slipped a small note into his serving tray.
Your itinerary has been cancelled and rescheduled for tomorrow.
“It should occur six times within the year, never twice in the same month, nor one after the other. Do not write these occurrences down, nor plan them ahead on paper a week or more in advance. Further, do not share the time of these appointments with any man-- not even myself.” Swain had said, “I should like to be surprised when they come.” He relayed all of this with the usual air-- serious and brief to the scheduler; an elderly man who had worked for many years under the ego and eccentricities of Boram Darkwill. His reward for those years of service had once been a spot in line for the executioner’s block.
After the revolution a year ago, Swain and Darius had watched the surrendered line of servants grovel and renounce their loyalty to Darkwill. The old man had been the only one to refuse. Instead, with near inhuman disinterest, he told them that he served Darkwill as he would any leader of Noxus.
“Noxus above all.” He had said in a monotone voice. Swain was charmed, and spared him from the blade. That same man now shepherded what Swain considered to be among his most important appointments. Six times a year, spliced in between meetings with the Trifarix, dignitaries from foreign lands, lords of vassal states, regional clans, public appearances and private duties, Swain would have a day alone.
The servants brought breakfast and delivered the message to the door of the Grand General’s suite at 8:00. With the work of the Grand General, its walls had become his most permanent home in the Immortal Bastion. The suite offered a large reading room that doubled as a receiving room with warm lights and a plush settee. Down the hall, an open kitchen stocked many of his favorite ingredients and liquors. Past this, the bedroom with a desk and a bathroom and a tiled shower and tub.
Swain sat at this desk when the servants knocked on his door.
He knew the appointment was approaching. Raum whispered it through the ravens which perched on his window sill. When It spoke the secret, It reveled in every micro-reaction the Grand General’s body unconsciously made: Swain’s shoulders easing slightly, then his heart speeding just a beat quicker than he could hide. Raum noticed. It watched these reactions return every time the man thought of it: his coming reward.
The servants set breakfast down on his writing desk, as they often did. Swain nodded and dismissed them. He spared barely a glance for the corner of the note tucked under his dish. He waited for the door to close. Then he uncrossed his legs and pushed away from the table. He took the little note in his hand, flipped it open and read it once. His mouth straightened, almost unimpressed. He leaned over and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the little note into the hearth. Then he pulled back into his desk and began to eat.
He felt Raum’s power ripple through his left arm where it rested, semi-dormant. It waited. The crows cawed for the notes. Swain ignored them. He maintained control of himself, over Raum and all other forces, as he did every day for the past many months. Infallible.
The Trifarix had just celebrated its first year in power, and all the growing pains which came with it. Imperial workers of all levels had to be reassessed and reassigned. Soldiers took renewed oaths. Small revolts needed to be stamped out. Then there was the matter of the Black Rose, that force which Swain had tried to rip out by the stem. Its roots remained deep in Noxian society.
Upon their inception Swain had the necessary conversations with the ruling members of the Trifarix: “If you fall under the control of the Black Rose, I will kill you. I expect the same courtesy.” Might hesitated at the prospect. Guile agreed.
Boran Darkwill had been a man of extraordinary corruption. Fallible to a fault, any bribe could win his affections, and any whisper could spark his paranoia. There was not a person in Noxus Darkwill’s ambitions and insecurities hadn't injured. Swain’s injuries were just more physically prominent. The brace Swain wore around his leg. He needed it to hide what would otherwise be a prominent limp. Then there was the business of his arm, and the rustling power that now filled the stump.
Like a child betrayed by its Father, Noxus needed a leader who showed them the ideal of what a Noxian could become. The Trifarix should embody everything the nation strives to be. Swain realized this very near the beginning, after the revolution. He had created the appointments only a few months afterwards. In public he appeared inhuman in his resolve. Never tired, never distracted. He drank, but never became too drunk. He was friendly to the average adult citizen or dignitary, but he never flirted. He had kept no partners, no friends, no sexual dalliances. No scandals, no vices. His vision remained focused on Noxus. Within this last year and half he had begun to craft an idea: that the Trifarix were more than men. They were Noxus’ will on earth. The Tenants given form.
The idea was a lie. Swain, Darius, even the Faceless-- they were all human. All fallible, all mortal. And Swain was a man. A man who could become distracted. So he allowed himself six days in the calendar year. Six days to attend to any forces clouding his vision.
A secret: He had never waited for his appointment as he had waited-- agonizingly-- for the one this morning. Usually it surprised him, sometimes pleasantly, but always he struggled to set aside his work. There were appointments to meet, plans to make, forces to build. But for the last two weeks, he needed it. He felt himself distracted. At nights, his plans drifted away to thoughts of love he never entertained. In the mornings, he woke up alone and wanting company. The situation had worsened, and for a few of those more recent nights he had awoken with stains on his bed sheets from dreams of the night before which he could not summon into memory. Raum had taken notice, and he still remembered the thrill his Demon had felt when he saw what his body had done in the morning. Power shifting through his arm like a laugh echoing through his body.
Swain pulled the glove he wore on his right hand off with his teeth. Raum whined. It wanted to touch him, to feel his skin and understand its heat, its weaknesses, its pulse in the wrist. He would not give it this satisfaction.
Raum was an untamed Drakehound held without a leash. A dog to sic and hunt others out, and one day put down. Raum had no power over Swain’s mind, but it was aware of its operations. It could sense the electricity between neurons when Swain had an idea upon which he was sure to act. But Raum had no ability to see this plan-- this new secret -- unless Swain allowed him such access. That is why Swain barred Raum from all pieces of information, and from participating in any form in what he was sure to do. It would ravage his mind if he let it.
Swain heard the demon whine. It bucked, and licked the surface of Swain’s psyche. Gooseflesh rose across his neck and arms. It could sense a burst of electricity firing in the man’s brain and thought it must be pleasure. A memory, a weakness-- a secret.
Swain could not help himself. His mind left his control, and took his thoughts to the dance, two weeks ago.
---
Imperial dances were a stamp of the old regime of Darkwill. In the years since his fall, the Trifarix hosted none. The closed door, dimly lit balls where only nobles could mingle would be a thing of the past.
But Shurimans loved to dance. So the grand halls were decorated in red, black and gold in honor of their new vassal city-state, a Shuriman city the capital could no longer defend. For the glory of Noxus.
As a young man Swain learned to dance mostly out of necessity. It didn’t suit him then. He read books-- that suited him. Theories of war and governance, classics from Noxus and Demacia, and among those, the occasional book of poetry, play, or romance. He loved to debate or listen to debaters shouting over the clink of blades in the colosseum or glasses at the bar afterwards. He cherished memories of talking politics with the young warriors or noblefolk he busied himself with. He never spoke to them about the poetry. He worried reading it, valuing it, might weaken him in their eyes. Raum purred, and Swain re-fortified the walls of his mind.
He avoided dancing. If he was bad in his youth, he would be no better now. The iron-cast brace against his right calf squeezed tightly against his leg.
In the bedroom, with his true hand free, he folded his glove onto the table. Then he removed his dark shoes, and flipped the latches of his brace. It fell undone and the muscle in his legs untensed pleasantly before falling into a dull, familiar ache. He stood and felt his weight naturally shift to the left, where Raum’s arm bristled and listened.
That night had been good. His people-- all Noxians now-- were mostly happy and drunk. Normally, in formal events, Swain had one cup of wine and one glass of water. The wine-- to toast with and to brush against his lips. The water to drink. But that night he drank the strong, red, Noxian wine. Not enough to lose himself, but enough to relish, and to feel lighter. He had fallen in love with the taste of wine in his youth, but with age the flavor deepened and sprawled out before him.
Then, someone came to his side. Swain fortified his mind, blurred the image from Raum’s influence. This was his memory. His mind.
He remembered the man. The second link of the Trifarix, standing uncomfortably nearby and looking down at him, his eyes brown and warm in the light. If Swain had been standing, Darius would stand a head taller. With Swain sitting however, Darius was massive. Swain had never seen Darius in formal wear. No cuirass, no training gear. Just a white blouse, a fine vest, a short brown coat and slacks.
The blouse fit improperly. This was putting it gently. Swain thought he should have the tailor executed for outfitting a member of the Glorious Trifarix so incorrectly-- if it had not flattered the man so completely. The buttons of Darius’s formal blouse bulged in the way of his muscle and his white singlet peaked through with each breath. Like a collar on a Drakehound, the blouse of a noble man did not fit Darius.
“Grand General.” Darius breathed in a greeting.
“Grand General.” Swain returned, and smiled at the man he had conquered the world with.
There had been a time many years ago, when Darius served in Swain’s regiment under him. He still remembered those miserable Frejlordian nights, with their bodies freezing, tucked into greaves and coats of arms. Swain had worn two gloves then, had good control of his leg, and no Demon in his ear. He had sat in a camp tattered by snow, staring at a map for hours. Their forces were downhill, and their enemy was at its peak. How to best approach? How to best gain the element of surprise? How to spare the troops from the hardships of the elements? The biting winds and snows?
The way Darius stood then reminded Swain of how he had stood beside him that afternoon in the Frejlord. He invited a few captains to his tent, and they stood over the plans he had crafted. Darius had been closest. Swain spoke to the group. They shivered together in the make-shift tent, staring down the invasion. Listening, as Swain moved pieces on a map and commanded: “Medarda, here. Glinthorn, there. Darius, here.”
On the morning of their assault, Swain watched his men cleave through the forces of the little, floundering town. His captains excelled. Darius, especially, moved like a force of nature. Each swing of his axe, dodge and return, was like watching an artist paint some red masterpiece.
Darius looked less than confident in the dance hall. Worse, he was almost nervous. Too large to be graceful anywhere but the battlefield, he seemed to shirk away. He frowned, and could not meet Swain’s eye for a long moment. They sat together, and Swain trained his focus on the dancers instead of the buttons of Darius’ vest as they struggled to keep his finery closed.
“Swain?” Darius asked. Swain’s eye flicked to him, but too low. Darius seemed distracted, his eyes glazed over, as if refocusing his attention on only the other man. Darius took on a serious air. Then he took one deep breath. The middle button failed again to hide his white undergarment. This time, Swain could see the ripple of muscle from under the fabric. He looked away. His mind bucked out of his control, and for a moment he thought of how cold kissing that bare-skin might feel.
The thought spurred him on. In the privacy of his own bedroom, he undressed a little faster; his undercoat, then his blouse. Then the damnable belt, he nearly tore the scrap of leather off by the bit. Raum thrilled as It felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. His left arm prickled with curiosity. What are you thinking? Whom are you thinking about? Raum’s power tingled like goose flesh, undulating from the top of his shoulder down and then racing up again. Swain scowled and pulled his white doublet off. He touched the hard expanse of his side as if to answer, “Who else, but myself?”
---
“Should we dance?” Darius had asked. Swain had tried not to look shocked. Dance? Swain had not danced in years. And now, with his leg, too much intricate movement would reveal just how inflexible his injuries had left him. If they danced together, Darius would lead naturally due to his height. Swain would reach up to his shoulders and Darius would sink his hands down to his waist. Would that cause rumors? They were old men now, both of them, but Darius was handsome and might still attract some young ladies who would want to spend the evening with him, or the night. Didn’t his Soldier deserve that?
Swain had not had sex since before his injury. In the cold of The Frejlord, at the end of what he thought to be his “youth”, with the last drips of black in his hair going silver, he enjoyed the warmth of another man’s hand pinning him to his soldier’s cot. His hair, tied up by a string, was tugged like a rein and he was hammered warm. The filthy things he whispered then would have sent Raum into a frenzy. Swain grasped the table to feel a wooden splinter pinch against his thumb. The pain renewed him. He understood the question then. “Should we dance?”, as hosts, not “Should we dance together?”
“The hosts typically don’t. We just provide the wine and the ballroom.” Swain said. He pushed his wine away. “You’re welcome to, though. If it suits you.” Darius sighed, and took a seat.
“None of this suits me.” Darius had said.
Swain waved a hand. “It's keeping up appearances, that's all. And you've certainly done that much.”
Darius looked at him and the shadow of a grin treated his face. It was the most warmth the other man afforded to him in a long time. Relief, almost. Swain did not smile, but held his gaze. Whatever meaning did Darius take from his comment? Did he think Swain had been flirting?
---
In the Frejlordian camp, in the conquered town, Swain watched the men at arms drink. Swain relaxed as much as he was able. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the sound of mugs slamming and clanking. They had won. Again. And Darius, serious Darius, smiled at him and congratulated him with a cup of good wine. His fellow commander was handsome. Confident and massive. Swain had been young then. When they toasted, he winked.
“Enter.”
Swain sat at the makeshift table, as he had been that morning. He rolled and stored the maps the captains poured over on his desk earlier that day. Under no circumstances could they be damaged or smudged. Instead, he examined a few ledgers. Ledgers which, if in a burst of passion were knocked away, could be easily replaced. No such insubordination came. When Darius entered he stood behind him, dutifully waiting, as Swain completed his work. Swain couldn’t help but take his time. He read every word. He signed his full name for each ledger “General Jericho Swain”-- instead of the usual “J.S.” He signed, and listened to the heavy breaths rise and fall behind him, waiting.
When they kissed, Darius was not gentle. His hand wrapped around the extent of Swain’s waist. He pulled him from the desk and onto the cot. It bent under the weight of their bodies, with Swain above and Darius holding him in place. Swain found a new firmness between the other man’s legs. He teased the length with his thigh, his stomach, his hand, as he kissed him and nipped him. Darius groaned, and tossed his head back and forth. He remembered Darius’s voice Fuck and then, Please. Swain covered his mouth with his fingers. Soon he was writhing, groaning as his hips twisted and his length jutted stubbornly against Swain's thighs to the inner area near his groin, demanding his attention. Swain remembered being deeply amused. Then he remembered lowering down to the buttons of Darius’s trousers.
Darius pushed himself deep into Swain’s mouth until he was bursting out. It was so warm. He lost what little control of himself he had. He moved wildly, thrusting, slamming the head of his penis down his throat. And he begged. Begged for more, begged to go faster, deeper. Swain watched the eyes of the other man glaze over in pleasure. Then he tensed and lost himself completely. Swain took it, holding him in his mouth. Darius’s hand fell limply off the cot. Swain swallowed and found his breaths were heavy as well. Pre-cum leaked against his silk underwear, and began to soak the long underpants he wore for the cold.
“Satisfied?” He had said. Or something to that effect. He remembered the look he received. A smile, with the cock near his hands twitching back to life. A dutiful soldier.
Naked now, Swain wrenched the faucet to the shower from cold to hot. His left hand twitched with demonic interest. It seized jealously as his human hand fell to his groin. Water fell across his shoulders. He pressed his head against the cool tile as he moved his human hand up and down himself. It was not enough. He moved faster, grasped harder, moved faster still.
Raum protested. It writhed and prodded. His hand-- or its-- twitched, each digit barely keeping within his control. Pleasure. Raum promised deep pleasure, if only It were let in. It could touch him. Its power moved like gooseflesh up and down the expanse of his arm and promised more. More sensitivity, more pressure, more pleasure. Swain fortified his mind again, but he was distracted. He slid across his own length with a speed he hadn’t in many years, his breath foggy and dense in the hot water.
All at once, Raum sent a wave of gooseflesh down his skin. A barrage of secrets. Lovers embracing, bursts of ecstasy. A woman pressed her breasts together and took the length of her partner between her body. A man sobbed as he orgasmed from the thrusts of another man. Swain nearly fell to his knees. He had not wanted-- not needed-- as badly as he did now in years. His vision clouded completely. He could only relent to those base instincts. Those cravings and urges he had thought he had mastered completely. Those things that made him a man.
Swain let his human hand fall away and replaced it with Raum’s. Its power was evident immediately and Swain melted into it, strong and hot and wonderful. The grip, inhumanly warm, held him as the veins of his penis pulsed against Its palm for what felt like minutes. Perfect. Minutes of perfect anticipation, like the light licking the silver of an unsheathing sword. Almost in stasis, Swain waited, his mouth barely parted in the beginning of a moan. It was so good, Swain felt tears peck at the edges of his eyes. Then, slowly, it moved. The sound Swain made was one he had not made in years. It came from the bottom of his vocal chords and as Raum moved again it moved into a whine. It had been years. Years.
Whom were you thinking of?
The voice of Raum asked, and as it did it moved back to the base of his penis. Swain used his left arm to steady himself. He could not maintain the defenses he normally did-- not like this.
“Dh..” Swain groaned, then slammed his free hand against his mouth. He felt Raum’s power prickle and then unfurl. It washed over his body and made his eyes flutter. It teased his base then began to move with exquisite speed, every stroke more thorough than the last.
Where?
“The camp--” he said, his mouth unclamping. He was rewarded with a rush of pleasure. Instant, amazing pleasure. Swain murmured a stream of swears. Visions of the Frejlordian camp, small and wind battered,flooded his mind and were licked away by Raum.
When?
“Years ago. Years.” Swain said, and gasped out as its thumb, almost sharp, teased the head. “Seven. Seven years. It's been seven years.” He said. It moved again and he barely breathed. He was shockingly close. With each meticulous movement from Raum he writhed and thrust his hips further into It. A passing thought told him he should stop, that he was giving Raum too much power. Then It’s fingers massaged his balls and his eyes rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy. His breaths stifled and fell onto each other.
With whom?
Swain opened his mouth, and with a rush of will bit hard onto his lip instead. He felt blood pour into his mouth. It splattered against the shower floor. He gritted and held himself up with his other hand. But his leg was weak without his brace. Another rush of pleasure made him buckle and stumble in the shower’s confines. In the back of his mind, a part of him wanted desperately to be asked again. Next time he’d do it, only if it meant cumming in heaps, spilling this secret. He’d come with Darius’s name on his lips again. Another part refused. He felt Raum rage within his body and pull against him.
With Whom!?
The hand on his cock heated from intoxicatingly warm to hot to near scalding. Swain gasped outward. Pain. Pleasure was one thing. Pleasure was an unfamiliar fruit, he didn’t indulge in it often, not like this. But Jericho Swain was familiar with all types of pain. It had no power over him. The pain sharpened his mind, and the lust clouding his vision briefly cleared.
It was enough. A surge of will coursed through him as he wrenched the left hand-- his left hand-- off his body. Raum’s power stabbed into his arm, the pleasant gooseflesh now knives scraping down him. But it didn’t matter. Raum screamed in his ear. The pain of not knowing. The secret wrenched from Its hand.
---
Raum bristled as Swain washed the blood from his lip. Neither had been satisfied. Swain’s body, his groin, still ached. Begged to be touched, to be handled. He looked in his mirror and felt a wave of disgust. Swain dried his hair and body, dressed, then collapsed into bed. His strength had been all but sapped. His mind whirled. He would need to plan, to reimagine his strategy when dealing with Raum. Rebuild himself this time truly infallible. The vision Noxus needed. Unflinching.
Eventually, he slept, listening to the sounds of crows fighting and spitting on the window sill.