survival of the fittest
The story is this: I have a BBC Sherlock fic in beta, and after that I will maybe finally finish that Primo fic for KHR that I’ve been tinkering with since the beginning of the Inheritance Arc, no lie. ^_^;
Meanwhile, something short! If I continue to write more and more obscure fic for smaller and smaller fandoms, do you suppose this journal will eventually turn into a black hole? And if it does, does that mean it will consume cyberspace?
LET US EXPERIMENT.
This is 07-Ghost fic. And not just any 07-Ghost fic! It is about Hakuren's dad, a man whose name we don't know and who has never once appeared in canon except in silhouette. I wrote this, clearly, because I can tell that the man has an enormous fan following and everyone was just dying to read about his INNERMOST THOUGHTS ON BARSBURG POLITICS.
You’re welcome.
Spoilers through Ch. 74. I do not own 07-Ghost, and make no money pretending that I do. Though I think Hakuren’s dad would disapprove of my failure, there.
Survival of the Fittest
The Barsburg Empire is on the brink of collapse.
This is not common knowledge, though it should be, as every indication points to an empire in decline. Promotion by blood rather than merit. Short-term personal gain outweighing long-term national benefit. An ever-growing gap between the few rich and the many poor. Decadence and lazy cruelty at the top, rage and despair at the bottom. A positive recipe for revolution.
And then, muddying the waters, there’s the Church. Initially supporting Raggs, then somewhat indecisively supporting the Empire, and now running in five different directions at once. Perhaps they can be considered neutral.
The only thing holding the Empire together at this point is its efficient military, and even that isn’t entirely positive. The military is more well-organized than the government. The generals look upon the politicians with scorn. It’s a worrying trend even before one considers Ayanami. Loose cannon doesn’t begin to cover the man; he’s a natural disaster.
Unless, of course, he’s under the control of or working with Miroku, which is distantly possible, and even more ominous than the loose cannon option. If Ayanami is in league with Miroku…one wonders what kind of game the two of them are playing. One suspects that, whatever it is, they’re probably winning.
Regardless, the whole situation is a coup in the making-it would have happened already if a single general had had the wisdom to try to win over the common people. I do wonder what my brother was thinking, sometimes. General Wakaba Oak, feared, admired, charismatic!
And useless, let us never forget that.
Well, I’ve done my part, at least; my family won’t go down with the ship. The Empire didn’t make us, and it won’t destroy us. A regime is generally overthrown by those most ideologically opposed to it, which, in this case, would be the far-left, socialist paradise loonies. Among whom, conveniently, number my son.
My son, tutor to Roseamanelle Ouka Barsburg, heir to the throne. May he indoctrinate her well. In the unlikely event that the Empire survives, he’ll be in an excellent position. If, on the other hand, the Empire is overthrown…
Really, the political bricolage will be almost too easy. It’s a pity I won’t be around to see it.
The only thing that troubles me about my son is how quickly he caved to pressure and gave up the priesthood. It isn’t like him; I thought that would take years of campaigning, blackmail, possibly sabotage. This quick concession implies a hand within the Church pushing as well as my hand pulling. Whose hand? I don’t know of anyone politically savvy within the Church; I only know naïve fools.
Then again, a politically savvy priest would do his best to remain invisible. Who is he, this quiet, almost-ally of mine?
“Father. I hope you’ve been well.”
Ah, well. Speculation will have to wait, likely forever. This meeting will take all of my attention. This meeting with Hakuren, my eldest-my only child. He’s grown quite a bit during the years he spent playing at the priesthood. He stares at me with same direct gaze as ever, but the eyes I remember were wide and trusting. These eyes are narrow, suspicious. Poisonous eyes. Oak eyes.
He’d be horrified to know how proud I am. “Son.”
Revolutionaries rarely hold power for long. It takes a certain cynicism, brutality, and arrogance to force your ideals onto an entire populace, and then to hold on. But based on what they tell me of my son, and seeing him now…
Yes, I believe he can do it. After all, he’s about to kill his own father as a liability. It’s the appropriate attitude for a successful revolutionary.
“Please step aside,” he requests.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I answer, equally polite. No reason to make this uncivilized, hm?
I really can’t step aside. Everyone knows my loyalty to the Empire. If I were to defect now, it would be taken as proof that our family doesn’t know the meaning of loyalty, and that would hurt Hakuren, as well as his future children, his cousins, their children. A stain on the family honor from which we might never recover.
So I’ll die for the sake of my false loyalty. There’s a certain poetry, there. It’s a fitting end for a member of my generation.
Hakuren says, “I won’t let you stand in my way.”
Of course you won’t. You’re my son.
* * *
They tell me I was cruel to Hakuren, and so I was. But I was no more cruel to him than my own father was to me, and neither of us were anywhere near as cruel as the world inevitably is. Best to learn to deal with it as soon as possible, particularly if you are an Oak.
Outsiders are under the impression that the Oaks stand on solid ground, as unshakable as the Empire itself. In a manner of speaking, this is true. We’re every bit as unshakable as the Empire, which is quietly teetering on the brink of a bloody revolution. Indeed, the Empire is stable, unified, and strong in exactly the same way the Oak family has legitimate ties to power and the most pristine of pedigrees.
Lies.
Great-great grandfather Shousa Oak was a field promotion, from private to general in six short months-this kind of thing happens during especially brutal wars. Class structures dissolve quickly once the top of the pyramid is killed off. Quickly…but only temporarily.
The key is to make sure one ends up on top in the reshuffle, and my great-great grandfather made very sure.
Shousa Oak was a tanner before he was a private; it doesn’t get much lower than that. But who needed to know? Everyone who’d known him as anything other than General Oak was conveniently six feet underground (or burned to ash, or spattered across the landscape in a fine, red mist). The new political leading lights and Church leaders were all personal friends-he’d saved many of their lives.
Glorious pedigrees were, for a brief time, easy to come by. Hence the glorious Oak family pedigree. Cheap at twice the price, I’m sure.
Now, it’s very difficult to prove anything that happened during wartime. Raggs is a fine example-a mere decade ago, and already more myth than fact. Yes, very difficult. But not impossible for a fanatic with a grudge. This is what makes life in our family so very, ah. Stimulating.
Adapt. Mimic. Evade. Never let anyone in.
My brother found it all a game. The fool thought his own life was a game; he laughed at assassination attempts.
This is not figurative. He literally laughed at assassination attempts. “Not fast enough, eh?” he’s been known to chuckle with an air of good-natured mockery, nudging the dead body of a would-be assassin with his foot. “Maybe next time!” His death doubtless amused him to no end. I wouldn’t be surprised if his corpse was found smiling.
My father raised us both, and I have no idea what went wrong with Wakaba. Just look at the way the madman raised Shuuri. What a disaster.
My nephew grew up surrounded by love, kindness, and indulgence, possibly in reaction to the way our father raised us. Consequently, he grew into a weak, flighty, arrogant fool. I’ve always expected to live to see his funeral; his continued existence is proof of nothing less than breathtaking good luck. It won’t save him for much longer, though. Nothing can.
The Black Hawks, honestly. What was my brother thinking? It’s one thing to lie, and another thing entirely to believe your own lies. The Oaks, in Wakaba’s poor mind, were apparently the bravest, noblest family in the bravest, noblest empire in the world. Pride, honor, glory! Et cetera. It was exhausting. Father should have drowned him in a bucket as an infant and tried again.
Then again, I may be underestimating my brother. He may have inflicted Shuuri on the Black Hawks as a distraction, a thorn in their side. Or even for the amusement value. I never did understand his sense of humor.
But regardless of Wakaba’s motivations, the proof is in the pudding. Wakaba is dead, and Shuuri is nothing beside my beautiful, angry son. He’s loud, brash, and thoughtless where my son is wary, quiet, and scheming. Hakuren is wise enough to use his beauty as the weapon it is. He’s loving, but only to those who’ve proven their worth and their loyalty. My son. My masterpiece.
It’s fortunate that I only have one child. I don’t believe I could have done as well a second time.
I don’t mean to take all the credit, of course. I hardly raised Hakuren alone. No, I clearly owe a great deal to the Church-strange turnabout-and even more to my wife, both for the things she taught Hakuren deliberately, and for the things her weakness taught him inadvertently.
My son thought me cold when I abandoned my wife to a kor. He thought I didn’t love her. Not so. Perhaps I don’t find her especially attractive-perhaps I haven’t been especially faithful-but, after all, there’s more to marriage than that. She’s an excellent wife: presentable, intelligent, diplomatic. Nearly everything I could ask for.
Still, it was a choice that had to be made-the choice between the life of one woman, however beloved, and the probable downfall of my entire family line.
My wife, had she been of sound mind, would have understood. Hakuren did not; he was far too young. He’s only just old enough to begin to understand now, and at this point, he’s had the habit of hating me for years. No, he’ll never forgive me.
The irony is that I made the choice for his sake. I made a great many choices for his sake, and now I’m going to die for them.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Father.” Hakuren is polite, but uncompromising. He’s always been uncompromising. It’s a pity; the morally flexible live longer. Still, he has nothing to apologize for. I’ve achieved my life’s goal; I’ve been as much use as I could. I helped my son to become a strong man, one I trust to guard the family in my place. The Oaks will be in good hands, and there’s no further use for an old man like me. I smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, raising his hand with a crackle of zaiphon. “I’m not going to kill you.”
I have just enough time to feel bitterly betrayed before everything goes black.
* * *
“Remind me never to make you mad.”
“You make me mad all the time. You’re the most troublesome person I know.”
“Not mad like this. Ouka says you cracked his head open.”
“He’s alive.”
“Hakuren…”
“He wasn’t defending himself. He wanted to die.”
A pause. If I can hear this conversation, it means that Hakuren really didn’t kill me. It means my son is soft, even after everything I did for him.
The Church ruined him after all.
“Is that why you didn’t kill him?” The stranger’s voice again. Hakuren has allowed a stranger into the room with his debilitated father, good lord. Does he mean to kill me or doesn’t he? I’ve never known him to be indecisive.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s asking,” I say, voice rasping unpleasantly in my throat, “whether you spared my life out of weakness or cruelty.” I open my eyes.
Oh, I see. Wahrheit Tiashe Raggs, master of the Eye of Mikhail. I might’ve hoped that Hakuren would make connections with kings in possession of kingdoms, but…
But beside them both sits Roseamanelle Ouka Barsburg, mistress of the Eye of Raphael.
The personal currents in this room are interesting, the political are world-shaking, and the religious are positively apocalyptic. My son has apparently thrown himself entirely behind one faction-meaning he’s failed to hedge his bets and ensure that he has a winning hand no matter the outcome. If things go his way, though, the return will be staggering.
Hakuren Oak now stands poised to become the most important advisor in the world. Can I blame him for gambling when there’s a prize like that to be won? I don’t blame him.
“Well, son? Weak or cruel?”
Hakuren smiles. “Can’t I be both?”
Parry and disengage. Not a hint of resentment, anger, uncertainty-nothing to hold onto. Nothing to take advantage of. Beautifully done. When was the last time I properly spoke to Hakuren? Three years ago? Four, five?
Look what he’s become.
“Yes, you can certainly be both, and thoughtless, as well. What are you planning to do with me?”
“Father, you’re not well. By the time you’re in a position to do anything, the war will be over. One way or another.” A pause; a considering, dispassionate gaze. “And you love to be on the winning side. If we win, you were on our side all along. If we lose, we were holding you prisoner. Be pleased.”
A quick cost-benefit analysis: if Hakuren’s faction does, in fact, win the war (though it’s unlikely to be as clean and quick as he seems to believe), will it be advisable to ally myself with them, or will the original problem still hold? Will the Oaks appear faithless?
If the Barsburg Empire no longer exists, of course, there will be nothing for me to keep faith with. I can’t be accused of betraying a dead master. I may be permitted to survive, after all. There may be use for this old man yet.
Hakuren is watching, coolly amused, as if he’s effortlessly deducing my thoughts. Unsettling. Does he practice that expression, I wonder? It’s very effective. “Plot away,” he murmurs. “You’re not going anywhere. Goodbye, Father. I’m a little busy.”
“Consulting with the priest, are you?” Not quite a stab in the dark.
“Who knows?” He walks out the door, throwing me a quick smile as he goes. And yet the overall impression is one of scorn. My son has the makings of an outstanding politician.
Raggs glances at the princess, and the princess tips her head toward the door. Raggs chases after my son while the princess stares me down. Interesting. I’d love to know the story of the three of them, but I suspect I never will. Not if Hakuren has his way.
“You could tell him you’re proud of him,” the princess informs me sternly. “Or is there some clause in your Oak family contract that forbids it?”
I laugh at her. So the princess of the Barsburg Empire is an idealist. My God, she’d give me a headache if I didn’t already have one. “He’s amazing, isn’t he? My son.”
“He is,” she agrees, suspiciously narrowing her eyes.
“Yes, I raised him to be. And you, Princess, would you be who you are if you’d been pampered? To say nothing of young Raggs.”
She smiles, which isn’t the reaction I was expecting. “Maybe you’re right. Of course, in Hakuren’s case, if he’d been, as you say, pampered, he might be able to stand beside a woman without having a panic attack. That seems fairly important if you have any interest in continuing the family line. But oh well, I suppose it’s too late now. Try to get some rest! I’ll check on you in an hour.”
She slips out the door and closes it behind her before I can formulate a response to that.
“He’ll get over it,” I irritably inform the closed door. It’s less than satisfying.
I settle back on my sickbed and consider recent history. I’ve been outflanked by children, which must be a sign of mental decay. Hakuren should have killed me; it was my right to die. I’ve done nothing to deserve being left in this awkward position.
Cruelty or cowardice? Both or neither? I don’t understand what he hopes to gain from ‘sparing’ me. I understand this much, though: out of pure, unmitigated spite, he’ll never let me find out.
And so I’m presented with a new set of choices. Do I make myself so useful to these children that they’re forced to trust me, or do I make myself such a menace that they’re forced to kill me? I won’t be able to decide until I escape from this bed and see for myself how things stand, and since I’m clearly under house arrest, that won’t happen for quite a while. But I won’t be able to stop myself from brooding about it in the meantime. Did Hakuren set this up deliberately? Is this an extremely subtle form of torture? To what end?
I can’t imagine. And somewhere, somehow, I know Wakaba is laughing at me.