Give and take. Someone—one of Zolin’s spineless advisors, of which he’d had ten too many—had once remarked to Senna that diplomacy was a dance of give and take.
He’d chuckled amiably with the man, though if the old fool could see more than three feet in front of him he wouldn’t have missed the sneer curling in on itself on the young nobleman’s face. Give and take?
That tidy little principle vastly underestimated the ones indebted.
If diplomacy was so cut and dry, so push and pull, Senna never would’ve fought as hard as he’d had to please his dear father. No son was so noble as to live entirely for their bastard sires; half of the pleasure had been in the pursuit. And as young as Senna had seemed when the advisor gifted him that wisdom four years ago—
Scarab had been locked in a holy war for centuries. The seraphim had never shown them mercy. And if they had, the obedience so owed to them would’ve arrived in a chariot of swords, a symphony of battle horns as fanfare.
He watched Marisol’s reaction to the sketch with grim satisfaction. She was far more unflinching than most, but he’d been at this longer than the young commander had known how to walk. He knew what desire looked like. Knew the color, knew the shape.
“I like to believe I don’t fall into either category, no,” he replied wryly. The gold leaf-shaped plates of his collar clinked together when his shoulders conceded a shrug. Her banter, slighting if it were anyone else, instead invited a quirk to Senna’s mouth. The stoic commander as described by Nestor's reports wasn't quite who was standing in front of him.
“Most do not. Words tend to serve us better.” He returned her smile with a cool one of his own, but his eyes narrowed as if to say: until they don’t. A stillness settled over him when he remembered the last time words had failed, and what that failure had cost him.
(Would armor have saved her instead? He'd asked the same question to himself a thousand times with a thousand substitutions: would more guards have saved her? Would more time have saved her? Would ___ have saved her?)
He was glad when Marisol signaled for her cadets to escort Kite away for inspection, and bid the boy off with a curt nod. The inspection would take little time, but that was all he needed. His proposition was meant to be heard by the Commander alone, but he was more than willing to give her enough time for deliberation. After all, he hadn't yet drawn up the papers.
To Senna, the only key that came close to fitting into the lock of diplomacy was this: patience. Patience to consider every facet of every side, machinations traced from bud to leaf to branch; patience to inspect far into the past, estimate far into the future, to see how fate has set her board.
Patience, to watch for the moment one’s opponent realized that the starting pieces were already in place.
“Take my word or not,” he began softly, “but I assure you, Commander, that such a deal is indeed possible.” The deal in question had taken form the moment Nestor had imparted to him just how desperate the Halcyons were to find the legendary Prudence. The armor and its history had intrigued him, but desperation… that was what shifted the sands of empires. He'd just needed to find a way to wield it.
“You asked what a politician has need of armor for. Truthfully, I have very little I need... and Prudence is not one of them. Even Excalibur did not keep Arthur from dying at Mordred’s hand, if you know of the tales.” Senna paused, his gaze alighting on a star in the Terrastellan sky. For the first time, he allowed an emotion to surface and swallow air. One breath, two. The corners of his lips tightened as weariness poured into his grim features like oil on water. Sitting, but never sinking.
“My deal is this. If I find Prudence, I shall return the armor to you without delay nor hesitation. In return, I ask for an alliance with the Halcyon unit, with concession for Prudence to be invoked for my cause should I need it. Naturally, I would never provoke hostilities with the Halcyons nor Terrastella.”
Loathe as Senna was to admit it, he no longer controlled the Solterran court. It was no longer able to be controlled. Raum’s decrees ran amok like a rat-carried disease, and soon enough, the disease would begin to kill its host. From what he’d seen, it already had. What atrocities would the king commit next? He could dedicate lifetimes to guessing the whims of madmen.
But he would be damned if he lost again.
“You can also consider it reciprocal. House Hajakha’s unlimited support would be yours, for as long as the alliance shall last.”
He didn't think it necessary to tell her what he would do if she refused. He intended to hunt regardless of the outcomes of his deal. If he found Prudence then, he would scratch out the line about "returning without delay nor hesitation" and negotiate his alliance over again. Only this time, through a series of slow, bureacracy-standard letters and on-behalf-of visits.
And if he didn't? Patience, still. Reparations could invariably be made. Plans invariably drawn. Whatever the outcome, he thought, I would not be so quick to call it a loss.
“We are selfish creatures, yes. But you will be surprised, Lord Hajakha, at just how obliging, how decorous, someone becomes when they feel... indebted to you. Give mercy and take obedience. It’s a wonderful little principle, wouldn’t you say?”
He’d chuckled amiably with the man, though if the old fool could see more than three feet in front of him he wouldn’t have missed the sneer curling in on itself on the young nobleman’s face. Give and take?
That tidy little principle vastly underestimated the ones indebted.
If diplomacy was so cut and dry, so push and pull, Senna never would’ve fought as hard as he’d had to please his dear father. No son was so noble as to live entirely for their bastard sires; half of the pleasure had been in the pursuit. And as young as Senna had seemed when the advisor gifted him that wisdom four years ago—
Scarab had been locked in a holy war for centuries. The seraphim had never shown them mercy. And if they had, the obedience so owed to them would’ve arrived in a chariot of swords, a symphony of battle horns as fanfare.
He watched Marisol’s reaction to the sketch with grim satisfaction. She was far more unflinching than most, but he’d been at this longer than the young commander had known how to walk. He knew what desire looked like. Knew the color, knew the shape.
“I like to believe I don’t fall into either category, no,” he replied wryly. The gold leaf-shaped plates of his collar clinked together when his shoulders conceded a shrug. Her banter, slighting if it were anyone else, instead invited a quirk to Senna’s mouth. The stoic commander as described by Nestor's reports wasn't quite who was standing in front of him.
“Most do not. Words tend to serve us better.” He returned her smile with a cool one of his own, but his eyes narrowed as if to say: until they don’t. A stillness settled over him when he remembered the last time words had failed, and what that failure had cost him.
(Would armor have saved her instead? He'd asked the same question to himself a thousand times with a thousand substitutions: would more guards have saved her? Would more time have saved her? Would ___ have saved her?)
He was glad when Marisol signaled for her cadets to escort Kite away for inspection, and bid the boy off with a curt nod. The inspection would take little time, but that was all he needed. His proposition was meant to be heard by the Commander alone, but he was more than willing to give her enough time for deliberation. After all, he hadn't yet drawn up the papers.
To Senna, the only key that came close to fitting into the lock of diplomacy was this: patience. Patience to consider every facet of every side, machinations traced from bud to leaf to branch; patience to inspect far into the past, estimate far into the future, to see how fate has set her board.
Patience, to watch for the moment one’s opponent realized that the starting pieces were already in place.
“Take my word or not,” he began softly, “but I assure you, Commander, that such a deal is indeed possible.” The deal in question had taken form the moment Nestor had imparted to him just how desperate the Halcyons were to find the legendary Prudence. The armor and its history had intrigued him, but desperation… that was what shifted the sands of empires. He'd just needed to find a way to wield it.
“You asked what a politician has need of armor for. Truthfully, I have very little I need... and Prudence is not one of them. Even Excalibur did not keep Arthur from dying at Mordred’s hand, if you know of the tales.” Senna paused, his gaze alighting on a star in the Terrastellan sky. For the first time, he allowed an emotion to surface and swallow air. One breath, two. The corners of his lips tightened as weariness poured into his grim features like oil on water. Sitting, but never sinking.
“My deal is this. If I find Prudence, I shall return the armor to you without delay nor hesitation. In return, I ask for an alliance with the Halcyon unit, with concession for Prudence to be invoked for my cause should I need it. Naturally, I would never provoke hostilities with the Halcyons nor Terrastella.”
Loathe as Senna was to admit it, he no longer controlled the Solterran court. It was no longer able to be controlled. Raum’s decrees ran amok like a rat-carried disease, and soon enough, the disease would begin to kill its host. From what he’d seen, it already had. What atrocities would the king commit next? He could dedicate lifetimes to guessing the whims of madmen.
But he would be damned if he lost again.
“You can also consider it reciprocal. House Hajakha’s unlimited support would be yours, for as long as the alliance shall last.”
He didn't think it necessary to tell her what he would do if she refused. He intended to hunt regardless of the outcomes of his deal. If he found Prudence then, he would scratch out the line about "returning without delay nor hesitation" and negotiate his alliance over again. Only this time, through a series of slow, bureacracy-standard letters and on-behalf-of visits.
And if he didn't? Patience, still. Reparations could invariably be made. Plans invariably drawn. Whatever the outcome, he thought, I would not be so quick to call it a loss.
@Marisol | "senna" nestor | notes: diplomat(?) senna has come to call
