Of times forgotten

[Altias_Bromn]

A young boy would find his way, breathless filthy and stinking to high heaven, to the door of the High Constable. The lad, perhaps twelve summers old, was covered in grime from the long road they had all traveled, in his dirty hand was clutched a letter written on fine parchment and tied with a lock of crimson and ebony hair.

"A message..." He pants, looking to whomever might give him entry. "For the man they call Cinnabar, the High Constable of Myrken Wood. From my Lord, Altias Bromn"

The boy would drop to his knees then, spent from the effort of his run through the streets of Myrken from it's borders. The message pressed toward the hand of the man who, no doubt, guarded the door.

Within the parchment, the scent of lavender, and words written in flowing script an ink whose color mirrored the scent which the paper carried.

"High Constable,

As promised, we have arrived. Our numbers are too great to simply come to you myself. I must stay with my men, until we know that we are needed. Our numbers wait outside the border, we hope that you will allow us a most needed respite from our travels.

We are, Constable, 2000 strong. My brother, no doubt, will be furious that I have taken troops under his command, but something must be done to protect Myrken should things continue to run their current course.

We hope that you will accept our help.

And Constable....you and I have some things that are long overdue to be discussed. You bring the brandy, I shall provide the cakes.

Always,

Altias"

The signature is large and flowing, and does not bear the title of governor, or councilor, or anything more than simply, Altias.

[Cinnabar]

While the boy is given time to catch his breath and plied with tea, Calomel pens his reply. There is some... concern, at the name of the letter's sender, some buzz of uncertainty.

In his office, the High Constable reads through that letter again, frowning at various of the details. Hm. Two thousand men. Some misgivings here, some real worry. But there's the matter of things left unsaid, certain small details of phrasing, and then he's pulling a fresh sheet of paper towards him, dipping his pen and writing in firm, confident script.

To Altias Bromn

Altias

We shall meet you at the gate. I believe there is a stretch of former Pritchite land now lying fallow within maybe a half-hour's march from the gate, and I imagine would make as good a temporary camp as any - at least until more established accommodations can be arranged.

Meanwhile I have a bottle of most pleasant Derry apple brandy that has been awaiting a suitable occasion, and I look forward to sharing it with you.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel


The letter is sanded, folded, sealed and handed to one of the Constabulary's runners, who will pass it on to a rider who will then carry it to Bromn's hand.

Meanwhile there are a number of other letters written, brief notes issuing curt instructions; a number of papers are retrieved from the relocated government offices next door, packed into a leather document wallet and thence into a satchel alongside that bottle of good brandy.

Grey coat buttoned against the creeping chill of autumn, High Constable Calomel rides out with a half-dozen mounted Constables, heading for the south-west border.

[Altias_Bromn]

Cinnabar Calomel would be greeted by one man. Altias Bromn.

Red long coat buttoned high to his throat to protect against the gathering chill of the nearly Autumn evening. Three stripes of dark grey decorate each cuff, circling them. The jacket is edged in the same colors, a shining pin of silver decorates one lapel. A charging chimera.

If the Constable would look up, and behind the flowing crimson and black hair, the formal military style coat, those queer mismatched eyes, the twin swords at his hips, he would see the mass of men gathered some distance behind Altias.

The gathered, weary, dirty, but proud. Each sporting the uniform of Xanth Grange, similar but more simple to the coat that Altias himself wore. Above them stood three standards, hailing them as the troops of Xanth Grange. A charging Dark Grey Chimera on a Crimson field.

One tent has been erected, for purposes of this meeting alone it would seem. The men waited, most of them patiently, for their change to rest.

"Constable Calomel, a pleasure to see you again, despite the unfortunate circumstance. Do join me won't you? Not terribly comfortable accommodations but I am sure you understand, Constable. Or should I call you governor?"

A grey gloved hand would pull back the drape of the tent, allowing them both entry.

[Cinnabar]

It's a slightly fraught moment once Calomel dismounts and steps forwards to speak with the lone man, not without its tensions and uncertainties; a few heartbeats of balance, as the two men face one another. Cinnabar Calomel, a figure of muted greys interspersed only with the shining brass of buttons upon his coat, the polished shield at his breast, the leather satchel over one shoulder; Altias Bromn, in rich reds and blacks, long hair flowing in the autumn breeze. A weighing-up of options, of possible intent and likely outcome, considering which way the scales might tip.

But then the moment passes and there's a polite nod to the younger Bromn, some brief sketch of a bow.

"Sir. My condolences, I received word from your brother a few days ago." Uncertain, still feeling his way and for the time being guarding himself with formality and politesse. But he's amenable to Altias' suggestion, and steps through into the tent. And ha, that question.

"Whichever you feel is appropriate, sir."

[Altias_Bromn]

"I would prefer Cinnabar, but I doubt even my time away has rebuilt that bridge."

A gesture to a crude table, merely a trunk with a cloth to cover it. Two wooden cups rest on its surface, empty. A plate of very hard oat cakes rests in the center.

"I did not say they would be good cakes. Pastry does not travel well."

There is some almost sad amusement in that statement, in those bizarre eyes. Two chunks of wood had been drawn up to serve as chairs. The large group had chosen to travel very lightly. Bed rolls, tents, equipment, food. They needed no more. Though each of them would happily welcome a warm bath, a good meal and a friendly woman, no doubt.

"I will not mince words, Constable. You know why I have asked you here."

Did he? Altias was certain he must know.

"I have asked you to come that my men might find rest and that we might be of service in what appears to be a most tense situation. If it has Garrison's blood to the boil, then surely it must be war, hmm?"

He was an elegant creature, despite the filth of the road. It was clear he found the time, and the water, to wash each day as best he could. To beat the dust from his clothes. Still, the journey showed upon him, or perhaps other things weighed on him.

"And another matter...of your governorship."

The slender man seated himself on the chunk of wood as if it were his favorite velvet chair. To those who knew him it might seem strange to see him in such a setting.

"Please, do sit down. We are civilized men, we should behave accordingly."

[Cinnabar]

It is perhaps a surprisingly crude scene within that tent, compared with what Calomel has seen of Altias' taste; his well-appointed chambers, his opulent furnishings, tasteful and carefully-chosen. So this... ha, incongruous. And the oat-cakes have him grinning despite himself, a shake of his head to go with it.

"Ah. Fitting, somehow." Still, he unbuckles that satchel and retrieves a bottle of rather nice Derry brandy, as promised; the cork is pulled and the cups granted a generous measure before he accepts Bromn's invitation to be seated. A straight-backed figure, hair cropped close to his skull lending him a severe look despite his youthful features. So, he nods, and laces his fingers in front of him.

"Rest can certainly be arranged. As for service, that could well prove invaluable, and would be most appreciated. It is not war yet, though once Derry falls to the Duke then I would imagine it is but a matter of time." And then there is... this other issue, which has him frowning slightly and regarding Bromn with a steady gaze for a time.

"Indeed. The governorship." It's clear enough that Calomel is intent on keeping his own thoughts close to his chest for now. Let us see what the other man has to say first, eh?

[Altias_Bromn]

"A kind man brings drink to the weary. You are such a man, Cinnabar Calomel."

Bromn would raise the rough wooden cup in salute to the man across from him. As is normal, for him, in such situations the emerald eye glows softly in the lamplight. Whenever emotions run high in him, this occurs. Cinnabar might have noticed it before.

"I do not wish to waste your time, I know you are a very busy man."

There is a motion then, as he had wished to lean back. To cross one long leg over the other. To cradle that drink in his lap, relaxing by the fire. This is not a place with such amenities. Instead, he would draw the drink near to him, straightening his spine. One hand would tuck long strands of ebony and crimson behind on ear, bearing three silver rings.

"I have...a proposal for you. As I am sure you know, there are many who are no more thrilled by your step into the seat of governor, than they were when I took it from Helstone. If such a thing were required, I could push to have the seat returned to me, or at the very least call for a public vote."

A sip of that brandy, eyes closing as the warmth and richness of the liquid flowed over his tongue, stinging his throat, glowing in his belly.

"This is not what I wish to do. Understand this, Constable. I am a man who cares so deeply for Myrken that I would give my life for her people, if the need arose. What I am not, is a man of strategy. I act from my heart, and often my head is left behind a bit. You, are a calculating man, and I speak this as a compliment. You understand strategy, planning, organizing...and war. I, do not."

Those strange eyes open, focusing on the younger man. One glitters softly violet, the other almost pulses a glowing green.

"You have come a very long way, Constable. The people, by and large, respect you. They may not all like you, but they respect you. That is important in the role of governor. You can lead these men that I have brought before you. You can plan the rebuilding of the Meeting House. You can organize the militia and the Brotherhood. These are not things I can do as well as you."

A smile then, as another sip of brandy is enjoyed.

"Simply, Constable. I wish you to remain governor. Officially. All I would ask is that you provide me a seat on the council, or a job...as your adviser. I wish to continue to assist Myrken. I simply wish to do it in a way more suited to my talents."

It is a suddenly silent man that sits across the crude table from him now. The sun gone, the lamps flicker in the night wind, casting an eerie shadow across very odd features. Those eyes, those eyes given to him by Kylerryth, watch him so very carefully now, reading each tiny action, as if trying to read what the man might really be thinking. For he knows that the words he will speak will convey only the barest sense of his true feelings.

[Cinnabar]

Calomel's own cup is taken up, lifted in mirror of bromn's gesture and sipped from lightly. It is remarkably good brandy, rich and smooth and redolent of the apples from which it is distilled.

For his part, the silver-haired young man listens quietly to Altias' proposal, brows raised in polite curiosity. The very image of restrained tact, of cautious politesse, of imperturbable diplomacy. A slight nod of acceptance at that compliment, and a faint smile to go with it.

But then Bromn comes to the crux of his proposal, and the High Constable who claims the authority of the Governor things for a time, silent and impassive; Altias is likely to find his work cut out for him, as the younger man maintains an air of impressive inscrutability, though it is clear enough from his level gaze that there are more than a few things that he wishes to say, but refrains. A few heartbeats pass, then the High Constable nods.

"It's fortunate that you feel this way, as I also would prefer to remain governor. Your request, however, presents me with some concerns." He has a young man's face, a young man's athletic figure, but there is an undeniable maturity to his gaze, to his voice as he speaks these words; measured, confident, and yet unfailingly well-mannered.

"My concern is that your previous successful periods as Governor lend you a certain popularity. People remember your rule with fondness, even perhaps nostalgia. You are very good at making yourself well-liked, sir." A thin and humourless smile at this. "As Governor Helstone learned to his cost. My concern, sir, is that I have little desire to see such a thing happen again - I have no desire at all, in fact, to have you turn up on my doorstep with a host of Janeiro troops when you decide that actually you quite fancy being Governor yet again. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but whenever it is that the whim strikes you. Hopefully that is an understandable concern." A certain chill to his tone, and though his features remain composed his hands lace around the wooden cup on the makeshift table before him, knuckles pale.

"Understand also what it looks like, sir, when you return to Myrken with two thousand men at your back and a mouthful of terms. How terribly gracious, these terms. How terribly generous, this proposal. How terribly useful, this army of yours. How could I possibly refuse?" Contrasts, these two men: Bromn, with coat of rich red, Calomel with his of plain wool; Altias, with mismatched eyes of deep violet and vibrant green, Cinnabar with his of silver-flecked grey.

"You say you care for Myrken. What if she will not have you now, after you promised so much and yet failed to deliver? What if you are refused, having neglected her for so long? What then? Will you take her again by force, Altias?"

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias would have dearly loved to lean back, study this fascinating creature before him, sip his brandy and ponder.

This was not the time or place for such things. Perhaps one day they might sit down over a meal and a good bottle of wine and have it all out once and for all. Perhaps not.

Carefully, he would address each of Cinnabar's points. The man was wise beyond his years, and showing the patience of an angel, considering their history. Bromn could not help but respect that.

"Your concerns are, of course, warranted. Let me first address the issue with Helstone and Janeiro.

"Yes, I did wish to take back the seat of governor from Helstone. Did I wish to take it by force? Absolutely not. It was, in fact, not even my idea to do so. I had planned an organized vote of the people to allow them some choice in those who oversaw their fate. The riot was unexpected. The appearance of the Janeiro troops and the subsequent overthrowing of Helstone was unplanned. I was not happy with how things turned out that day."

For a moment there is a notable frown on what had been impassive features. Another small sip of the brandy, truly enjoying the simple taste of luxury.

"On to the troops I have brought to you. These are not my men to command, Constable. These men answer first to the King. Do you believe if I, unwanted second son of the former Duke of Xanth Grange, were to command them to do anything other than defend Myrken, that they would listen to me? I think you might find I would have a hard time demanding they cross the street if they did not find it in the best interest of Myrken, Xanth Grange and the Kingdom. Most of them would be relieved to have me not in the seat of governor anymore."

Cinnabar's final words wound. Though this does not show upon his features. His demeanor does not change, nor does his tone of voice.

"If Myrken does not want me, Constable, then she will not be forced to have me. She was not forced before. Do you think that if the people did not wish to have me in that seat they would have allowed that to happen? No, they would not.

"Think also on this...have you not done more for them in these last months than I have managed? The people know what you have done for them, what you can do for them, and what you will do for them. All they know of me is they have my best intentions. Sometimes, Cinnabar, intentions are not worth the salt in one's tears.

"I am just a man. A man who has lived far longer in some short years than some who live to see 100 summers. Myrken is the only home I have ever known. It is the only place that has ever accepted me for who I am. Warts and all, as they say. I wish to remain here, to help Myrken succeed. If you think it would be in her best interest, I shall leave these men in your command, and Myrken shall see my back this final time.

"You are already in charge here. These men would not assist me in forcing you from this position, even if that was what I wanted. Which it is not. Janeiro? They have no love for me, only less contempt than they had for Helstone. This may well have changed in my absence.

"What kept me trying to possess a position to which I was unsuited is gone, Ser. I know now that my place is adviser, or councilor, not leader. I am a man of ideas, of dreams, of hopes. You, are a man of action. And that is what Myrken needs."

The cup is drained, set sharply on the tabletop, as the burning liquid moves through his system. The Altias of old would have fought a different fight. Would have charged Cinnabar with so many things. Would have brought the focus of this argument to his wounds, his wants. This was not the case this night.

[Cinnabar]

"Ah. An accidental coup. I understand how these things just happen." A nod, a mild smile as if accepting some inadvertent transgression, some minor faux pas. Still, Bromn explains himself, and Calomel listens politely, neutrally, sipping occasionally at his own brandy. What he says is interesting, is perhaps even reassuring, and might serve to quell some of the High Constable's concerns and soothe his worries about Bromn's return. If he could believe them.

"Janeiro's contempt for the government that pays them is a reassuring constant, sir. Perhaps one that these men will help to address. If they are not yours to command, though, whose orders are they under instructions to obey? I'm sure you can see how having yet another... wilful military force in Myrken is unlikely to improve matters, despite the best of intentions. If they cannot follow the commands of Myrken's government, they are worse than useless. They are a liability, and I have more than enough of those already."

Some thought on that, and then he's reaching for that satchel again, retrieving a sheaf of papers and a small, carved wooden case which is opened to reveal a writing set. The papers are shuffled into order, edges tapped straight against the makeshift table before Calomel passes them across to Bromn.

"If you will sign and seal this document, you will have your place as an advisor. I will listen to you, but I will not promise always to heed your advice. And I certainly cannot promise to trust you. Not immediately." Cool, grey gaze upon Altias, flecks of silver receding slowly.

"Read it first, to satisfy yourself. It grants the transfer of the legislative and executive authority inherent in the Office of the Governor to the High Constable of the Myrkentown Constabulary. I took the liberty of signing a copy of this document in your absence a week or two ago, but your mark would obviously make it more... official." Another sip of brandy, and then he moves to refill both cups. "I have met with the Judiciary Council already and have majority support from the Councillors, so this is mainly to ensure that everything is properly formalised." If there remains any of that hinted anger, it is now thoroughly subsumed beneath a mannerly, businesslike veneer.

"I will also require the Governor's seal."

[Altias_Bromn]

Ah, well, such things never go quite as planned do they? Nothing is ever simple.

A nod for the refilled cup of brandy, as it is immediately taken to his lips. This is nasty business, you understand.

"Let me clarify a few things for you, Ser. These men will obey my orders as they were given by their commander. They know for what purpose they are here. They are here to serve the governor of Myrken. Only if those orders were to disobey the law of the land, or the word of the King would they disobey them. The soldiers of Xanth Grange are known for their loyalty to the Crown. Which is why I do not count myself among them."

A wry smile at that.

"I was never very good at following orders, and even less well versed at spilling blood over words and papers."

"As for the coup..."

There is a pause here, some deep consideration. The brandy is set on the table as the strangely lean creature leans forward. Elbows rest on the crude table, making it appear almost as if he is laying cross the trunk.

"...I ask only that you understand one thing. That you believe one thing. That you trust one thing. I did not climb on to that roof top with Roschen in order to do anything but speak to people who had been too long unheard."

And then there is talk of paperwork, oh how he despised such things. Upright once more, he takes the offered papers, reading them over quite carefully.

"If I sign this, you must promise me one thing. And know this, Cinnabar Calomel, if you break such a promise, I will not hesitate to find a way to remove you from your seat as governor. No matter the cost. You must promise that you will listen. Not to me. To them. My opinions are just that, opinions. They can be good for some things, but the needs of our people rise above all that. Above your wants, above my wants, above the wants of the bloody King himself."

The writing set is regarded and it brings a smile to Bromn's features for the first time in quite a while.

"Lovely, I should buy something like that."

Easily distracted. One of many faults.

"So will you make me that promise, Constable? Will you promise always to listen to your people first?"

From a velvet pouch beneath his long coat a seal is grasped in long fingers. He was prepared to make the deal. Was Calomel?

[Cinnabar]

"If it is as you say, then I look forward to having some troops in the land upon whom I can rely." Perhaps some hint of bitterness there at that clear allusion to Janeiro's... independent spirit. An accepting nod at his earnest explanation of the coup, polite and neutral but no more than that, as if the matter makes little difference to him one way or another. Moving on. The papers are as he describes, though couched in legal terms which make for rather dry reading. Still, it has clearly been drawn up by a legal clerk of no little skill, as it is quite impeccably rigorous; it would be a bold or reckless lawyer indeed who might attempt to pick apart such a meticulously-worded document for flaws.

Then there is that insistence on a promise, on an oath, and that at last has the young man grinning in open amusement. A nod at his comment upon the writing set, as it is indeed a lovely piece of work, beautifully crafted and carved with twining and sinuous creatures; little compartments within the box for a pen, fresh nibs, a stick of sealing wax and a little candle to melt it over, a portable inkwell and even a small vial of fine sand, neat and compact.

Still, that is a distraction, and he returns his attention to Bromn's terms.

"In truth, I'm surprised that you even need to ask; it's what I do, Altias." The grin fades, his features earnest, serious, a certain intensity in his gaze.

"Always."

[Altias_Bromn]

"I only ask because I know you to be a man of your word. If you speak it, you will do it."

Within nimble fingers the official seal of the governor twirls. Delicate digits flip the ebony handle from finger to finger. Like a trickster might flip a coin. For a moment, there is little but silence between the two men, and it appears that perhaps Altias would not give over the seal.

"Do not disappoint them, Cinnabar. They need someone they can count on. Be that man."

With those words the seal is gentle tossed into the air. It spins between them flashing ebony and brass. He has no doubt the younger man will catch it.

"Now, light your candle. I have documents to sign."