I Ask You for Fire

I Ask You for Fire

Postby Rance » Wed Sep 11, 2013 3:01 pm

An hour after a bittersweet reunion.

Caliir stood in his stall at the furthest end of the stables. His clouded eyes saw the same things every day. He saw people not for their clothes, but for their sweat-stink and offered bits of pre-chewed food. He blurted his protests at the horses as they neighed and nickered. His bristle-chinned mouth chewed nothing. The foam on his lips was the edge of a white sea stolen from a rock-studded shoreline.

On a brushing-stool beside him, there were raiments folded as meticulously as the robes for a jerethedral crier. The trousers were creased along their pleat. The collar of the jacket was starched nearly to a powdered white. Lines of red embroidery and gold filigree ran ant-like paths across the cuffs and epaulets.

A Militia's uniform. Folded on top of it, a hastily-scribbled note. At one corner of the page, there was a droplet of drying blood.

Shonashall or however it is spelt,

My words have gotten much better on a paper. They have gotten no better from my voice. You have askt for names so I shall give them to you, and you will be dredfally displeased with the scaresity. I extend my trust to you because what else is there to do, and I am so tired of being wrong.

Councilor Treadwell, who bides his time most patiently.
Endymion, who wears his emotions upon his sleeve.
Clayton Thayer, who has given me advice I have not heeded.
Perhaps the scorpion Waldumarr, who I have not seen since a trial.
Vice-Governor Agony-eska Kazmerrik.

Had she known of the Vice-Governor's change, she might have never included the name.
Solina, the Lady of Knives, who is surely already too pretty.
Proctor Duquesne, as you well know.
Crisken de Lanz, whose dog recently died.
Genny, who is a fine Inquisitor.
Maxwell, who is a mad Inquisitor.
Kasella, from who I have learned an arrow.
Jon Toombs, who knows a very good foundation.
Altias Brom, who thinks I am a lovely girl. Where has he gone wrong.

I cannot vouch that all these names are a garrintea, you may have need to verify.

Also, I implore you to look very closely at the embroidery on this Militia unaform. And when you have found the words I have hidden in the stitches perhaps you will tell the rest of your Militia to look on their sleeves as well. Those who laugh may be worth your trust. Those who scoff may be worth dismissal.

I have done all a stupid girl shoult do. I have hurt people. I would like very much to wake up from this too-pretty place. I have omitted some names. My brother. A whelp. A BOY who is like a feline's talon. If this note finds hands other than yours I should not wish them any more harm.

No longer a demand: if our town might be ours again, allow me to apologise. I ask you for fire, that we may set your dress aflame together. Then we'll sew all the broken parts of ourselves back together. Until then I still ask you for fire, to burn this note like a corpse. Never too carefill.

Yours,
Scarlet Glass

Underneath the first note, there was a second -- one of Ariane Emory's own, or more precisely, a piece of it, torn from its original page by a seamstress' precise fingers. A reminder that likely held no more meaning except as memory.
There is to be no confrontation.

And should Ariane Emory care to closely examine the golden brocade tracing the folded cuffs of the jacket, she might note tiny words painstakingly creweled stitch by stitch amid the threaded decoration. An arabesque in slanted seams too small for a simple glance but too clear to anyone who truly looked:

I AM MYSELF. WHO ARE YOU?
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Rance
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