Ameris Santraeger - Meditations

[kleomenes]

Things Unsaid

We were all on display in the courtyard suffering under the summer sun. 1334 was a warm year. A hot year, even, hot like fire. Many poor souls would burn before it was done.
All the household servants stood off to the left: grooms, maids, pages, cooks, the lot. A detachment of men at arms stood to the right in full livery. The family was lined up, with its closest attendants behind, opposite the gate as the horsemen entered. My mother stood beside my father on his left hand, I to hers and Errilar, still small at his age, beside me. I was in my tenth year, Errilar in his eighth. I thought those two years a vast chasm of time, and carried myself accordingly as his lord and master.

There were four riders; two were clearly squires, wearing the livery of their masters. But two were knights, shields and arms hanging from the flanks of their horses. One, a man in his mid-twenties, had his dark hair trimmed to the nape of his neck and a short, v-shaped beard, cut in the style of currently in fashion in Zazesspur. Upon his shield and tabard he bore unfamiliar heraldry: on the left, a leaping salmon, on the right, the crown and sword of Crown Prince Rythan’s lifeguard. The other man bore a similar sigil, yet instead of the salmon there was, emblazoned in gold on dark blue, a lion’s head in profile, the sigil of the Santraeger. He was of like age as his comrade, and his hair and beard were cut in similar style, but lighter, a light brown. His eyes were a deep blue, as if mirroring his tabard. I knew him at sight.

Grooms bounded forward as the riders dismounted, helping the squires see to the horses. Both knights said words of thanks for the service before they came to speak to us. I remember marking this. Then, they exchanged a quiet, close smile with each other and approached to present themselves.

“Enjivar.” My father said, stepping forward, his arms open. The smile was in his voice. “Welcome home.”

“Brother!” said the blue-eyed man, my uncle, and the two men met in a brief, but warm embrace. “You’ve kept the castle standing, I see.” The other knight stood a short distance behind, waiting politely to be presented following the family reunion.

With some laughter, they broke apart, and my uncle turned to mother, bowing to her and taking the proffered hand to kiss. “Countess-Consort Mida. Your beauty is unchanged.”

My mother offered him a polite smile. “Enjivar, truly it is a blessing to see you.”

Then it was our turn. “And who are these lions? Not the mewling boys I saw last I was here!” He ruffled our hair as we smiled and laughed.

Stepping back, Enjivar presented his travelling companion, a proud smile on his face. “Kinfolk, allow me to present my comrade at arms and dearest friend, Jyordan Hadelarn, second son of Baron Hadelarn of County Firedrake and sworn lifeguard of Crown Prince Rythan.”

As the guest was introduced, I carried on staring at my uncle. A knight.


We feasted well that night, and afterwards my father took Enjivar and Jyordan up to the Solar when my mother retired, to share news and fine wine. As a rare treat to mark the occaision, Errilar and I were allowed to sit with them for a while, so long as we were quiet, nursing cups of watered wine. My uncle even had us join the toast! We were preening like peacocks, holding our cups in both hands, eyes wide as we listened to men talk of great deeds, fierce battles, distant counties and wondrous tales.

But the main topic, one which had been kept from the dinner table, was of the war brewing in the south. And so now finally my father heard the details of what had brought Enjivar here. Of how the banners of a new kingdom, Mulsparkh, had been raised along the River Agis and in the Forest of Mir, and a mighty host of human and inhuman mercenaries, led by a cabal of mages, was in the process of conquering southern Tethyr – provoking much invective on my father’s part at the news of our ancestral lands falling under the yoke.

“Dogs, bringing fetters along the Agis. Let them taste our steel! What is being done, Brother?”

“We ride to Prince Rythan’s side now, as his lifeguards. The Prince believes he can bring an end to this conflict with words; and that if he cannot, then swift action now is worth more than ten-thousand swords later. So he’s called his men to him.” Replied Jyordan, a respectful politeness in his tone for the interruption.

My uncle nodded. “Jyordan speaks true. The Prince means to attend to this, and not to let it fester. Even if he must do it alone.” Then a smile. “There will be a Santraeger lion amongst those freeing the south, Brother. I’ll do our name honour, I promise.”

“You will.” My father said, with a certain smile. “What of the King? What forces does he marshal to follow on?” At this point, he thought the question rhetorical.

Enjivar and Jyordan exchanged looks. It was an odd exchange. Looking back, I think there was an appeal in Jyordan’s gaze, and a stubborn resolve in Enjivar’s.

Then my uncle spoke. “Out here the air is clear. One can look about and see free men, honest men. In Zazesspur the stench from the docks is only matched by that emanating from around the court.”

“It’s so.” Added Jyordan, carefully. “But the Crown Prince is a wind of change, when we ride beside him.”

“What does that mean?” came Count Ardepan’s reply. I heard his hardening in the undertones. So did the others. Jyordan held his silence now. This was a matter between brothers.

“Brother, the King, he is not sending aid. He says it too late in the year. He says he will send troops in the spring. So Prince Rythan rides alone to aid the people of the south.”

“I don’t understand.” My father replied, truth in his tone. “There is ample time...”

“He is surrounded by sycophants and rogues. They give him ill advice. And when his brother speaks truly, he dismisses him with harsh words, saying that the Crown Prince should know his place.” Enjivar’s voice betrayed a long, bitter frustration with what he was relating even though he tried to mask it.

“Prince Rythan oversteps?” My father’s tone was matter-of-fact. He was not leaping to anger. He wanted to understand.

“No.” My uncle’s voice wore a righteous sternness now, as he stared hard at my father, his elder brother. “The King makes foolish decisions against the good of the people. He is a wicked man, even if a lamb next to his brother. And he will let the Duchy of Ankaram burn before setting aside his own unwillingness to admit his brother is right.”

There was a silence. My father set aside his goblet. The withheld rage rendering his voice like ice. “You come here, to the hearth of our fathers, and before my sons speak treason?”

“Its truth I speak, Ardepan. Painful truth, yes. You should hear it, Brother, all righteous men should...”

“its TREASON!” roared my father, standing, his cheeks flushed, his fists clenched. My brother and started in fear at the sudden anger.

Jyordan winced. Enjivar stood, staring his brother in the eye. “You have not seen the rot, Brother, but you will. I came here to ask you to add your voice to others, in support of the prince and his...”

“You came to ask a Santraeger to break his oaths. The only corruption I see here is in your viper tongue.” My father’s rage still boiled, even if in volume he’d lessened.

Errilar squeaked next to me, dropping his cup. All three men looked to us, cowering in the corner. Then my uncle and my father locked gazes again, and my uncle bowed. “This was ill done, to speak so before your sons, Brother, who I hold as dear to me as if they were my own. Accept my apologies.”

My father kept his silence. Undeterred, Enjivar turned to us again.

“Accept my apologies, little lords, for marring this Summer’s night.” Enjivar walked over to us and, quite surprisingly at the time, moved to embrace both of us in a hug. Errilar and I held him tight.

Stepping back, Enjivar approached my father for the same. “Ardepan, let us embrace as brothers, and speak frankly once your sons are abed.”

They did indeed embrace, stiffly, without warmth.

“Go to your beds, sons.” My father said to us as he stood back, and indeed we did, scurrying out.

We still heard, though, the next words, cold, from brother to brother.

“Here is a frank word. A brother of mine speaks no word of treason. Go do your duty in the south. When we speak again in the morning let these wicked words of yours be forgotten.”
My father’s boots were noisy on the stone of the corridor as he left the solar and strode to his chambers.

The next day Enjivar and Jyordan left after breakfast. We were there to see them off. Enjivar and my father said a few quiet words after another emotionless embrace. My father stern. Enjivar hurt, but nodding. As they were mounting their horses, Enjivar cast a sad smile up to the keep, and Jyordan clasped his shoulder, before the pair rode out of the courtyard with their squires. My father watched them depart, then turned away into the keep, brow clouded.

We were not to know then that Prince Rythan and his men rode to a trap and to their deaths, at the Battle of Nightflames. There they would face deceit and uncounted numbers. Their valour would have let them prevail even so, were they not finally undone by wicked sorcery. Only a handful of the Prince’s men escaped to bring news of the disaster. Enjivar and Jyordan were not among them.

From then on, every year that I knew him, my father opened a fine bottle of wine from Cape Velen and toasted those who fell beside Prince Rythan, and toasted Enjivar as well. He would invite Errilar and I, and we would bear witness to his words, said always to an empty hearth.

“Brother, no dispute between us could ever change the fact you were my brother. My last words to you were ill.”

[kleomenes]

The Tide Returns

That hot summer in Athkatla. Its nearing half a decade ago now, the first sweeping contagion I ever saw. Yet I have thought of it often over the past two moons. The baking sun and still air made everything worse, as the smell – the smell – almond, putrid, was always there. It was there when we woke, while we prayed, during the breaking of our fasts, while we treated the sick with our blessings and meagre supplies, and finally with only words of comfort, all we had left. It was still there when we shared a few moments comradeship as Brothers and Sisters at the end of the day, before we submitted to that hell before sleep, when we tossed and turned in our cots, troubled by the suffering and death we had seen in the hours before.

That had been a short contagion, although fierce. It left the wealthy districts near untouched, in truth, but burned hot amongst the poorest. Happily, as the plague eroded our supplies and the ability to fight back, a charitable fashion had set in amongst the merchant lords. They had taken to showing off their success by their ability to donate mere trifles to the various temples which had taken the fight to the plague.

Even our humble shrine received a large donation a day or two after the plague began to turn. With the healing of the sick becoming more manageable, it was decided to spend a large bulk of the coin on healthy and nutritious food. The reasoning being that well fed people can often fight off disease themselves without the need for healing, and to prevent is better than to cure. And so Sister Noa and I were sent to the Promenade to buy in bulk. Sister Noa was a kindly young woman a year or two younger than myself, who somehow had managed to remain plump despite the best efforts of Ilmateri asceticism. She clearly had some Tethyrian blood, as many Amnians do, but was Athkatlan through and through, a daughter of a clan of hard working stevedores. While she was training as a healer, she had been a cook to her many brothers and sisters before taking the Grey, and on this day her sagacity in haggling for turnips and rice came as a surprise, and a marked departure from her otherwise sweet nature – a nature that had remained unflappable throughout the sickness. It soon became apparent, as I followed in the wake of her purposeful bulk, that my role was to carry things and to write down when the wagon deliveries of larger orders would occur.

Sister Noa was cheerful indeed, despite her formidable bargaining power, until we arrived back at the Shrine. There, heading into the kitchens, we found Brother Alavar helping himself to a cup of tea in a moment’s respite. His first comment was chiding. “The Lord and Lady of the Markets return! What did you bring?” An oblique reference to my ancestry.

Noa chuckled as I began to sort between the herbs we had bought for the infirmary, and the salt, butter and spices meant for the kitchen. “Brother Ameris has the list.” She held her hand out, and I offered it wordlessly. In truth, I was not in the mood for Brother Alavar’s teasing manner, today, so I set about my sorting task as Sister Noa read out our many purchases. It was only when I heard her abruptly sob that I turned, to see her with her hands over her face, and Brother Alavar with concern rising on his features.

“And its all too late! If we had had this coin even a ten day ago, how many more would be alive!?” Another sob, the despair apparent in her tone. Brother Alavar gave me a look – a call to battle, in fact, and then he spoke, softly.

“And what then, Sister? Imagine all that you have bought arriving a ten-day ago. You know Brother Ameris cannot stand disorder. Instead of healing the sick he would have been categorising all the different spices you bought by order of heat, and sorting the infirmary alphabetically again. We would have lost a valuable healer.”

Over Noa’s soft sobs, Alavar chuckled. And for all the world it sounded like he really was just speaking whimsical words of mockery. Yet I saw - I saw – the calculation in his eyes. He let me see it, so that I would join his battle against her pain. A battle the Revered Father had fought against mine but a ten-day ago, a thing which was no secret in this shrine. “Two healers, in fact. As it would be a crime against the Broken God to force anyone to eat anything he cooked, so you’d have to take time to prepare it all.”

This got a little laugh from Noa, despite her misery. I did my part. “And with every meal you made, I would have to re-sort things. Absolute chaos. There would be no time for aught else.” Another little laugh from the Sister.

Brother Alavar placed a hand on Noa’s shoulder, his voice kindly. “At least with supplies arriving now you can make the best of it, Sister.” She nodded, wiping her eyes. As quickly as it had come, her hopelessness was gone. This was testament to her strength, but also how often Brother Alavar’s chiding found its mark. Exposing the light to which we could look to even in the darkest times.

Yes, I have often thought of that time in Athkatla in the last two months. The plague which has swept Baldur’s Gate has been fiercer, harsher, greedier. It has left not a district untouched, even if its grip was tightest in the Docks. We have been spared the smell, winter and rain keeping such down. But we have not been spared the death. No, it has been far worse. Only now do we have time to count the cost, as I and others of my faith stand watch over Scriviner Cara’s work cataloguing the dead. And it is steep. This, despite how many rallied round to fight the plague with donations of coin and supplies from near and far, or with the sweat of their brow treating the sick directly. How much worse would it have been without all this aid? To think of those who would act so swiftly for others lifts the heart even amidst all the death.

And hearts have needed lifting. This tragedy has been worsened by the sins of those who sought to capitalise on the suffering of others for their own lust for power, the Virtuous Soil. Riots and panic in the docks stoked by their propaganda as they set themselves up as false saviours. On their hands the death of many in the lawlessness, and many more from the difficulty in reaching people in the docks to provide aid. A friend of mine demanded the death of the one who conceived of this cynical plan. I cannot write against it.

Always one questions whether more could have been done. Could I have done more? Such thoughts are a devil, tormenting waking thought and dreams even in this time of rebuilding, resupply, healing. Yet, there is still work to do. Those recovering from the plague are weak. The economic damage to the city will lead to hardship and starvation amongst the poorest. There is still risk of bitter lawlessness. Donations still need to be collected and distributed as a matter of urgency. There is no time for fatigue and tiredness.

I cannot bow to despair and self reproach. I have not, did not. I will Endure, going forward.
How? Why? Am I strong enough to stand alone? To cling to my faith alone?

No. To think that is foolishness, and it is what has led to my failures in the past.

I know now that I Endure because I have found that I am not alone. I have seen others strive to save lives. I have seen others indignant at the same crimes as I am. I know what I do has some worth, so I must carry on doing it.

I have, in the darkest times, read words written from the shadows. Words writing of the light. The light that shines on us all, if we will let it. Words of hope. Words speaking to a bond unbroken, of deeds few remember but which still stand. Patience rewarded, I will be patient, knowing my Comrade still looks at the same sky as I.

And I know, when I stumble, that there are soft arms to pick me up and embrace me, and that soft words will utter encouragement; not as a matter of faith, or politeness. Indeed, against a learned nature. But they will be offered from the heart, and I will listen to them, and in honouring them, Endure.

[kleomenes]

*the words on this page are written in a shaky, messy hand, as if the author was tired or uncertain. It appears to have been penned over several days*

It is not like the sun setting.

It is not like a cloud passing before the moon.

It is not like the dousing of a fire in the chill of winter.

It is not like the murky gloom beneath the ocean waves.

It is not like the rumble of an avalanche, sweeping trees and hapless animals before it.

It is not like the bursting of smoke and flame from a mountain, heralding the wrath of the earth itself.

It is not like the desert made by the passing of an invading army.

It is not like the shadow of some great wyrm passing overhead, heralding death.

It is not like the ruin of a village put to fire and sword.

It is not like the skeletons of past kingdoms, covered in dust, forgotten.

It is not like the glint of steel drawn by assassins in moonlight.

It is not like the feeling of a foot in quicksand.

It is not like the crack of broken bones.

It is not like the sting left by a wrathful blade.

It is not like the fevered agony of the sick.

It is not like the desperation of the hungry.

It is not like the broken wings of a felled bird.

It is not like the weeping of a child for its mother.

It is not like the turn of a rack.

It is not like the kiss of the lash.

It is not like the stench of the charnel pit.

It is not like the creak of the noose on the gallows, when heavy with fruit.

It is not like the regret after a battle, when faithful soldiers must be remembered.

It is not like the pain of past sin, when duty is finally seen as wickedness.

It is not like the knowledge that you are the last of all your kin.

It is not like the despair of knowing one's own mistake's, one's own failure's to those they love, who placed trust in them.

It all these things, yet they do not even begin to tell.





When you give, then it can be taken. Do I understand now how she fell so far? To cope with this agony?




It is not the same. You are not alone.



A thousand deaths, a thousand deaths not enough for him! For them! Each one would mark every single moment. They'd learn how well I can preserve life!


Sin.


Broken God. Be strong, she said. I will endure. I will endure.


I will not break. Hope springs eternal.



In the name of Ilmater the Wise,
The Merciful,
The Enduring;
Let account be held on that Sinner who now does your work.

I observe my fast. I observe my suffering. Bring me closer to you, Lord, so that I might share with you the truths of our ideals.

Chains must be broken.

[kleomenes]

The World is Not How I Will It

Dusk was giving way to night, and they approached with freshly lit torches. The captive had lost his helmet by the time he was brought to us, and there was a nasty looking cut over his left eye, blood trickling down his cheek. His eyes burned with hate, but he still wore our livery; a traitor’s livery it was now, oaths to the Santraeger discarded in a mad, inexplicable moment. Inexplicable to me then, at least. Not now.

The other men watched on as their former friend was led towards his judgement, forced to his knees before the Lords he had rebuked. They ringed the clearing, dark shapes cast in shadow by the flickering torchlight. Some rested hands on their blades, others sated hunger and thirst after the long, wasted day. The murmur of low conversation dried up as the realisation that a moment of note had arrived. Attentions focused.

My father remained mounted, his pronouncement as steel-clad as his body. “Inaver, sworn sword of this family, you have betrayed your oaths. You warned our quarry with a shout of alarm, and they escaped before our trap was closed. You saved outlaws and brigands who had levelled blades against your comrades and sought to do so against your Count himself. You have made it so pursuit will be impossible in the black night, and even should we catch them tomorrow, there will be a price in blood to pay. What say you to these charges?”

Inaver hawked and spat, foamy phlegm not even making it halfway towards my father, but the insult was clear. Ardepan Santraeger was unmoved.

“On your head these crimes against rightful lords and comrades both. In the morning you will face my justice, the noose. Now, you will face the Comrade’s Reproach.” He gestured, and I vaulted from my charger. It was my duty to strike the first blow, as my father’s right hand and thus, foremost of the swords in his service.

The criminal was dragged to his feet before me, defiance plain on his features. I remember looking at him. Looking. He seemed just as he had been these months past. No different. He had not grown horns, or bowed craven. I’d known him to be an honest, disciplined soldier. Yet he hated us.

I remembered seeing him by the castle well once, a bright spring morning. A dashing soldier speaking with the servants. Enjoying a harvest of girlish giggles.

I remembered my own such trip to the well, in the dead of night. Only one other there and our meeting was brief. But it was of moment.

I do not know if Inaver saw these memories in my eyes, but there was contempt there when I focused on him once more. In response I struck him hard around the jaw. He recoiled, a grunt, and then his gaze returned to me, still defiant.

Something welled up. I struck again.

I thought of dark eyes, wearing a hesitant smile, as we met that first time by the well. I struck again.

I thought of soft lips on mine. I struck again.

I thought of the creak of the dungeon door. I struck again.

I thought of the falling of petals from summer’s flower. I struck again.

I thought of the groan of the gallows hanging heavy with fruit. I struck again.

I thought of the metal smell in the air as we stood over the rack. I struck again.

I thought of the screams of the elven captives, as they learned once again that humans were the masters of Tethyr. I struck again.

I thought of the hunger in children’s’ eyes, punished for their father’s crimes. I struck again.

I thought of the light of a burning building, reflected in the blood on my sword. I struck again.

It had to mean something. It had to be necessary. It had to be right. I struck again.

I thought of the arena in Shoonach, where my family’s nobility was born. I struck again.

I thought of Lohtrik Sarneh, clutching his face, screaming in pain after being raked by my claws. Knowing what it was to insult this family. I struck again.

At some point they dropped Inaver, and he fell like a sack of stolen wheat. I followed him down.

It had to mean something. It had to have purpose. It had to be worth it. I struck again.

I thought of my father’s love, his pride in me, my rigid duty. My role to continue the line. I struck again.

I thought of my brother, and the gentle promise he showed. I struck again.

I thought of her words. “You didn’t have to...” I struck again, a roar of primal rage.

It had to be necessary. I struck again.

It had to mean something. I struck again.

“Ameris.” The voice cut through my rage. I focused once more as the red mist rose. I was straddling Invaer. He lay still. My right fist still clenched, ached. My breaths were ragged. I turned to look at my father, and his stern eyes. He raised his voice so that it would ring around the clearing.

“Righteous punishment delivered. Know that you serve a house that will not leave the bitter tasks to you, but will serve alongside to see duty done.”

His gaze turned to me. I stood. Blood dripped from my gauntlet. Inaver was dragged away.

“My son. Gather a force. Pick your men. You leave before first light and hunt on the morrow. Catch them before the forest and this miscreant’s betrayal will be for nought.”

“As you say, father.”

[kleomenes]

Happiness

I thought I knew the word. A state I could ascribe to others, a goal I had set for them. A confidence trick, I would look to their smiles and think them my own. But my own had died with the swinging shut of a heavy wooden door, the sealing of softness in the pit. All else was a facade.

A simple thing to dance around that empty fact, the void of loss in my heart. Guilt filled it, self loathing too. Faith forced that out, day by day, step by step, moment by moment as I learned what it was to serve Ilmater; and what Ilmater wished of those he served.

With an understanding of the breadth of Ilmater's mercy - even for me - there came unbidden hopes and dreams, in part the trappings of an authoritarian past. Pride and ambition had to be tempered into confidence; anger and sharp tongue had to be tempered into inspirational ferver; arrogance into resolve; gregarious wit into expressed compassion.

And a longing for softness came, a longing for smiles and warmth. For the shared laughter of friendship and the concerned embrace of family. And, I admit, for the nervous fire of Sune's blessing.

A longing, once again, to be alive.

This is when I met her. Cold green eyes never cold to me; red lips always a smile, except when that pain she carried shone out. How I overlooked that pain. How I ignored it.

To me she was Lliira made flesh, a creature of laughter and whimsy. Upon the stage a goddess, in my eyes a goddess. Out of reach. To be befriended by her more than I had hoped. I took it, and looked for no more. As that would be giving way to arrogance.

And I knew what I had done. I knew what became of those who loved me. I knew I carried this Serpent in my heart. I knew I would bite her if I stepped outside of duty. I could not sully this pure being with the millstone of my affections. She had to remain unfettered by my faltering, yet pious struggle. She had to stay in the clouds.

Even as I leant on her like a dying man, even as I sank my claws further into her heart. Spoke nothing of the deepest bonds formed, there had to be that barrier. There had to be distance. She had to stay in the clouds.

Oh, the irony of what could have been averted if I had been not arrogant, but bold. She paid the price for my lack of hope. And because of her, so did others. And in a measure of justice, so did I.

I looked for sinners, instead. I looked for another one, who I knew to be tainted. I knew that no matter my own base crimes, she would always be judged worse. I looked upon her, and I felt no restraint; I could not bring her down. I convinced myself my own weakness was righteousness. I convinced myself my own needs were hers too. She had to know Ilmater's mercy. This I stand by. This I cleave to. She is my comrade. But I know I wronged her by seeking to be more than a rock; by betraying that trust with fevered questions.

I cannot deny the truth of what moved me. I can deny whether it was right to pursue it.

There are those who would forgive me such. They see the good in me. They perhaps do not see what my actions represented. The first time someone was reliant on me and only me, and within my power, since I relied on my own judgment; and I saw to my own weakness first, before hers.

I hope in the months since I did enough to rectify this.

I would like to speak to her again, to explain. To apologise. She should know she is truly in my heart - my comrade, the one who taught me that my god had no limits; and that I could serve him with more than fear of the past.

In hopes she sees, from that, her worth.

Nearly half a year now, since those cold green eyes looked to me once more. And they are a daily thing. I've seen so much in them: fear, laughter, despair, anger, emptiness, hope, kindness, exhaustion, hunger, greed, bitterness. And love. Like a raging fire, like a peal of thunder, like a tight coil around her soul, binding her to a new path. A coil she tied, and she can undo if she wishes, but she has not.

How did I miss this before? How was it smothered to embers, letting the shadows encroach? My short sight. My selfish sight.

She is told I will betray her. She is told I will not make her happy.

Standing by me means eyes on her. You have bewitched him. You have not made amends yet.

To walk by my side, to share my burdens, means to share the burdens of a Priest of Ilmater. Through her support I heal the sick, I counsel the despairing, I feed the hungry. And she bears the cost of that.

She has chosen me. A choice bringing knives in the dark from her past of sin; a choice earning the enmity of wicked men who coveted her; a choice shouldering hardship and lack of comfort; a choice mandating that she stand with the holy with a smile, even despite any judgment. A choice - a choice - to submit some freedom to our love. It is a choice. But for me.

It is a choice to bring me happiness.

It shames me that my anger twists at the slights offered by others; and my trust fails.

It shames me that I place chains upon her. Asking for more than her choice.

It shames me that my sharp tongue and disregard bring tears to the woman, after what she has sacrificed and given what she tries.

It shames me that I let her worry fester in the face of my uncompromising duty, when such doubt would form ample key to unlock the progress in her soul.

It shames me that she suffers for want of a few soft words or mere tokens of my esteem.

It shames me that it takes a silent bird to remind me that it is also my duty to make her smile.

[kleomenes]

A night in Soubar

The First Hour

This feels less like an inn - well the proprietor even said it wasn't - and more like a battlefield. The raucous cacophany from down below begets nothing else than that in my mind, apart from perhaps the abyss. My head was pounding before I finished my ale.

Maybe it was just my mood.

I must secure the door, leaning the spare chair under the handle should be good enough. I do not wish to risk unasked for ingress. Which would be all ingress, at this point.

The Second Hour

I will not sleep. Too dangerous until crows disperse. Instead, I sit here, this flask of acrid liquid in hand. Words said play over my mind.

And what was not said

What was not said. After all we have been through, after all both of us have sacrificed, after all the pain and confusion, she holds me to account over doing only what I always said I would.

I feel the coils around my heart. The Serpent's laughter. Its waiting. It knows what it means when there is that tightness in my expression, in my eyes. A long gone aspect.

The words not said would destroy our bond in cleansing fire. To be cast aside, to be marked so. To be judged by her as if I had not granted her a thousand pardons.

Better I meet her silence with my own. That is a mercy. The fool woman burns her every ally with her pride.

Damn her and her expectation. If my promises are not enough, when I accept hers - and hers only promises of effort, not result - then let her brood in her anger.

Let her hide behind ice facade. Keep her pain to herself.


See, this is why it is better unsaid, for it is only half a story.

The Third Hour

The sounds below dim. Only one conversation now. All I can hear is one man laughing. He has been doing it a while.

Haha, he goes. Haha. Haha. Haha haha haha haha. Endless.

I wonder if I fed him his teeth the sound would change.

I think, O bottle of spirit, you and I should part. You do not help my head.

The Fourth Hour

I feel like I am clasping the edge of a cliff, the drop below lethal. I spoke desperate words...ha, like a lion? Like a lamb. I was afraid. I was afraid. Such is how I am when I face loss. Or rejection, rather. And it is the fear that begets the anger. Wounded, I strike back. It is not a way to be with those who are in your heart.

...Fear of abandonment. Bitter irony, Reena, yes? I wonder if your soul can hear such, or whether it is still encased in flesh, wandering in the south, bearing the marks I left. I wonder if time heals you, in a way that I left so many unable to heal, or do anything ever again.

I never paid for what I did. I dwell on the bitterness of being close to me, how I am a punishment to others. I am a punishment to Telia, perhaps. Her heart compelled to love me, and doomed always to be hurt by me. Perhaps she is the same punishment for me, as I have never been able to look away but this, this...

A fine basis for a marriage, no?

You do not answer, book. I write on the page and only see my own musings and thoughts. I had those already. Unhelpful.

I will try and sleep.

You leave out how you soar into the clouds. You leave out how steady the foundations are she gives you; think not only of the moment. You must look beyond. You never said to anyone the path would be easy. Live that.

The Sixth Hour

I do not know what I think about seeing the Bardess again.

It was not like I imagined. She was not like I imagined.

I felt no fire, not as before. Not fire, pain. It was my own pain I always felt. Pain and fear. No wonder such hurts were born of my emotion, I brought an unholy impurity along with my proffered hand.

What is holy is the hand alone, with no expectation attached. Such is the way of the Adorned. Thus I offer.

The only ache I will feel is that for her suffering. That ache that marks the hearts of all the Adorned.

I could see the need. Her body weak. Her... Resolve, weak, if just for a moment. It was why she deigned to see me. She had need.

I know well what it is like to be plagued by the past. We have always been the same in this. Always the past is with us, and we were both different under aged moons.

Perhaps it was enough, just to share words. She did seem better when we parted. Although chicken works wonders.

Loneliness is her cloak, she wraps it round herself like armour. Perhaps proffered hands will never pierce it. Yet the mere fact of such offers are a candle in darkness. Such is my hope.

I remember Nëa saying the Bardess needed me. Like this. Like this.

If there is to be a cost to it, so be it. I will weep, but I will pay it. I am a priest of the Broken God first. First.

The Seventh Hour

I hear sounds below again. When do the bar staff sleep? I pity them.

I suppose I am safe to leave now. To where? I do not know if the Bardess will wish to speak again, or wish to take promise of aid. Or even if those I asked will grant it. I will ask.

Beyond that I must do other duties. To the Broken God.

To Telia. I read what I wrote here. The words do not do justice to the bitterness of the most shadowed hours of last night. The call of Dawn's messenger's on the wind reminds me of those Lathanderite Oaths, the warmth of morning is an inevitability.

In anger I forgot the peace she brings me. In pain I forgot her own pain.

I have asked her to come far, and she has done so. It is right I am patient with her anger when I ask of her this most bitter of understandings.

I did her no dishonour. But there are wounds on her heart that I am reckless of. This rocky path of ours leads towards a place, and even the glow of it ahead is brilliant.

If I must go to war again, to regain her warmth, so be it. Because I know it burns for me, and mine for her.

[kleomenes]

The Beast

Every year, around the coming of spring, there were more stories. Half whispered, sometimes. Other times there would be near panic in one of the western villages, and my father would ride out at the head of a troop of cavalry to show the people everything was alright.

The stories differed. Sometimes it was said to be a mighty bird, an eagle or some other raptor swollen to immense size. At other times, a boiling cloud, filled with fire. Sometimes just a disembodied roar and the sun falling to shadow. Yet the most alarming stories were of a predator of crimson scales, a fire lizard, a wyrm, a beast. Sometimes high in the sky, sometimes lower. A dark shape perching on a rocky outcrop outside a village in the night. Watching, watching.

Oddly, the rumours rarely spoke of attacks. Once, I remember, my father gave audience to a farmer whose herd of sheep had gone missing; only a single, charred ewe remained. My father dismissed the man's fearful suggestion that it had been the Beast.

"Bandit's only. But such is our duty to protect you from, so your call for aid will not go unanswered."

And he opened our coffers to give coin to purchase another herd, and sent forth hunters. Yet our men never found any bandits.

___________________

I asked once, near my ninth or tenth birthday, after I overheard the maids sharing outlandish stories of the Beast. It was at dinner, river salmon I believe. I used to hate the bones.

"Father, is it true there is a monster in the County like they say?"

Errilar's eyes went wide. "A MONSTER!?"

My mother's face was a picture, twisting in disdain. For her civilised ways, monsters were distant things of the wilds; frightful things not to think about at the dinner table. Of course, she never really accustomed to the fact that we practically lived in those wilds.

"Ameris, tall tales are not for the dinner table. You will scare your brother."

My father looked towards Errilar, then my mother. I remember a frown, momentary displeasure.

"Where did you hear this, son?"

"Some of the maids said..."

"Maids..." my mother murmured, annoyed.

Father held up his hand. "Gossip." He leant forward, his gaze affixed on mine. I remember getting a feeling, the same as when I swung wooden swords under Jalamir's watchful eye, or when I learned my Thorass letters.

I remember my mother looking away.

"Once your ancestors stood watch over the ruins of Shoonach, and you know from your histories that it is filled with worse things than the wicked Emperors now. Our family stood holy vigil and slew anything that escaped its walls to harm the people."

He looked between Errilar and I and repeated. "Our family."

My mother had looked back now, and was watching us as well. Falling beside my father to remind her sons of their duty.

"It has ever been our role to stand between the people and what horrors beset them. And it is best for the people that they think they are safe, even as we strive to make it so."

Perhaps we looked a little confused. He smiled then, and reached across, to pat both of us on our heads. A rare moment of affection. "When you are men, then we will speak of this again. But now, sleep with innocent hearts and dream of the days when you will take up your duties, with honour."

___________________

I was seventeen when my father gave me my first real mission, or at least that was how it felt at the time. In truth, I was there as a token of honour, the face of the family to accompany the Steward, Mulmar, on trade negotiations with the dwarves of the Starspire Mountains. Mulmar did the talking, my job was just to be diplomatic and respectful, to show honour to the dwarves by my presence. My first taste of such duties, I suppose. And I had half forgotten the tales of monsters from my youth.

The hold was not far from the borders of county Suldaskar, but it was hard going. We habitually used a regular guide, a wiry, rat-like man named Bremm, and he refused to let us come near to Mount Thargil in our journey.

"Cursed place, that. Them that climbs its slopes aint comin' back. We'll be goin' round or ye can keep yer coin. There be worse things than goblins in these mountains, and ye would do well to remember it."

So that was that, and we took a circular, harder route, abandoning horses in the lowlands and continuing on foot.

The eastern Starspires are much safer than the western reaches, the foothills the home to our shepherd vassals, and the peaks themselves still the home to dwarves, our neighbours. There were dangers, of course, goblins, perytons and other wild beasts, but they were uncommon and few in number for the most part. Not least because of the axes of the dwarves, and the swords of the people of Tethyr. Still, we travelled with a troop of men at arms, and the master at arms Jalamir was present to command them - and, likely, to make sure I was safe.

For the most part, the journey was uneventful. I remember Mulmar spent the whole time casting wary glances to the rocks and scrub. He hated trips outside the castle. For me, it was all a grand adventure, and I endeavoured to represent my father not just to outsiders, but to the men as well. So my spirits were up and my back straight.

It was near noon, a bright day, when a cloud passed across the sun, Or so it seemed, as the warmth of the morning returned almost immediately. I barely noticed it. Bremm was paying more attention.

"Off the trail! Flat!" he cried, vaulting aside and laying flat amongst the scree. The men did not move though, at the command of a guide. The master-at-arms addressed the guide, first. "What is your business here? Why your fear?"

"Ye should listen to me! Off the trail! Now! Its what ye pay me fer!" wailed Bremm, half pleading, half indignant.

With a grunt, Jalamir nodded. "Off the trail!" he commanded, and the men moved to obey.

But I did not, curiously following Bremm's gaze up into the sunny sky. I saw nothing, but I heard him hiss. "Get that boy down!"

"We should not quail from monsters." I remember my youthful ardour saying, my thoughts to the eyes on me. "We should not quail from anything."

Again, a cloud passed across the sun, quicker this time. And then something small arced through the clouds. Not small, distant. But coming closer, fast. Oh so fast.

"Its the beast!" I heard the guide hiss. There was a murmur behind me. Jalamir. I heard movement, even as the distant thing closed. Closer and closer it came. Its blackness resolving into red. Its impersonal distance resolving into malice. Its altitude dipped, it was going to come in low.

A thud in my back, two burly bodies slamming me aside, and off the trail, holding me down. Jalamir's voice low. "Down, my Lord!"

I wriggled, looking back...

It swept over us, its wing beats like a gale, slamming us back down, the mighty, hot bulk passing over like an aerial avalanche. I could see the claws, each large enough to take up cattle; I could see the jaws, parted, cavernous, and the fire burning within; I could see each scale, glimmering, crimson. I could see the malice in those cold eyes, the hunger, the desire to consume all; I could see my own insignificance.

It swept away, disappearing, taking a grand arc towards Mount Thargil. For once, I had been part of this years story.

I stood, I remember, quickly. With youthful fervour. I stood and watched the Beast fly away to the mountain. Then I smiled to the men as they began to stand as well.

"Not from anything." I said, as life had not taught me any differently. And I saw smiles among the soldiery. Even on Jalamir's lips, as he shook his head.

The guide, however, was not amused. I heard his murmur. "Damn fool boy..."

But I ignored it.

[kleomenes]

Would I have done it if I had known?

Would I have done it?

I would have had to.

I would have had to.

The sun cannot be conquered.

My Lord, I e.


. .

.

You are still here my friend. I dare not whisper your name. I dare not look at you.

But I feel you.

[kleomenes]

So you are not just a creature of the small hours, bearing tidings of bad news.

I had hoped your slumber would be longer.

I had hoped I saw your death throes.

Here we are again. Even as dawn comes this place resembles a foetid place of death. I see you.

The white of your lethal smile is bright in the gloom. But your eyes are black.

How impious that you are here again, coiling around my freedom, so soon after my Lord's touch.

Perhaps that touch is why I can see you, a thing apart from me. Perhaps it is his strength that lets me do battle with you now, match your wills with mine.

Your sibilant whisper is enticing. It speaks of paths long untravelled. Easier ones.

I will not write of them. I will not record your lies; not until I have weighed the cost, truly.

Not until I mark well the wounds I have caused will I think on those I have suffered.

A knock. It will desist.

Oh Enduring one! Those wounds! I cannot bear to understand...

Another knock.

And so I don armour; ready for battle. Begone.

[kleomenes]

It was a priestess, her heart filled with love for my brother. Her brow furrowed for his welfare

We spoke of why this was necessary. Did you hear?

The Sun is risen, you cannot deny that.

At cost.

To hear talk of how they walk side by side, not untroubled but together, despite their faiths...

Compromise. Discussion. Forgiveness.

Yes, you are right, I was not raised to these things.

But I know their shape, now.

I did not offer such to her though, did I?

Except forgiveness. More than she deserved, as others offered none.

There it is. Bringing me round to my own wounds. Let us keep talk on what I have done, that which I have not shown; that which I could have done better. Still your forked tongue. I will read it again, and let its words sink into my soul. Then I will hear your case.

Even if I already know it.

[kleomenes]

She is awake, so I defy you once more, and leave you in this pit.

[kleomenes]

The Sun is risen, but clouds pass across it.

There is pain, foul memories for her, yet more suffering piled on so noble a heart.

But her god is rebirth, and she traces the heavens; and she has friends who will be there to catch her if she stumbles.

Duty. It will be done. Must be. Neccessary.

So do not look at me like that, beast. Do not slither across the floor towards me. Do not speak your lies that all I do is rend and break; do not tell me that my service is a false thing, merely a cloak I wear.

But look at those who are friends, family. Which one of them have I helped? Which one of them has what they need from me? Which one of them have I saved?

Is all I do preserve suffering? Sharpen it.

A punishment on the wicked. That is my love.

So I must embrace this failing? Rather I deny it. Rather I try for better. I am done with dealing pain out. I stand for Ilmater.

But she bleeds, oh Broken God...what did I do? How can I be a true servant.

Think. Then feel.

Suffer we shall. Words absent the essential ingredient; love.

Chatter all you will. I will not take your venom into my heart, not while duty must be done.

[kleomenes]

*a scrabbling hand, as if trying to record it before it fades from memory*

Why are you silent when your heart bleeds?
Why is there pain every time you breathe?
I don't see bruises or violent deeds,
So... what haunts you in your memories?


...memories...


Is it the judging gaze of those,
Who have not been there, who do not know,
What it feels like to be a rose,
With stem cut short... so you cannot grow?

...you cannot grow...


Why place your heart on bare display,
And take the risk they'll turn you away,
When you can choose simply not to say,
What it is haunting you today?

...haunting you today...


Can you move forward from such times,
And all the pain, leave it behind,
Seeking the balm for emotional crimes,
Or is there...

...nothing left to find?

She wants me to heal.

I hear you. There are two ways of doing that. Atoning for sin; believing I am a better man. Judging myself by all deeds not just past errors.

Or your path. Discarding my burdens; defining them as not burdens, but expressions of what I am. Going back to how it was, where you were not a thing apart from me. When you were me.

Would she want that?

She would be the first to know, wouldn't she...

Yet I am dutiful; that I always have been. So the Morning Sun, first.

[kleomenes]

I feel you coiled on my chest...or is it just the stifling air in this room?

Silence, you. Her words spoke to my own happiness, they show that mine is linked to hers. Such is her ardent gift.

Is that not a thing of note? Is that not a thing of value? I treasure it. Silence you.

Yet even as I forgive, she offers me up more pain.

Time and again I am marked by her.

In blind emotion, not intent...

There was a time when those who did such... regretted it. So did their kin.

My back was straight then.

You are clever, beast. If guilt will not lead me to despair, now you remind me of pride.

I am proud that I have stood for those lost; and shone hope where there was none. I have done that. It was done.

But of those broken birds, which of them now live beyond suffering?

And which of them was not charged a fee of submission: body, heart and soul?

[kleomenes]

Broken birds is it?

I know of whom you speak, and you are wrong.

I know that for all the pain I felt at her dance of words, and the sharpness she saw in my words and entreaties; the danger she saw in kindness, the faltering of my priesthood - that there was truth.

In the end she stood with me against shadow, under the light. Not a comfortable place for her, perhaps, but the dark is no place for her anymore. Any comfort there is a falseness, anyway. It is a blackening taint, not a true healing.

No, even if our paths only cross on occasion, I know when they do that what I meet is a comrade. My words are heard; even if they elicit rolled eyes and amused sighs. And I see the change of spring each time.

So choke on your broken birds, beast. Choke.