FIC: The Flawed Jewel
Title: The Flawed Jewel
Pairing/Characters: Ubu, Damian, Talia, Ra's al Ghul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Deals with Damian's childhood, so includes neglect and endangerment of a child. Nothing too horrific, but could be upsetting to some.
Summary: Ra's hereditary bodyguard, Ubu, contemplates his role in the upbringing of the Son of the Demon.
Word Count: 3000
I am Ubu.
Once I had another name, but when my brother died without offspring I put away that name in the service of the Demon's Head, as my father and his father had before me, from times long forgotten. I am Ubu, and I shall be known as nothing else as long as I live. One day my eldest son shall be Ubu after me. Faiq grows strong and brave, already nearly a young man. My wife has borne me eight children so far, five boys and three girls for the glory of al Ghul. I was at her side for all but two of the births, when the Mission took me far afield. The midwife said it was no place for a man, but I could not bring myself to leave her with her eyes full of pain, suffering for the good of the tribe and the earth. For the boys I took the good news directly to my lord, who nodded gravely and told me I was a valuable servant. When the girls were born I stayed with my Sabira to comfort her for her failure, reassure her that we would try again. Yet a part of me was always strangely glad on those days, as I held my weeping wife and stroked her sweat-soaked hair. The boys belonged to al Ghul and the Mission, praise be to it.
The girls still belonged to me.
When Talia, the daughter of the Demon, came to me and said that soon her child by Batman would be born and she wanted me at the birth, I could not help but stare. "That would be highly improper," I told her, and she laughed merrily, as if at a stupid thing.
"You don't think I will actually be carrying this child in my body, do you?" She shook her head. "The matrix is nearly at completion. I want you to watch over it for sabotage. Protect my son, Ubu. Protect the Heir of the Demon."
I spent a month watching over the birthing matrix. Talia never came to check on it. When the child was lifted from the waters, mine were the arms he was placed in first. He coughed, spewed liquid, and let out a querulous wail of protest, small red face screwed up in fury. As I looked down at the little form, kicking angrily, I realized that he had never known his mother's touch at all. I would never question the wisdom of the Demon or his child, but the reality of it seemed rather sad. I wrapped the child in cloths and took him to present to his grandfather, who was much pleased.
His grandfather named him Damian, smiling as if at a personal jest.
I had already taken to calling him Ibn in my mind, but one does not contradict the Demon.
: : :
Ibn--Damian, I mean--was left largely in my charge. Wet nurses came and went, changing whenever the boy seemed to get too attached to any of them. Eventually he stopped bothering to learn the names of the people sent to care for him and train him. They would be gone again soon enough.
He was a...difficult child, given to strange whims and impossible demands. But then, his was no ordinary upbringing. On the one hand, he was pampered beyond comprehension, surrounded by servants whose only task was to obey him, to remind him that he was the Chosen One, heir to forces his child's mind could only dimly understand. On the other hand, his days were full of grueling demands placed on him by his grandfather. As he grew older, his young body was exposed to agonizing extremes of cold, heat, and exhaustion. He would spend hours a day training with the blade and would never complain. I was his teacher in unarmed combat, and witnessed how he would drive his body to near-collapse in his quest to master it. To please the Demon's Head.
To please his absent mother.
He never spoke of it directly, but I could see how he wished to know his mother. The lady Talia never came to see him. She would send him small notes sometimes, for his birthday or for holidays: Blessings on my child, Heir of the Demon. I hope your studies in engineering are going well. Make me proud of you. Your mother, Talia. Then for weeks I would find him awake at three in the morning, poring over some textbook on electrical design, sometimes falling asleep on the pages. In those weeks he would be more vicious than usual in his training with me, his blows crueler, more aimed to hurt. He would kick and pummel me with a feverish intensity, as if he were trying to eradicate something only he could see.
I taught him games as well. He was not given to play for its own sake: "How do I win?" was always the first question he would ask about a game, be it chess, backgammon, or go. And then he would set about winning. At times I was tempted to let him win, for his reaction to losing was often to hurl the board and pieces around the room. But learning to taste defeat and try again is part of being human.
"These small pieces," he said to me in an early chess lesson, touching one of the tiny pawns. "Moved about the board at the whims of others, used as sacrifices. It seems...constraining."
"It may seem so," I agreed, moving a bishop. "But remember: if a pawn can survive long enough to make it to the other side of the board, it can become the most powerful piece in the game."
He said nothing, his eyes narrowed, considering his next move. Then he nodded.
Perhaps he would have learned to play more if I had introduced him to my children, but that was strictly forbidden: the Chosen One mingling with mere tribe children. But I spoke of them, sometimes, as one would naturally speak of such things. When he was older, around five or six, he began to ask me questions about them. At the time, I saw no harm in talking about them with him: solemn Faiq, four years older than he, or laughing Khalil and his jokes. I told him when Ayesha had the colic and when Nasif had his first knife lessons, or how Munira had once again defied her mother and been spanked for it. When my youngest, Walid, was born, he asked me so many questions about mothers and babies: why did we swaddle newborns, how long would he breast-feed, when would he start crawling. He enjoyed hearing about them, for some reason. And I admit I enjoyed talking about them, my strong young lions.
On his eighth birthday, he was presented to his mother for the first time.
I dressed him in white silk covered with delicate golden brocade as he shifted from foot to foot like a fighter preparing to attack. Or preparing for a defense. "Is the lady Talia very kind?" he said.
"The daughter of the Demon is perfect in all things," I said.
"I'm sure she has wanted to see me, all these years. But I cannot be coddled like normal children." He was echoing the words of his grandfather, his chin up high. I placed a gold circlet on his head and he took a deep breath. "How do I look?"
"Like the Chosen One. Like a god on earth, my young master." To speak the truth, I believed he looked like a small, nervous child. But my words made his jaw set and his spine stiffen proudly.
He was presented to his mother, in the Great Hall full of retainers and followers. He stepped up the stairs and bowed deeply to her. "Mother," he said.
And then he stepped forward, almost as if to hug her, as if he couldn't help himself.
My lady Talia flinched back, and he stopped still, as still as when he realized he had made a fatal error in chess. Then he bowed again and stepped back. She raised a hand in benediction. "Be worthy, my son. Be strong."
He nodded once, and was dismissed. I saw him back to his rooms. He took the gold circlet off his head and put it down the table as if he was afraid he might break it. Then he turned and looked at me. His eyes were bright. "She was truly magnificent," he said. "I will strive to be worthy of her." He waved a hand. "Leave me."
"If the young master would like--"
"--Leave me!" His voice broke suddenly, and I left rather than shame him further.
A week later, he became ill with a fever, some kind of influenza. I went to my lord and informed him of the boy's illness. He looked up from his maps. "Keep me informed," he said.
"If I may have some medicines for the fever, my Lord--"
"--If he is strong, he will live," the Demon said. "If he dies, he was not strong. It is the way of things." He looked up at me. "You know this, Ubu."
I bowed deeply and left.
The fever lasted for three long nights. I watched over him as he tossed in its grip, his cheeks scarlet, his hair soaked with sweat. I put cool cloths on his brow and rubbed his aching limbs with menthol and aloe. I could do nothing more.
When my children were ill they cried out for their mama, and even sometimes for their baba. But the Son of the Demon set his teeth in his lip and cried out for no one. Not for his mother, or his grandfather. Not for--
He cried out for no one.
The fever finally broke and left him alive. I knew he was out of danger when he was well enough to hurl a dagger at me when I brought him more gruel. I caught it out of the air and pocketed it. "The Chosen One appears to be feeling better."
"You never call me by my name," he said, his voice thin and annoyed. "Always 'the young master' and 'the Chosen One.'"
"It is not my place," I said. In truth, it was because in the quiet places in my heart I could never call him "Damian." But that also was not my place.
"When I was ill," he said. "Did I--did I shame myself in my fever? Did I--say anything that...?" His voice trailed off.
"The young master said nothing," I said. "He kept his heart locked."
A gleam of relief and of pride glinted in his eyes. "Then I am strong enough," he said. He looked up at me from his sickbed. "Is Walid feeling better? You mentioned he was cutting his first tooth."
I was surprised he remembered a casual comment from days ago, from before his illness. "He is well and strong, my young lord. In fact, he stood up on his own for the first time this morning. Sabira is very proud of him."
He laughed, as he sometimes did when I spoke of my children. He laughed rarely, but when he did it was an open, infectious sound, nothing like the silken chuckle of the Demon's Head or the purring laugh of my lady Talia. I wondered if his father laughed like that, although it was difficult to imagine our implacable foe laughing at anything short of our destruction. "I'm sure you are proud of him as well."
"I am proud of all my children," I said.
He met my eyes and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and shook his head, his eyes dropping. "I thirst," he said imperiously instead, and I went to fetch the Chosen One his water.
I do not know what precipitated the events of this morning. He was training with his grandfather the evening before; perhaps he mentioned Walid's tooth, or Aesha's new shoes, or any of a dozen little details I had spoken to him about. The Demon's Head is wise and watchful, and perhaps there was something in the boy's voice--but no matter.
I entered the Demon's chambers to find my Lord there with the boy. They both looked up: the grandfather with satisfaction, the child with surprise. "Ubu. Good. You have done as I asked," said al Ghul.
"Always, my Lord." I put what I was carrying on the floor: a small child, barely a toddler. He sat on the cold stone and looked around curiously, his thumb in his mouth.
"That is...Walid," the Chosen One said, looking at me. "Your son."
"Indeed," said al Ghul. "Ubu has many children, and they all serve the same purpose: to further our great and glorious Mission. Grandson, you have learned to pit yourself against foes stronger than yourself. Do you consider yourself a man of honor?"
He stood up tall. "I do, grandfather."
"Then you are a fool," stated al Ghul. "Honor is a tool, to be used and put away when necessity calls for it. The righteous man does what must be done." He picked up a scimitar from a rack and tossed it to the boy. "We are all but instruments to be used and discarded as necessary."
"I understand, grandfather."
"Prove it," said the Demon's Head. He pointed to Walid, still sitting on the floor and chewing his fingers. "Kill the child."
"I--" I do not believe I had ever seen the boy so taken aback. The scimitar slipped in his fingers, touching the stone floor with a soft tink. "That--would serve no purpose."
"Life is expendable, Damian. It is a lesson you must learn. If you cannot kill one child, how will you have the steel to cull all of humanity?"
Walid stood up on wobbly legs, then plunked back to the stone with a plop. He giggled slightly and went back to chewing on his own hand. The Son of the Demon stared at him. "But...this is Ubu's son."
This time my Lord's voice was a lash. "You will obey my command."
The Chosen One's gaze turned to me, as if he were waiting for me to do something, I do not know what. It was nearly a look of entreaty. As the Demon and I waited, his expression shifted from horror to something like...pity? I am unsure why the boy would feel pity for me, but his eyes were sad. Then he squared his shoulders and looked back at his grandfather.
"I will not do it," he said, each word articulated very carefully.
The Demon's Head shrugged and unsheathed his own scimitar, stepping up to skewer the small child on the floor.
But as the blade descended, there was a grating sound, a shower of sparks, and the Son of the Demon stood between my child and death, stopping his grandfather's blow with his own sword. Every muscle in his small frame strained against his grandfather, and for a moment the two of them were locked in a standstill, two mighty wills pitted against each other. With a grunt of exertion, the boy threw off his grandfather so the blade crashed into the stone. "I will not let you harm him!" he barked.
For an instant, baffled fury shone in al Ghul's eyes, and I waited for him to kill his grandson for his rebellion. But then he relaxed his shoulders with an effort and laughed, sheathing his sword. "Very well, Damian," he said. "You have passed the test."
The boy was still breathing heavily, sword drawn and crouched over Walid. "What?"
Al Ghul continued to chuckle. "A great leader must be his own man and make his own decisions, not follow blindly. Obedience is invaluable in a servant--" he gestured toward me and I bowed deeply in acknowledgement, "--But for those such as you and I, Damian, some independence is necessary." He clapped a hand on his grandson's shoulder, perhaps more heavily than was strictly necessary; I saw the boy sag under its weight. "I am pleased."
The Chosen One put the scimitar down cautiously, then picked up Walid. His nose wrinkled and he made a sound between his teeth like an annoyed cat. "Your son needs his diaper changed, Ubu," he said, handing Walid to me. "Get the stinky thing out of here." I hesitated, and he said, more softly: "Go."
I looked to my Lord for permission to leave and he nodded magnanimously. As the door closed behind me I heard the boy say meekly, "Thank you, grandfather, for the lesson you have taught me today."
It is strange, but I recognized his tone. It was the same tone he always used to thank me for an excellent game of chess--at the moment he realized he was going to win the game.
: : :
I am Ubu.
I have been raised from birth to serve the Demon. His Mission is my life. I exist only to further that glorious goal.
Today I fear I have betrayed him.
When I remember the look in the boy's eyes, I realize that, all unknowing, I have introduced a tiny flaw into the perfection of the Demon's bloodline. It is a defect that I fear will grow to threaten all that we cherish, all that we have worked for. A minuscule flaw, a grain of sand in the heart of a peerless diamond that could crack it asunder.
I saw the most dangerous of weaknesses, the most damaging of blemishes. I saw compassion.
And yet, as I carry my son--damp and sleepy and heavy on my shoulder--back through the corridors to his mother's arms, I cannot bring myself at this moment to regret it.
Pairing/Characters: Ubu, Damian, Talia, Ra's al Ghul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Deals with Damian's childhood, so includes neglect and endangerment of a child. Nothing too horrific, but could be upsetting to some.
Summary: Ra's hereditary bodyguard, Ubu, contemplates his role in the upbringing of the Son of the Demon.
Word Count: 3000
I am Ubu.
Once I had another name, but when my brother died without offspring I put away that name in the service of the Demon's Head, as my father and his father had before me, from times long forgotten. I am Ubu, and I shall be known as nothing else as long as I live. One day my eldest son shall be Ubu after me. Faiq grows strong and brave, already nearly a young man. My wife has borne me eight children so far, five boys and three girls for the glory of al Ghul. I was at her side for all but two of the births, when the Mission took me far afield. The midwife said it was no place for a man, but I could not bring myself to leave her with her eyes full of pain, suffering for the good of the tribe and the earth. For the boys I took the good news directly to my lord, who nodded gravely and told me I was a valuable servant. When the girls were born I stayed with my Sabira to comfort her for her failure, reassure her that we would try again. Yet a part of me was always strangely glad on those days, as I held my weeping wife and stroked her sweat-soaked hair. The boys belonged to al Ghul and the Mission, praise be to it.
The girls still belonged to me.
When Talia, the daughter of the Demon, came to me and said that soon her child by Batman would be born and she wanted me at the birth, I could not help but stare. "That would be highly improper," I told her, and she laughed merrily, as if at a stupid thing.
"You don't think I will actually be carrying this child in my body, do you?" She shook her head. "The matrix is nearly at completion. I want you to watch over it for sabotage. Protect my son, Ubu. Protect the Heir of the Demon."
I spent a month watching over the birthing matrix. Talia never came to check on it. When the child was lifted from the waters, mine were the arms he was placed in first. He coughed, spewed liquid, and let out a querulous wail of protest, small red face screwed up in fury. As I looked down at the little form, kicking angrily, I realized that he had never known his mother's touch at all. I would never question the wisdom of the Demon or his child, but the reality of it seemed rather sad. I wrapped the child in cloths and took him to present to his grandfather, who was much pleased.
His grandfather named him Damian, smiling as if at a personal jest.
I had already taken to calling him Ibn in my mind, but one does not contradict the Demon.
: : :
Ibn--Damian, I mean--was left largely in my charge. Wet nurses came and went, changing whenever the boy seemed to get too attached to any of them. Eventually he stopped bothering to learn the names of the people sent to care for him and train him. They would be gone again soon enough.
He was a...difficult child, given to strange whims and impossible demands. But then, his was no ordinary upbringing. On the one hand, he was pampered beyond comprehension, surrounded by servants whose only task was to obey him, to remind him that he was the Chosen One, heir to forces his child's mind could only dimly understand. On the other hand, his days were full of grueling demands placed on him by his grandfather. As he grew older, his young body was exposed to agonizing extremes of cold, heat, and exhaustion. He would spend hours a day training with the blade and would never complain. I was his teacher in unarmed combat, and witnessed how he would drive his body to near-collapse in his quest to master it. To please the Demon's Head.
To please his absent mother.
He never spoke of it directly, but I could see how he wished to know his mother. The lady Talia never came to see him. She would send him small notes sometimes, for his birthday or for holidays: Blessings on my child, Heir of the Demon. I hope your studies in engineering are going well. Make me proud of you. Your mother, Talia. Then for weeks I would find him awake at three in the morning, poring over some textbook on electrical design, sometimes falling asleep on the pages. In those weeks he would be more vicious than usual in his training with me, his blows crueler, more aimed to hurt. He would kick and pummel me with a feverish intensity, as if he were trying to eradicate something only he could see.
I taught him games as well. He was not given to play for its own sake: "How do I win?" was always the first question he would ask about a game, be it chess, backgammon, or go. And then he would set about winning. At times I was tempted to let him win, for his reaction to losing was often to hurl the board and pieces around the room. But learning to taste defeat and try again is part of being human.
"These small pieces," he said to me in an early chess lesson, touching one of the tiny pawns. "Moved about the board at the whims of others, used as sacrifices. It seems...constraining."
"It may seem so," I agreed, moving a bishop. "But remember: if a pawn can survive long enough to make it to the other side of the board, it can become the most powerful piece in the game."
He said nothing, his eyes narrowed, considering his next move. Then he nodded.
Perhaps he would have learned to play more if I had introduced him to my children, but that was strictly forbidden: the Chosen One mingling with mere tribe children. But I spoke of them, sometimes, as one would naturally speak of such things. When he was older, around five or six, he began to ask me questions about them. At the time, I saw no harm in talking about them with him: solemn Faiq, four years older than he, or laughing Khalil and his jokes. I told him when Ayesha had the colic and when Nasif had his first knife lessons, or how Munira had once again defied her mother and been spanked for it. When my youngest, Walid, was born, he asked me so many questions about mothers and babies: why did we swaddle newborns, how long would he breast-feed, when would he start crawling. He enjoyed hearing about them, for some reason. And I admit I enjoyed talking about them, my strong young lions.
On his eighth birthday, he was presented to his mother for the first time.
I dressed him in white silk covered with delicate golden brocade as he shifted from foot to foot like a fighter preparing to attack. Or preparing for a defense. "Is the lady Talia very kind?" he said.
"The daughter of the Demon is perfect in all things," I said.
"I'm sure she has wanted to see me, all these years. But I cannot be coddled like normal children." He was echoing the words of his grandfather, his chin up high. I placed a gold circlet on his head and he took a deep breath. "How do I look?"
"Like the Chosen One. Like a god on earth, my young master." To speak the truth, I believed he looked like a small, nervous child. But my words made his jaw set and his spine stiffen proudly.
He was presented to his mother, in the Great Hall full of retainers and followers. He stepped up the stairs and bowed deeply to her. "Mother," he said.
And then he stepped forward, almost as if to hug her, as if he couldn't help himself.
My lady Talia flinched back, and he stopped still, as still as when he realized he had made a fatal error in chess. Then he bowed again and stepped back. She raised a hand in benediction. "Be worthy, my son. Be strong."
He nodded once, and was dismissed. I saw him back to his rooms. He took the gold circlet off his head and put it down the table as if he was afraid he might break it. Then he turned and looked at me. His eyes were bright. "She was truly magnificent," he said. "I will strive to be worthy of her." He waved a hand. "Leave me."
"If the young master would like--"
"--Leave me!" His voice broke suddenly, and I left rather than shame him further.
A week later, he became ill with a fever, some kind of influenza. I went to my lord and informed him of the boy's illness. He looked up from his maps. "Keep me informed," he said.
"If I may have some medicines for the fever, my Lord--"
"--If he is strong, he will live," the Demon said. "If he dies, he was not strong. It is the way of things." He looked up at me. "You know this, Ubu."
I bowed deeply and left.
The fever lasted for three long nights. I watched over him as he tossed in its grip, his cheeks scarlet, his hair soaked with sweat. I put cool cloths on his brow and rubbed his aching limbs with menthol and aloe. I could do nothing more.
When my children were ill they cried out for their mama, and even sometimes for their baba. But the Son of the Demon set his teeth in his lip and cried out for no one. Not for his mother, or his grandfather. Not for--
He cried out for no one.
The fever finally broke and left him alive. I knew he was out of danger when he was well enough to hurl a dagger at me when I brought him more gruel. I caught it out of the air and pocketed it. "The Chosen One appears to be feeling better."
"You never call me by my name," he said, his voice thin and annoyed. "Always 'the young master' and 'the Chosen One.'"
"It is not my place," I said. In truth, it was because in the quiet places in my heart I could never call him "Damian." But that also was not my place.
"When I was ill," he said. "Did I--did I shame myself in my fever? Did I--say anything that...?" His voice trailed off.
"The young master said nothing," I said. "He kept his heart locked."
A gleam of relief and of pride glinted in his eyes. "Then I am strong enough," he said. He looked up at me from his sickbed. "Is Walid feeling better? You mentioned he was cutting his first tooth."
I was surprised he remembered a casual comment from days ago, from before his illness. "He is well and strong, my young lord. In fact, he stood up on his own for the first time this morning. Sabira is very proud of him."
He laughed, as he sometimes did when I spoke of my children. He laughed rarely, but when he did it was an open, infectious sound, nothing like the silken chuckle of the Demon's Head or the purring laugh of my lady Talia. I wondered if his father laughed like that, although it was difficult to imagine our implacable foe laughing at anything short of our destruction. "I'm sure you are proud of him as well."
"I am proud of all my children," I said.
He met my eyes and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and shook his head, his eyes dropping. "I thirst," he said imperiously instead, and I went to fetch the Chosen One his water.
I do not know what precipitated the events of this morning. He was training with his grandfather the evening before; perhaps he mentioned Walid's tooth, or Aesha's new shoes, or any of a dozen little details I had spoken to him about. The Demon's Head is wise and watchful, and perhaps there was something in the boy's voice--but no matter.
I entered the Demon's chambers to find my Lord there with the boy. They both looked up: the grandfather with satisfaction, the child with surprise. "Ubu. Good. You have done as I asked," said al Ghul.
"Always, my Lord." I put what I was carrying on the floor: a small child, barely a toddler. He sat on the cold stone and looked around curiously, his thumb in his mouth.
"That is...Walid," the Chosen One said, looking at me. "Your son."
"Indeed," said al Ghul. "Ubu has many children, and they all serve the same purpose: to further our great and glorious Mission. Grandson, you have learned to pit yourself against foes stronger than yourself. Do you consider yourself a man of honor?"
He stood up tall. "I do, grandfather."
"Then you are a fool," stated al Ghul. "Honor is a tool, to be used and put away when necessity calls for it. The righteous man does what must be done." He picked up a scimitar from a rack and tossed it to the boy. "We are all but instruments to be used and discarded as necessary."
"I understand, grandfather."
"Prove it," said the Demon's Head. He pointed to Walid, still sitting on the floor and chewing his fingers. "Kill the child."
"I--" I do not believe I had ever seen the boy so taken aback. The scimitar slipped in his fingers, touching the stone floor with a soft tink. "That--would serve no purpose."
"Life is expendable, Damian. It is a lesson you must learn. If you cannot kill one child, how will you have the steel to cull all of humanity?"
Walid stood up on wobbly legs, then plunked back to the stone with a plop. He giggled slightly and went back to chewing on his own hand. The Son of the Demon stared at him. "But...this is Ubu's son."
This time my Lord's voice was a lash. "You will obey my command."
The Chosen One's gaze turned to me, as if he were waiting for me to do something, I do not know what. It was nearly a look of entreaty. As the Demon and I waited, his expression shifted from horror to something like...pity? I am unsure why the boy would feel pity for me, but his eyes were sad. Then he squared his shoulders and looked back at his grandfather.
"I will not do it," he said, each word articulated very carefully.
The Demon's Head shrugged and unsheathed his own scimitar, stepping up to skewer the small child on the floor.
But as the blade descended, there was a grating sound, a shower of sparks, and the Son of the Demon stood between my child and death, stopping his grandfather's blow with his own sword. Every muscle in his small frame strained against his grandfather, and for a moment the two of them were locked in a standstill, two mighty wills pitted against each other. With a grunt of exertion, the boy threw off his grandfather so the blade crashed into the stone. "I will not let you harm him!" he barked.
For an instant, baffled fury shone in al Ghul's eyes, and I waited for him to kill his grandson for his rebellion. But then he relaxed his shoulders with an effort and laughed, sheathing his sword. "Very well, Damian," he said. "You have passed the test."
The boy was still breathing heavily, sword drawn and crouched over Walid. "What?"
Al Ghul continued to chuckle. "A great leader must be his own man and make his own decisions, not follow blindly. Obedience is invaluable in a servant--" he gestured toward me and I bowed deeply in acknowledgement, "--But for those such as you and I, Damian, some independence is necessary." He clapped a hand on his grandson's shoulder, perhaps more heavily than was strictly necessary; I saw the boy sag under its weight. "I am pleased."
The Chosen One put the scimitar down cautiously, then picked up Walid. His nose wrinkled and he made a sound between his teeth like an annoyed cat. "Your son needs his diaper changed, Ubu," he said, handing Walid to me. "Get the stinky thing out of here." I hesitated, and he said, more softly: "Go."
I looked to my Lord for permission to leave and he nodded magnanimously. As the door closed behind me I heard the boy say meekly, "Thank you, grandfather, for the lesson you have taught me today."
It is strange, but I recognized his tone. It was the same tone he always used to thank me for an excellent game of chess--at the moment he realized he was going to win the game.
: : :
I am Ubu.
I have been raised from birth to serve the Demon. His Mission is my life. I exist only to further that glorious goal.
Today I fear I have betrayed him.
When I remember the look in the boy's eyes, I realize that, all unknowing, I have introduced a tiny flaw into the perfection of the Demon's bloodline. It is a defect that I fear will grow to threaten all that we cherish, all that we have worked for. A minuscule flaw, a grain of sand in the heart of a peerless diamond that could crack it asunder.
I saw the most dangerous of weaknesses, the most damaging of blemishes. I saw compassion.
And yet, as I carry my son--damp and sleepy and heavy on my shoulder--back through the corridors to his mother's arms, I cannot bring myself at this moment to regret it.