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The greatest fault of the Dolhrian Empire is that it inspires no loyalty worthy of the name.
Oh, it enjoys something like it, yes — as an echo is like a song, a ripple a wave. An emptier thing, and so briefer, only bound to be gone as swiftly as it had been won. He would not deny the Earth Dragons' conquest in its entirety, and not solely for the personal triumph he had felt when the slovenly Holy Kingdom was brought to heel— There is a value to their own might (what little there remains of it: the dying throes of a weakened race), and the fear it commands of the denizens of Dolhr: yet only so much.
No man willingly claims Dolhr as his homeland. He submits to rule-by-dragon in desperation, for all other lands have scorned him, or in greed, for he has no love other than cold coin. No ethos, in a word, forms the foundation of this 'loyalty', only a vulgar opportunism, and were he a softer heart he would pity them for it.
(Then again, were he a softer heart, he would not be where - would not be as - he is.)
So, it is simple enough a thing to threaten, if not bribe, for discreet passage into the bowels of Dolhr. He does not doubt Medeus will hear of his visit regardless after the fact, through some means or another, but the inevitability is no concern of his: officially speaking, His Royal Majesty King Michalis of Macedon is not here. Let the old buzzards pick over the machinations of his visit at their dark roundtable, with or without his attendance, and bemoan their own lacking initiative, that they had contented themselves instead with their servitude — in time.
For now, however...
"It demeans us both, General, to meet so."
He waits; watches.
His vassal (a sycophantic sop of a man, really, but why drag a fit and fighting one from the glorious battlefield for this?) busies himself with the torches, bringing a dismal glow to the dungeon: enough to see by, but let it not be forgotten where they are. The prisoner himself is cast only in half-light, scarcely enough to distinguish him from the cloak drawn up around him, and Michalis wonders - dispassionately - whether the beasts have kept him in such isolation as to hide him away from even this paltry light.
But he rouses, if not quite with the punctuality of a soldier standing to attention— He does not stand, even, contenting himself at first with a glance upward, through the bars of his cell; then, when he appears to realise not only that he has a visitor, but the distinction of his visitor, he sits straighter against the rough stone of the wall. Even so, it takes a spell longer for recognition - or else something close-enough to it - to grace his expression, eyebrows drawn and gaze searching until—
"...Your Highness."
Like a hound barking, affronted on behalf of its master, his vassal strikes out, the butt of his extinguished torch against the bars. "You address His Majesty as 'Majesty' or not at all, dog," — and isn't that a bit of irony, sour on his tongue?
His Majesty himself, indeed, winces, his annoyance clear by a click of his tongue: he has few qualms with kicking a man already down, but he thinks this crass, a weakling believing himself to be better than he is. With a cut of his hand through the stale air, he signals, 'enough'.
"Do not presume to speak for me. I am wholly capable of making my own displeasure known."
The sycophant, of course, genuflects, although is still loath to pass on the wineskin at his silent behest (no bribe, necessarily, but rather a wink-and-nod: Lefcandith Red, for the once-Viceroy of Archanea). This, too, he notes with a certain contempt, recognising the man to be envious, and pitifully petty for it — a bully.
He will reconsider his privileges when he is returned to Macedon, but does not now afford him even a glance as he dismisses him. His gaze remains, instead, on the prisoner-general, whose wary gaze holds him in turn.
"—Leave us," he speaks imperiously, so there can be no mistake, "Your betters will speak now."
And so they have their conspiracy: Iote Reborn, and Camus the Sable.
No throne for him here, he takes his place upon the absent warden's chair. His sovereignty is not so fragile - by far - that he is unmade a king when not surrounded by material luxuries; like this, they are closer to equals (if not, granted, by much), and he can stomach the humility of a roughly-hewn, uneven-legged chair for at least the length of a conversation.
There are worse, more humiliating positions in which one might find oneself, after all.
Michalis beholds him now in his, far less the Grustian Cœur de Lion, than— yes, than a leashed dog: his aide had been correct in this much, however uncouth his behaviour. He has bitten the hand that feeds, and the precise reason why Michalis merely ponders with a disinterested sort of curiosity. It is no particular concern of his what had moved him to his small rebellion against Dolhr; only that something had indeed moved him — and, so, that he might be moved again.
The prisoner-general drinks from the wineskin, seeming somehow greedier than he must be in the silent poverty of the dungeon; when he takes it from his mouth after a draught, the exaggeration dulls, and the mild manner - the stillness, the watchful quiet, even a courteous dab at his lips with the threadbare cloak - returns.
"—What news of the war?"
"Do they not—...?" And at this, His Majesty must laugh: a single, quick, almost-indignant exhalation. "...I see. How ignorant."
He does not now speak of the man before him, but instead of their Emperor and his Dolhrian adjutants. The arrogance of it all is brought more clearly into focus, and so, then, is the absurdity: here is the most martially-able man in Greater Archanea, so the legend goes, as sharp of mind as of blade, and they keep him inert in both— A grand waste. It is a suitable punishment, perhaps, for the military failings of a man of his office and expectations, but it seems to him a short-sighted one just as well.
Medeus would cut off his nose to spite his face.
He crosses one leg over the other, folds his arms loosely before his abdomen, considering the course of their war thus far. Assuming his imprisonment was concurrent with the Archanean Princess finding refuge in Aurelis, and that Dolhr has been keeping him in the dark (as it were) ever since...
"Aurelis has fallen." Michalis's mouth twists in a fleeting display of displeasure, before he stifles it— begins distractedly tapping his arm with a forefinger. He does not care to waste breath on any preamble. "Reinforcements for its Coyote Prince," (he speaks the epithet like he would wave a dismissive hand) "arrived in a small army led by the dispossessed young prince of Altea, and the capital was reclaimed between them. The latest reports inform that the alliance has been forced to retreat from the mainland by Grust, despite some early victories, but... Well. The Princess will be reprimanded for her failure to hold Aurelis — as I'm sure you understand."
(Even in the private domain of his thoughts, he does not think of her as 'my sister': the impersonality of the title - unburdened by even her name - is easier, dampens his disappointment towards her by absolving him of his grief. In time, he will learn of her victory at Deil, and a part of him will be quietly, shamefully relieved by it.)
If Camus has something, anything to say on his motherland succeeding where Macedon had failed, he does not speak it. Otherwise, in that moment, they might have been at the war council table themselves, were it not for his rags and his hair cut roughly, just below the nape, and all else that humbles him in his cell.
He sees him mull on the informal report, brow furrowed and head bowed slightly in thought, until he lifts his gaze to meet Michalis's again.
"Then the Princess of Archanea has the protection of Aurelis and Altea."
—There.
Whether the man means to, whether he is even aware he does so, he reveals something of himself. The soft sigh he exhales, though he might try to keep it to himself, does not escape Michalis's notice, either; still the 'why' remains, but he has let slip a certain priority of his nevertheless.
Chin lifted, Michalis considers that the general has already noticed this symmetry of history for himself. The granddaughter of Artemis has claimed the guardianship of Marlon's, and so Cartas's descendant; elsewhere, the Altean pup also follows in his ancestor's footsteps, taking up arms for Holy Archanea... Missing from the heroic tableau are the bearers of Iote's and Ordwin's legacies, one by blood, the other by station— and whether Ordwin's successor means to imply he, too, will simply stay the course of this mirrored history, or will forge his own path, Michalis cannot yet say.
(He neglects to consider the role of love, naturally.)
"And yet," he begins in response, his voice lifting contemplatively, "here you remain, left to languish, until Dolhr decides otherwise. It is not an unfit punishment for treason, I grant you, and certainly more merciful than the finality of execution— Only, it strikes me as a fool's gambit. An ill-treated prisoner of war breeds resentment, to say nothing of the tactical disadvantage..."
Ah, but all this the general knows already, he is sure — because how else is he to spend his long days in captivity, if not thinking on his grim circumstances...? If not for a hint of disdain in his eyes, caught in the flicker of fire-light, Camus's expression remains impassive
So he cuts right to the heart of the matter: "What do you hope to gain from this war, General Camus?"
"I don't follow. To speak of gain—" he frowns, in one moment puzzled; in another, piqued. As noble a man as he is said to be, the reason why is self-evident enough to Michalis before he speaks it himself. "—I am a knight of Grust. If there is anything I hope to 'gain', it is the safety of the people I serve, and peace for the land. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less."
Michalis withholds a pointedly questioning 'no?', a knowing look: whatever the other's sympathies for the Princess of Archanea may be, they are not his immediate concern. Instead, he nods approvingly, letting the words hang in the air between them before he makes his next move on the board — cleanly, confidently.
"You will not achieve it beneath the yoke of Dolhr— in subservience to those who hold royal children to ransom, who would let one of the continent's mightiest warriors waste away like a common criminal."
"...But I might achieve it in indentured service to Macedon. Have I the right of it?"
As expected of his sharp mind, he follows the reasoning closely, draws the correct conclusion: and it apparently repulses him to do so as much as it satisfies His Majesty. He holds out a placating palm, "Nothing so base— please. It would be a true allegiance, not the likes of Dolhr's subjugation. Suffice to say, the precise terms of treaty shall have to be discussed — but from the onset, you would have your freedom."
What might have begun as an already-short, mirthless laugh from the prisoner is consumed, in a breath, by a dry cough. He has the grace to excuse himself, at least, no matter his readily-apparent misgivings. "—You mistake my influence, I fear. Even were I free of this place, I am not... in the position to make such decisions." He settles back into his humility, readjusting the cloak drawn about him.
"I am only one man."
"Indeed...?"
Michalis cannot fathom it, truth be told— why the lauded Sable Knight of Grust makes himself so small. Better this than a skilless oaf with illusions of grandeur, he supposes, but the contradiction vexes him. He turns the thought over in his mind; finding no rationale behind it still (even accounting for the man's rumoured peasantry), he redirects his petty frustration outward.
For here is the truth of Grust's standing among the nations of Greater Archanea; and though he harbours no particular resentment for either the general or for his kingdom, it dimly delights Michalis to speak plainly now.
"As I understand of Grust's circumstances, you are nevertheless in the best position to decide the future of the land to which you so nobly devote yourself. Her King is ailing; her most experienced general, I hear, has his best years long behind him——"
"Enough."
For all his civility, righteous anger is becoming on him. He lifts himself from the ground with all the surety of a man not whipped and starved for the past several sennights; he steps forward, perhaps forgetting - for that moment - he is indeed still caged, until he must rest a hand upon the bars to apparently steady himself. The indignation ebbs from him as he recomposes himself, drawing a weighted breath against both the physical and the emotional exertion — and yet his gaze, his voice is steeled.
"Imply what you wish of my own character — for even as I am, here, I yet have dignity to spare." He withdraws his hand from the bars, letting it hang at his side; it clenches, unclenches, in a slow rhythm meant to calm himself. "I will not have you insult my liege and my countrymen, what-ever case you mean to make to me."
Had he reacted any differently, Michalis might have doubted he had the right man.
So he makes a quietly-amused, but nonetheless approving hum, taking care - in his grace - to temper his tone. "In any event, Archanea is poised to return to her Princess and her champions, given time: but this of little concern, when she can be felled again."
Michalis now rises from his own seat, almost languorous, and he steps closer to the cell to punctuate his words. "I suspect the strength of Grust's armies will flag ere long, however, as their morale fails. The vocal, bullish minority who support Dolhr before their own King and country will be decimated, their might always greater in their own minds than in truth... while those who remain loyal to Ordwin's ideals may yet be deprived of their Lionheart, and weakened for it. Do you follow now?"
He contents himself with leaving his final point unspoken, instead watching Camus's face - fully-rendered now in the glow of the torches - think on the conclusion for himself. When the restored Holy Archanea marches west to avenge herself against Dolhr, who will be there to stand sentinel for Grust — for King, people, country all? Even in his cloying modesty, he must know how his countrymen exalt him, beloved folk hero that he is.
His expression, his voice, his body— Michalis does not soften so much as smooth over. All he has said here, where talk is so often cheap, has been only sincere: this much, if nothing else, he hopes to impress clearly to his audience of one. The young king looks upon him almost dolefully now, for it truly is a shame — not only that Medeus would let so fine a blade simply rust, but, all the more so, that Camus himself would deny himself the opportunity.
"...You are a good man, in the eyes of the people of Grust. You could be great."
When Michalis receives no more than a pitying look in reply (as though he ought to be pitied here...!), he concedes. He squares his shoulders, adjusts the lay of his royal mantle upon them, and he holds his head high.
"Very well. I see there is nothing I can say to sway you — not at this time, anyhow."
—And perhaps this is just as well, some forgiving, admiring, and kinder voice within him admits. The Sable Knight who would lease his loyalty for his own, personal freedom, to whatever eventual greater good, would not be the Sable Knight at all, and he might as well enlist some barbarian and brutish hireling for his conspiracy. He has embarked, then, on some fool's errand in coming here, but he feels no frustration for it.
Should ever they find themselves on opposing sides of the battlefield, he would not, at least, find himself wholly ignorant of his enemy, and of his vulnerabilities as a man.
In silence, Michalis prepares himself to depart. He can yet feel the other's eyes upon him, whether they are pitying still, as he lifts a torch from its bracket; he turns then to face its counterpart opposite, considering whether he ought to extinguish the flame, leave the prisoner as he had found him, or to allow him this petty mercy.
He decides the latter, even thinking himself needlessly sentimental for it, and saves some face by only half-turning towards him in his farewell.
"—I suggest you reconsider your chivalric pride, Camus." (He denies him his honorific not to offend, but to endear him, almost— as if he were an old friend he might yet discourage from making some stupid mistake. The notion humours him, though distantly, for his expression remains set in its grim line.) "Before you are no longer able to.
"Poets and artists may adore him, but the martyr is no good to those he leaves behind."