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Letters Undelivered
Posted: 13 Sep 2005 08:14 AM |
* In Midoran's Name!
* An Unimportant Tea Party
~*~
The basement beneath the Four Winds Inn is damp, dark and frigid. It smells of musty wood and mold. Despite the recent renovations, it still presents an atmosphere of age and neglect. The walls are peeling; water stains cover them like permanent tear-tracks. The faded, ragged carpet that sprawls across the wooden floor looks like it’s been trodden by a thousand weary travellers over years, decades, maybe even centuries.
Lillian sits at the sole table in the corner, poring over piles of letters. Her original plan—to secure the upcoming meeting—relinquished. They’ll just have to make do with what they have when the time comes. She keeps forgetting... that it’s not like a Midoran operation. She doesn’t have boundless resources at her disposal to ensure that they can speak securely. They only have whatever resources they have now, whatever powers they have now... and their wits. And their training.
That has to count for something. It has to.
She sorts the letters into alphabetical order out of habit. It’s something to do, at least, while she waits for the morning to come—and the ride south. She tried to sleep and couldn’t. She tried to do something else—anything else—and couldn’t.
Robin Vandermann, Maranne Devalaine, Harrison Bronvald, Trellan Ar’lande. Names of the recently deceased. Some of the names are familiar, some unfamiliar. She’s amazed, but at the same time unsurprised, that Claude knew them all.
Knew them all well enough to write all of this—all of this—for every member of his platoon.
Davinia Sanneman Descartes.
Lillian pauses as she sees the name. She knows who this letter has to go to. More to the point, she knew Davinia. It still confounds her that they were friends at all. Davinia, Claude, Evelyn, Jerec. She had never gotten along with any of them. Yet somehow, impossibly, they had fit. When by all rights they should have hated each other.
Yes, she knows who the letter has to go to. Lindsay. Lindsay, who she had accused of practicing dark magic, and who she still believes does so. Lindsay, who she turned Midor against and made into a wanted man. Lindsay the warlock. Lindsay the worshipper of demons posing as gods.
Lindsay, who had saved all their lives eleven years ago in the Sunix Woods. And who she had turned in to the Midoran authorities anyway. Without a second thought.
Her attention turns slowly to the pile before her as her heart sinks. The task before her more daunting than ever before. But it has to be done. She cannot fail in this. She cannot lose courage now or their deaths will be meaningless.
Lillian files the letter away into the pile and resumes sorting. So many letters unsent, that cannot be sent. Not now. Not in the state that Midor is in.
So many men and women dead and she cannot even tell their next of kin how they died, or why. As far as they know, they died dishonourably. Because they were faithless. Because they were traitors.
If only they knew.
That thought pounds a relentless tattoo in her head. Like an endless mantra in the night.
If only they knew.
If only they knew... |
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Faith Undone
Posted: 21 Sep 2005 01:21 PM |
Lillian walks off in perfect step with Sir Tonan and Markus, the three of them cleaving a path through the overhanging willow branches. In the peaceful silence of the mist-enshrouded isle, the heavy metallic tread of their steps rings out harshly. The idyll is shattered by living war machines who have been awakened from their dormant state and let loose upon the world.
They are Paladins. And they have been given orders.
~*~
The single-mindedness of Paladins has long mystified and frustrated even the most tolerant personalities. They are adamant in their belief. They will perform their duty above and beyond the scope of their abilities. They will defend what is sacred to them at whatever cost—whether it be a city, innocent lives, or intangible ideals.
And yet... the same could be said of the Righteous Swords.
~*~
They discuss the tasks assigned to them in brisk, clipped tones, arriving upon decisions and methods before they even leave Brandibuck Woods. By the time they approach the gates of Brandibuck, the topic has changed to more mundane things. Markus prods Tonan eagerly for stories about his life experiences. He asks him about his Code, his duty. Monsters he’s vanquished, battles he’s fought.
Tonan is hesitant at first, and Lillian knows why. How do you explain that it’s not all glory and heroics? How do you tell someone like Markus without disillusioning and breaking him? Isn’t that why they’re here in the first place? So people won’t break. So people won’t have to know how harsh life can be.
You aren’t supposed to shatter what you’re entrusted to protect.
The conversation between the two becomes more animated as Markus’ boyish enthusiasm wears down Tonan’s defences. Lillian follows at a short distance in silence.
The cursed talisman around her neck twirls on its chain from between her fingers.
~*~
Unsurprisingly, the trio draw stares as they sweep through Brandibuck. Tonan is the most conspicuous, his black armour slashed with golden highlights, like the shell of some poisonous creature marked with warning patterns. Despite their current circumstance, Markus is still in his Paladin armour, a gleaming spectacle of silver, gold and white. Lillian is in robes, but her body language and speech are dead giveaways of her nature.
All in all, the sort of people not used to hiding. The kind that couldn’t even if they wanted to.
Subtlety has never been the strong suit of Paladins.
~*~
The conversation turns to the Aristi Code once more as they arrive at the path to Ladriel. Markus is fascinated by the topic, and Tonan happy to answer his rapid-fire questions.
She watches the two and she knows that Markus misses his father. Who is still in Midor. Who has not heard from Markus for months. She knows that Tonan reminds Markus of him. It’s not hard to predict these things. It’s not hard to know these things. It’s what made the Paladins a threat to the new Order, when they were united and determined to win back Midor. Because they think as one, act as one, move as one.
Tonan proves the theory right by addressing her for the first time since they left Angelius’ tower. You don’t believe, he says, getting straight to the point.
I want to but I can’t, she tells him.
You want to? Are you sure? he persists, with the same incisive tone he used at the tower when Blanche gave him permission to freely speak his mind. For someone who wants to believe, you’re not trying very hard.
They stop in the middle of the path. Tonan and Markus still slightly ahead, separated from Lillian by about four paces. She has the oddest impression that there’s an invisible wall looming in that gap. That she is standing in the past, unable to move forward, and they are on the other side of the wall where the future awaits.
And all it would take to be a part of that future is a leap of faith. All she has to do is join the conversation. And believe.
I can’t believe it, she says. I just can’t.
Tonan looks disappointed, Markus slightly distressed. When they resume their trek to the Tower of Ladriel, she gives them a five second headstart. The talisman feels like an anchor around her neck, determined to keep her moored in the past.
~*~
They leave Tonan at the Tower of Ladriel, where he has been staying ever since the survivors of the battle on the Plains fled Haven. He says he will remain there in case Solitaire happens to visit the tower, or in case one of the mages hears news of her. Tonan asks them to stay for the remainder of the afternoon. Markus starts to agree eagerly, sees the look on Lillian’s face, and mumbles some excuse that they can’t.
You aren’t supposed to shatter what you’re entrusted to protect...
Tonan’s face falls, but he recovers his poise swiftly and asks them to come again. Markus promises they will.
Lillian says nothing. |
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Truth Unravelled
Posted: 02 Oct 2005 07:48 AM |
Markus shows her Solitaire’s note as if it is a presitigious certificate. He acts as if he’s just won an award. The gears are in motion now. Events are unfolding. Lillian heads outside and talks to Shira, making preparations to ride to Brandibuck.
She should have waited. Should have waited until after they had actually met Solitaire before she went and told Blanche. But she had something she had to say to Tonan and this was as good an excuse as any to head back south.
She should have waited. She tells herself this now that she knows what she knows. If she had waited, she would not have met Byron.
And he would not have turned her world upside down. And blasted it into dust.
~*~
Forget who you are for a moment and imagine this: you are someone else. You have never had a childhood. You have lived your entire life on an island cut off from the rest of the world. The island is surrounded by walls. The walls are guarded all day and all night by guards. In fact, it's not that different from a prison, but it's not a prison, it's a holy place and an academy. You have been on this island every day since you were five, handpicked because you aced the aptitude tests. Normal people enter this place from the age of ten onwards, but you were different. You were chosen. You are not sure why, but it is drilled into you that this is a privilege and an honour, but like any privilege, it can easily be taken away. You have earned your entry, but not the right to stay. To stay, you have to prove yourself. Over and over and over again. Every day you wake up and you know that what you did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that mean nothing.
But nothing you do is enough. Because as soon as day is done, as soon as you go to sleep, you know that when tomorrow rolls around it will all start again.
But that's okay, really, because it's an honour, right? You are in the service of god and your soul belongs to him and your life belongs to him. It's character building, that's what it is. They are making sure you do not break. They are making sure you do not snap. They are making you into something more than Human, something stronger and tougher and more durable, something that looks like flesh but thinks like stone and steel and does not yield or compromise or bend.
~*~
But everything has a breaking point.
~*~
So that is you. That is what makes you what you are. It is what defines you. It is what shackles you. It is what predetermines everything you will ever say and do for the rest of your predestined life. But it's necessary, right? Someone has to be all those things so everyone else can be themselves, can be free, can sleep soundly at night and not be afraid. And while the other children spend their free time playing and running through the streets, you spend all yours studying or practicing or kneeling on an unforgiving cold stone floor and praying that you are good enough to continue doing this for the rest of your life. Because this is what you want, right? This is an honour and a blessing. To kneel in this freezing chapel and pray that you can keep on kneeling here for years to come.
And there are rules, so many rules that you live by and so many rules you have memorised. How to speak. How to eat. How to walk. How to say hello, how to say goodbye, how to introduce people, how to ride horses, how to kill, how to wear your clothes.
But then one day, someone shreds the rules and throws them out the window and scatters them to the wind and tells you to think for yourself. Stop believing there is something greater. Stop believing you can be something more. Stop thinking there is something to prove, because there is nothing to prove and no one to prove it to, so just do what you do anyway and be content that it's enough. Because everything you have known is a fraud and it's you, it's you that's been doing all these things that you think someone else has been doing for you, and all that strength you have and all that power you have and everything that made you more than Human came from you and no one else.
So stop believing all that other rubbish and believe me. And believe yourself.
~*~
No.
~*~
And what do you think you are, superhuman? You're not. Not any more. You used to be, maybe, but it was a privilege and privileges get taken away after you stop earning them and you stopped didn't you? You stopped earning that privilege and what you did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and the bloody day before that for the past twenty-one YEARS don't count, they mean nothing, and you had the chance, you had so many chances, and why didn't you run back to Midoran when he appeared on the Plains, that's what the rules say to do, he said he'd forgive you, he said he'd take you back, in god's name why didn't you just ditch this rebellion and return to him?
Why?
~*~
And she hears the echo of a memory and the voice is Claude's.
It's called a conscience, Lillian, he says with pity. Welcome to the world of mere mortals. Now you know how the rest of us feel.
~*~
It's raining in Brandibuck. She can't remember it ever raining here. Not this much. Not this hard. The world never used to be cold in this place: it used to be spring, eternal spring.
~*~
And here you are and suddenly you realise that everything that defined you is gone and the metaphorical rug has been pulled out from under your feet. Your life and soul belonged to your god, to your city, to the Paladin Order, to the people of Midor, but they aren't here and they don't want you any more, so what's left of you if everything you ever were was owned by them? What's left of you? What are you?
~*~
He is wearing full plate armour identical to Tonan's. Brooding black and gleaming gold. Why do they wear those poison colours? Blanche says they are the colours of the Aristi. Blanche says the Aristi were noble. Blanche says all these things but whether she realises it or not she continues to wear the whites and golds and silvers of Midor. Not the venom markings of the Aristi.
Lillian wonders if he has lived as long as Tonan has but she doesn't ask. Blanche leaves on some pretext. An awkward silence hangs.
You have the bearing of a paladin, my lady, Byron says at last.
What do you say to that? What do you say when you don't know what you are any more? The rules say she is not. The rules say she is disgraced. The fact that she is powerless attests to that. Coruva and Blanche and Angelius and the others say otherwise, but they do not make the rules. Midoran does.
So I've been told, Lillian replies ambiguously.
~*~
And you are so sick of these games, so sick of not knowing, so sick of being vague and ambiguous all the time and not being able to say who and what you are, and your instincts say to introduce yourself as you always have, but the rules say that is not what you are any more.
How to say hello. How to introduce yourself. How to speak, how to act, how to—
You can't even hold a dang conversation. You can't even get past "hello" because what comes next is introducing yourself and you can't even do that.
~*~
And all that strength and all that fearlessness and everything that made you more than Human, made you something slightly divine, it came from you. Everything that made you a paladin and set you apart (you are told, as the rules ride the wind in a thousand thousand shredded pieces) that all came from you.
Why won't you believe that? Why won't you accept that?
~*~
And she cannot believe Tonan because there are a million million other reasons that could explain how he has lived so long: maybe he's been duped, maybe he's been tricked, maybe he's lying (but no, he's not lying, and she doesn't know why she thinks that but trust has to start somewhere, doesn't it?). He says he is over a thousand years old. He says he has lived this long because he has a duty that he cannot let go of. He says it is his Code that keeps him alive. And that's a nice sentiment but where is the proof and how can this be and she cannot believe because unless she herself lives a thousand years, it is not something she can grasp, it is too abstract a concept, there are too many alternative explanations that make more sense.
And Blanche says she prays as she has always prayed, but just not to Midoran, but there are other powers listening aren't there, other powers that could have intercepted her prayer? And Blanche herself does not seem too sure, it's like she doesn't know, it's like she's still deciding, it's like she's actually someone else, like she's two people at once and one half of her believes but the other half of her is still trying to come to terms with it.
But Byron...
~*~
So here you are, and you have spent your entire life on that walled-off island, but finally the last day comes. And the last test you have to do is very simple, it is a test to see if Midoran approves of you becoming a paladin. So you go for a walk with a priestess to the rundown Western Districts, and in that place there is an Infirmary, and the priestess picks out a patient for you and she says, put your hands on that one and heal her.
And you have no idea what to do because they never taught you how, they never told you that you had to do anything like this... but see, that's the thing. No one can teach you how. And that's why it's the final test. And that's how you know what you are... and what you have become. Because only paladins and divine champions can do this. And no one else. And it's not something that can be taught and it's not something anyone else has the power to do. And it's something that defies explanation because no one knows how it's done—not you, not the other paladins, not the clergy. That's why it's the final test. Because it can't be duplicated. Because there can be no cheating.
And they build you up and toughen you up but in that final moment you have to stop being stone and stop being steel and you have to be something vulnerable, you have to be a conduit for this power you cannot explain, because otherwise it just won't work. You have to melt, you have to stop being this cold indestructible war machine and become something warm and living. You have to become holy.
~*~
You are injured, Byron says as he looks at her.
Lillian waves the remark away and replies, I've done... worse...
Her voice trails off as Byron lays a hand on her shoulder. There's a ripple. If you can call it that. How do you explain? How do you explain this ability that so very few have been gifted with? Only paladins and divine champions, she is thinking. That's why it's the final test. Because it can't be duplicated. Because there can be no cheating.
When she speaks again, it's in a quieter voice than before. How did you do that...?
Blanche swallows her lemonade and says, softly, Byron... want me to explain to her so you can go to sleep?
Byron turns to look at Blanche, then slowly back to Lillian.
Because... I am a paladin, my lady, he says.
Clearly not even Blanche was expecting that answer. Her jaw drops open as she stares at him, stunned.
Lillian can't say anything. She's listening to a far-off sound. It's the sound of her world crumbling. It's the sound of every rule she's ever known ripping, shredding, floating away on the breeze. |
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Tales Untold
Posted: 04 Nov 2005 07:00 PM |
And so the war begins.
A war of words and souls. A war about words and souls.
It begins with a speech, but the battlefield will be a stage.
It begins with a rehearsal, but the weapons are props and the sharpest barbs are words that cut through a thousand years' worth of lies.
It begins with a meeting but this is no war council. They are trying to write a script. They are trying to write a play.
So many layers and levels to warfare...
She waits for the time to roll around. She waits for the preparations to begin. She waits for the first of the warriors to arrive so she can arm them with the words they will need. |
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Future Unleashed
Posted: 05 Nov 2005 10:44 PM |
The meeting goes well. Or at least, as well as can be expected. She still would have preferred the upper levels of Ladriel, where they would have been completely undisturbed while they discussed the details of the play.
This developing tolerance of hers is unsettling (or at least, it is to her). This ability to compromise. This growing ability to settle for anything less than a hundred per cent. Ka'azim was less than a hundred per cent secure, less than a hundred per cent private, less than a—
Lillian stops the thought right there, clamping a hand around the talisman she wears.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. She thinks it but does not say it. Stop it. I know what you are now.
I know what you are.
~*~
It is two weeks before the Battle of the Plains. In that eerie way that he sometimes has, Claude says to her, Necromancy was a form of divination long before it was ever a form of summoning or affliction. It is not inherently evil nor inherently good.
It is hard to reconcile those words with the man they are coming from. He is a paladin (though that is still something she debates; as far as she's concerned, he's Fallen). He is her commanding officer, her teacher and her friend. She can count the number of friends she's ever had in life on one hand.
Nine trapped souls, he continues in the same haunted tone, and all it needs now is a tenth, but will you be the one to complete the circle or break it? I could tell you what that thing is that you wear so casually like jewelry. I could tell you how you die.
I could tell you how it will kill you.
~*~
It's the most peculiar thing in the world. She can shrug off the most vicious verbal barbs, but then some harmless light-hearted jab will pierce straight through her mental armour and burrow in like a parasite.
I know what a chorus is, she had told them today when they were discussing the play. I was in the choir.
Lillian wishes she had never said anything.
They keep you busy at the Academy but even so there are these terrible long hours, every single day, that are free and empty. Hours when the workload slows down and the pressure eases off and you are given time to stop. Time to breathe.
For her, it was time to drown.
Sharks have to keep swimming, her grandfather had once told her. If they don't, then they sink and drown.
She thinks of the Academy's chapel, fourteen years ago. She remembers when she was saved from drowning.
~*~
And I could prove you wrong, Lillian retorts. You surround yourself too much with death. You see it everywhere. Even when it isn't there.
I don't think it's an ability you can trust any more, she tells Claude frankly. I never thought you should have in the first place.
~*~
If you want my professional clerical opinion, says the acolyte in the chapel all those long years ago, you're suffering from a severe case of humanity.
You can easily get rid of it by doing something inhumane, he continues on. Join a cult. Worship some demons. Go on a mass killing spree.
You're the worst priest in training I've ever seen, she says bluntly. And that is the worst advice I've ever heard.
He laughs, then his expression becomes serious. Well, if you want a serious opinion... It's not a flaw, Lillian. It's not a weakness. Stop going against it; do something with it. You won't destroy it so you may as well work with it. Find a creative outlet for it.
Like what, Jerec? she asks, exasparated.
She regrets the question as soon as she asks it. Something about the grin that suddenly appears on his face makes her squirm inside. She gets the feeling that Jerec has been planning this moment for weeks, maybe months. A feeling that she has walked straight into an ambush.
And he says: Well, there's the choir...
~*~
Claude laughs, but it's a grim and mirthless sound. I have no doubt you'll prove me wrong. You're too ornery and stubborn to lay down and die quietly.
But you will die quietly, he adds, almost as an afterthought.
~*~
The sun dips low behind the trees later that day, glimmering off the waters of Lake Ladriel and painting shadows on the grass with its passage. Something momentous has just happened. The past fell away like an autumn leaf and the future was born.
Born in peace. Born with words, not blood and arms. Born quietly, without the rest of the world knowing.
Byron hands the crowd over to Blanche. She casts her blessing over them.
Whether they realise it or not (and part of Lillian wonders if they know; because they don't seem to have realised yet) they have just held a Mass. This was not merely a speech. This was not merely a sermon. This was not merely a recruiting drive. It was a congregation of disparate people united by a common belief.
It was a Mass.
~*~
That could mean anything, she says. That could mean I die of old age... no, it wasn't a question, Claude—she waves the reply away before he can form it—and it certainly wasn't an invitation for you to tell me what it is you think you know.
Then you don't want to know? he prompts.
I will earn my answers like everyone else, Mister Esmond, she replies in a steely voice.
He merely nods. Good. Then the fate you make is the only fate you deserve.
~*~
And the past falls in the autumn lands of Ladriel.
(If all I want to do is mend broken bones and stitch up cuts, I'd quit the Academy and become a nurse in the infirmary, Jerec says earnestly. The difference between them and a priest is that a priest is also responsible for spiritual healing. I'm concerned for your soul, Lillian.)
At first it's just the one leaf, but then others follow.
(The night before the Battle of the Plains Claude says to her, Do you ever wonder where you'll be fifty years from now? It's one thing to wonder and another thing to know. I don't control what I see. I don't control what I know. I look ahead a day, two days, fifty years, and I see nothing. I don't have a future. And when you know something like that, it clouds everything you think and do.)
And in that twilight hour, when the only light that remains is the lingering memory of a light that once existed,
(And it is the most ridiculous and infuriating thing in the world. Willom and Iris are ordinary people. They have never threatened anyone, they have never harmed anyone, and yet they live in fear for their lives because they are trying to write a play. The injustice of it makes her blood boil.)
the future is born.
~*~
The crowd moves in towards Byron and Blanche, eager to progress into the future, led by the beacon of Aristi. But Lillian does not move with them. She still stands anchored in the past.
And she is drowning. |
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Moments Unprepared
Posted: 12 Nov 2005 11:50 AM |
Two sentences, four seconds. Those four seconds of hesitation are all the diversion she needs to cross the remaining three paces and run him through.
~*~
Rewind to the beginning.
The wind comes from nowhere, and that—more than anything else—is what tips them off. On a short-term basis, weather is easy enough to predict. When it shatters those patterns of predictability, it’s got to be something unnatural.
A magic wind. A summoned wind.
As warning signs go, it’s a subtle one, but they scramble to defend Ladriel within moments of it arriving.
~*~
It dimly occurs to her that she’s never fought the enemy in her life. Without fail, she’s always gone up against friends. First at the Academy, then in the army, and when she finally got pardoned and gained her paladinhood, she lost it within months—got entangled in the rebellion and ended up fighting Midor. And now this.
She can put a name, a face, a background to everyone she’s ever had to fight.
~*~
Ladriel’s guardians do an admirable job of holding back the naval forces, though it’s clear they’re fighting a losing battle. But that’s a peripheral observation; their battle is here, not there. Their stand takes place in the narrow pass between Ladriel Path’s twin waterfalls, against the ground forces approaching from Brandibuck’s general direction.
The world is yellow and orange and brown and rose, painted in autumnal colours by a dying light that seems to be slipping further and further into colourless winter hues by the moment. A chill wind ruffles the fragile trees, scattering dry leaves.
The battle, when it comes, is an unreal blur.
The first few seconds are a confused volley of shouted commands, flaming crossbow bolts, and sprung traps. Within moments the tranquil scene’s become a battleground and a flaming obstacle course, with trees and boulders falling every which way as timed explosives detonate around the approaching Midoran forces.
And then it becomes personal as they close to within melee range.
Names, faces, backgrounds. She identifies them as they fall. Timmy Landell, Alicia Sanders, Clarissa Eidelmann. Little more than children, really. Last she saw them they hadn’t even graduated yet. She doesn’t have the luxury of considering the tragedy of all this; not now. They’re at war, after all.
Amidst the gleaming silver-white and gold-white of full plate armour she catches sight of the distinctive white tunic of a battle-priest and angles towards him. It takes surprisingly little effort to cleave through what remains of the defensive ring of swordsmen. Sloppy tactics on their part, having a priest this far forward at this early stage of the engagement: that’s going to cost them.
... It dimly occurs to her that she’s never fought the enemy in her life. Without fail, she’s always gone up against friends. She can put a name, a face, a background to everyone she’s ever had to fight. And now this...
Lillian? Jerec gapes, surprised. I’d heard you were dead.
Two sentences, four seconds. Those four seconds of hesitation are all the diversion she needs to cross the remaining three paces and run him through.
~*~
A pair of black-gauntleted fingers click in front of her eyes, snapping her out of it.
It’s midnight, Sir Tonan remarks.
The statement is both a reminder and an unspoken question.
I’m visualising scenarios and planning contingencies, she informs Tonan blithely before deftly switching topics. Speaking of which, have you reviewed that report and those battle drills yet, sir?
A few corrections here and there, but otherwise sound, Tonan replies, dropping a wad of papers onto the desk before her. The report is ready to send to that... playwright.
She has told him about the meeting with Willom, Iris and Nico, of course. He is not the least bit pleased with the man. How does she explain? How does she explain the sincerity of his final statement after that meeting they held in Ka’azim? Their situations are so similar.
Do you want to know the saddest thing of all? Willom had asked sadly, all his characteristic silliness and exuberance gone. I never cared about you Paladins. I never cared about Midor. What was it to me? This was all just a ploy to get myself out of trouble, and it just got me in deeper. So now I am a bastard son to your cause, Lillian, not unlike yourself.
Not unlike yourself.
But he is unlike her. He and Iris should never have been put into this position. They should never have had their lives endangered. Like Davinia, like Blanche, like so many others dragged into the line of fire. It’s one thing to volunteer for a duty that you know full well can get you into dangerous and unwanted situations, or possibly even killed; and another thing for it to befall you, unwanted.
That is where pain is born. But it’s also where courage is born, isn’t it? In moments unprepared.
I’ll head up to the study and file the battle plans, she says briskly, after only a moment’s pause. The report will have to wait until tomorrow morning to be copied, sealed and delivered. There’s no use waking up one of the guardians now.
They bid each other good night. She does head up to the study to file the battle plans away. She doesn’t head back down to the living areas afterwards, but instead goes on up to the roof.
And she thinks about what she told Tonan last month about the men and women she served with who weren’t Paladins.
And she thinks of all the things she inherited from her grandmother, the talisman being the least of them: there is more that she never claimed, and never even considered seeking until now.
And she thinks back fourteen years, and Jerec is asking why she wants to be a Paladin at all: I’m concerned for your soul, Lillian...
And she thinks of courage, over and over again, because somehow it is tied in with all this and it is tied in with the decision she knows she has to make.
Tomorrow.
It has to be tomorrow.
When she finally heads indoors, she’s still not sure what it is she’s deciding on, let alone what her decision is on the matter. She does know this much: she has to leave. But not to walk away from something.
To walk towards something. |
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Paths Unseen
Posted: 25 Nov 2005 04:28 AM |
Lillian strides briskly out of Ladriel Tower, pulling the door shut behind her and cutting off the voices of Blanche, Militiades and Lysse. The Guardian on duty gives a polite greeting; automatically, she gives one back.
The sun hangs low in the morning sky, burning away Ladriel's usual chill mist. In the burgeoning light, the sharp shadows of bare autumn trees look like cracks in the frozen mask of her face. Her expression, usually carved from ice, seems to have found its melting point. With an effort, Lillian holds the tears in, although they burn behind her eyes.
I am a paladin no longer and can never be again.
The words pound in her memory. Every syllable a hammer blow nailing shut a coffin where a part of her has just died.
Or maybe it died long ago.
Maybe it's just taken this long to acknowledge it.
~*~
I spoke to Chia Steel today, says Byron.
They are sitting inside the living area in Ladriel Tower, on opposite sides of the lone table in the common room.
She was sitting by the entrance to the Tower grounds, looking out over the lake, he goes on.
She lives? Lillian asks, mildly surprised. She had thought she'd accounted for all the survivors on their side.
Byron nods and goes on, We spoke for hours. And I taught her the Code. I do not think it would take much for her to claim the Herald title.
Silence. Lillian waits patiently for him to get to the point.
Lillian, Byron finally says, Do you wish to become a Herald?
She feels her jaw clench. Byron's face becomes Morgana Ravenheart's becomes Robert Chadlin's becomes Lance Delaine's. With an effort, she blinks the faces and the associated memories away and focuses on the present.
The difference between then and now is that, back then, she knew the way was open and would always be open if she chose to go back.
No, she hears herself say. I don't. I can't.
Why? Byron persists.
A hundred possible responses flash through her mind. Because your way is not my way. Because I don't agree. Because I don't believe. Because I am a Midoran, and do you know what it means, what it really means to be Midoran? It's not something you just leave behind, that's like trying to stop being Human or trying to stop breathing and do you think you're the only one who defends an entire race's traditions and customs and beliefs, do you think that a thousand-year old lie can't have evolved into something good over the years, and we have produced a thousand years' worth of paladins and priests and saints and believers and you cannot tell me that the fact that they believed a lie makes their lives and sacrifices and deeds any less significant.
But the words are too hard to hold onto and too hard to form into a response that makes sense. Frustrated, she merely says, Because... I can't.
You can't, or you won't? Byron asks.
Both, I suppose, she admits.
Why? Byron asks again. Simply saying 'because' is not a reason. I would rather you say you choose to lay down the way of a paladin rather then hear you say simply 'you can't'.
~*~
Bang. Every word, every syllable, a hammer blow.
And every time she blinks the world plunges into a cold and empty darkness and she sees the death of hope imprinted on the inside of her eyelids.
~*~
And she forces the words out with a calmness that surprises her, and it hurts more than anything has ever hurt in her life. It hurts more than quitting the Academy the first time, it hurts more than quitting her paladinhood mere months after gaining it to join a rebellion she doesn't fully believe in, it hurts more than surviving when she shouldn't have.
Then I lay it down, Lillian hears herself say, distantly, in a stranger's cool and composed voice. I am a paladin no longer and can never be again.
~*~
Where to? Natana asks in her usual business-like tone as she finishes counting out the gold and slips it into a pouch.
Buckshire, Lillian replies in the same tone.
Buckshire. And from there to the Northern Highway, where Fate has its crossroads. Time to retrace her steps. Time to find out who she is, and where she's going. Because for the first time in her life there is no clear path she is standing on, no road going backwards, no road going forwards, no signposts or reference points to indicate where she is now and where she should go.
But all that means is that she's going to have to make some. |
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Cascade
Posted: 21 May 2006 07:34 AM |
| > Cascade |
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