Room for Regret

[Sventon]

Every person has some measure of value based on the needs of society. One man may be good at working with his hands and have strength in his arms. Another man may be frail in his body and powerful in his thoughts and logic. Yet another man may be angry and sharp on the outside, while on the inside he has a heart made of gold and guts made for heroes. No person can be broken down as simply as that, but beneath one of the Constibulatory's secret houses, in a basement chamber, Hans Sventon is speculating on the nature of something that is as simple as that: his room.

His room is not unkind at first. It takes his comfort and needs into consideration, for the bed is small but warm, and the furnishings are sparse but functional. His room is a little dull-witted. There is no art on its walls or shelves for books. It does not know the meaning of entertainment. As his attention - which is currently taking no prisoners - wanders beyond the immediate realm of his attention, he looks at the high windows that have been boarded over, letting none of the sun's light warm his gaunt, young face.

The room becomes a little less kind when he gives the windows any thought at all. The room becomes smaller. Everything outside of it becomes far away and separate from him. He looks at the door which is at the height of narrow stairs. From the inside of the room there is nothing but Hans' own knowledge that suggests its unwillingness to function to his benefit. It is locked securely and only opens when one of the guards brings him his meal.

The motive of the room, after he takes into account all of its behaviors toward him - from the inside out, becomes clear. The room only cares for his wellbeing on a shallow level, for his very sanity is at risk, and the room will keep him locked inside regardless.

Above all else, the room serves to keep him.

Unaccustomed to captivity, he is inwardly panicked and outraged by it. Before he knows it, he is pacing the floor again. Earlier he tore his room apart looking for some kind of tool to remove the boards on the windows. The result was disappointing, and he hurt his bare hands when, in a rage, he tried to use them for escape. In a very short time, he has completely forgotten his promise to behave. Behaving is what got him here. Behaving is what got him away from those zealots at the cultist caves alive. Now his whole world is this room.

He runs up the short flight of board steps to the door, and he uses his cracked knuckles to pound furiously. He shouts against it, his voice straining with unused anger. "You can not keep me here! I can not stay here! Someone get me out!"

[Cinnabar]

If the guards beyond pay any heed to the prisoner's cries they make no sign of it that can be discerned from Sventon's side of the door. All is quiet. He is left to rage and stew and protest all he likes, for the door is quite solid, the windows quite securely sealed. One might almost think that he has perhaps been forgotten and left to rot, except that it is always thus: no contact between prisoner and guards, no conversation offered or returned; the figures who bring him food and water and take away his slops are anonymous, hooded and masked such that no identifying feature might be seen, only the slight differences in height and build giving any indication that they are not always the same person.

It has been this way for some days since Sventon's capture - since his surrender, the agreement to cooperate that has earned him a different fate to the other cultists in the cave. Whether or not it is a preferable one is open to debate.

Perhaps an hour after this latest outburst of frustration - maybe more, maybe less - the door's bolts finally slide back, a heavy key rattles in the lock and the portal swings open to permit a slim figure entrance to the cellar. Well-crafted boots descend the stairs carefully, until the silver-haired young man who is Sventon's captor stands at the foot of the stairs, a satchel over one shoulder, glancing around briefly at the disarray in the room, the signs of desperate activity. Hm. One of the masked figures descends behind him, carrying a simple wooden chair to match the one already present in the cellar room, and at the young man's quiet direction spends a moment moving furniture about, such that the chairs sit across from one another either side of the small table. A quiet word of thanks, and the masked guard is dismissed, returning up the stairs and closing the door behind him.

Finally Cinnabar looks to Sventon himself, offering an amiable grin and a nod of greeting. "Good afternoon. I'm sorry for not visiting sooner, but things have been... unsettled of late." No further explanation given than that. He seems... tired and pale, a marked change from his fearsome vitality in the caves, and moves cautiously, unhurried, as if nursing some unseen injury. For all that, he still maintains the manners of a genial host, a politeness quite at odds with their status as jailer and jailed. But at least he's speaking to the man, no?

"I also must apologise for the, uh, emptiness of your accomodation. It was arranged on short notice, so it may be somewhat lacking in facilities. If there's anything I might do to make it more comfortable, just name it and I'll see what can be arranged. In the meantime..." He moves carefully about the room, retrieving an oil lamp and setting it upon the table, then bringing out a wine bottle and a couple of earthenware cups from that satchel of his, laying them out just so. A courteous gesture towards one of the chairs, inviting Sventon to take a seat.

"I believe we have some things to discuss."

[Sventon]

He sucks in ragged breaths when no one answers his pleas, arm aching enough to stop him from pounding on the door any longer. His young brow rests for a moment against the locked door of his cellar cell. "I can not be here," he whispers against the wood.

For the hour after, he opens drawers in search of something he might have missed the dozen other times he's opened them before. His hand reaches about in the darkness underneath his bed; he drags a cabinet away from the wall to look behind it, and he does not bother to right the thing afterward. When Constable Cinnabar comes calling, he's grown so used to the idea of his solitude, and is so consumed by his own, irrational fears, that the light flung down the length of stairwell has him instinctively wanting for a place to hide.

But as his searches have concluded, there is not only no place to hide, but there is also nothing hidden. He hunches his shoulders and stares as the men come down into his cell; his dark hair is unkempt in the extreme, and the redness about his eyes betrays his nighttime tears. Still, he can not help but feel enormously relieved when he sees that it is the silver-haired youth from the Caves, despite there being something different about him, something considerably less vibrant in his motions.

Sventon learns quickly that the young man's kindness is still precisely the same as it was before. He may be his captor, but he still saved his life. Despite his seething desperation, this grudgingly remains in his memory.

As Cinnabar confesses his regrets, Sventon silently slumps into the chair across from him and watches him pour a cup of wine. He grinds his fist across his tired but determined eyes while he hears him. Perhaps the High Constable can sense the repressed aggression of his young guest; there is something wound tight about him.

"What do you want from me?" His voice is a growl while mixed emotions cloud his eyes. Before Cinnabar can answer the same question he's been asked so many times before by this incredulous boy, Sventon blurts out: "I can tell there's something wrong with you. Did you fall off a horse, or have you been putting your nose where it doesn't belong?"

It's clear that Sventon takes no pleasure in mocking him; it's also clear that the notion of Cinnabar off, for all he knows, hunting for The Baie, angers him and terrifies him all at once. He can very easily imagine Cinnabar doing exactly that, from what he senses about his personality.

"The biggest favor I can do for you is tell you nothing," he grabs the cup of wine and has trouble bringing it to his lips; his hand shakes.

[Cinnabar]

To the second question there is a flicker of what, irritation? Anger? Regret? Maybe something of each, and he glances to the prisoner sharply, but remains silent for a moment, carefully composing himself before speaking.

"It's not so much a case of what I want from you, as what I want for you." He answers Sventon's unhurriedly, pouring a generous measure of wine for himself as Sventon takes up his own drink. "I am not convinced that you are a bad person. You seem quite reasonable, you have loved ones that you care for - to some extent over and above your devotion to the Order - so I'd like to try and understand how you came to be involved with the cult, so that I might help you become uninvolved." A pause as he sips his wine, regarding the red-eyed young man over the rim of his cup before setting the drink down again.

"There has been unrest in Myrkentown. Rioting, that sort of thing. Your family was unaffected by it, as the disturbances weren't that widespread." Interesting that he would have checked, it has to be said, but he does seem willing to take pains to set Sventon's mind at ease. "I wasn't so fortunate, and got caught up in the fighting. It'll heal." He shrugs a shoulder and waves a hand as if to dismiss the topic, clearly not vastly keen on discussing it further. Then a grin, and he rests an elbow on the table as he watches the young man for a moment.

"And possibly so; your concern is appreciated. But I believe that the biggest favour you can do for yourself - and for Myrken in general, including all those who you know and love - is to tell me everything."

[Sventon]

Cinnabar's initial, silent reaction causes Sventon to cringe inwardly. The sharp glance directed at him seems to guide his cup back down to the tabletop with a very quiet thunk. His face holds the quiet, deep-browed ferocity that one might hold the moment before a grudging apology, but by the time the words lump into his throat, Cinnabar is already composed and replying.

Rather than interupt, the young man listens; during the course of this, particularly at mention of loved ones, his temple has come to rest on the heel of his upturned hand, low eyes on the table instead of Cinnabar. The slouch of his shoulders says that some of the anger has left him. The Constable's kindness does its work on him.

"Every night and day that I have spent in this room, I have prayed to Him for forgiveness," Sventon whispers, at last, to Cinnabar. His eyes remain on the tabletop. "I am still alive, and if what you say is true, my mother is still alive too. I get the impression that He is waiting for something. He is not exactly known for His mercy. I think to myself: why am I still alive?"

He lifts his wary eyes to the constable.

"Maybe this right here is why. I haven't spilled my guts."

The hand propping his head curls into a fist, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He looks torn and reluctant, and despite the sharp, hollow shadows on his face, he still has a young and vulnerable look about him.

"Thank you for making sure that my family is well, sir. It means everything to me." In that same moment, he wonders if wishing that he'd never heard of The Baie is a form of blasphemy.

[Cinnabar]

"Mm. It is not a problem at all." He tilts his head, as if recalling some detail. "Your mother is unwell, yes? Is there anything that need be done to help her, that we might be able to assist with?" The offer seems made in good faith, and given Sventon's treatment so far there is perhaps little cause to doubt it. Meanwhile Cinnabar speaks on.

"I'd say you're alive because you decided to choose something better than throwing your life away." Pale brows loft inquiringly as he pauses, giving the young man time to consider this. "The others in the cave drew blades and ran forwards, and they died. As you would have done, if you had followed them."

He takes another sip from his cup, savouring the wine for a moment before continuing. "You say it is not known for mercy, and yet you pray to it for forgiveness. That... makes very little sense at all, if you'll pardon the observation." Grey eyes regard Sventon thoughtfully, noting the prisoner's uncertainty, some hint of that turmoil showing through on his face.

"Have you ever seen it forgive someone who has wronged it? Or even someone who has failed it?" Someone who has failed it by, for example, not being glad to die in an attempt to slay intruders into the cult's lair, perhaps. "Do you have any reason to believe that you can buy your way back into the thing's good graces by dint of heartfelt apology, Hans? Because I must confess, I have my doubts. Have have seen very little indication of such in the thing, from what reports I have. It has wrath, yes; and vindictiveness and perhaps a deeply cruel sense of humour. It has hunger, which your fellows have worked hard to appease with the slaughter of innocents and the harvesting of eyes. But compassion? No. I don't think you can hope for that. Do you? Truly?"

He sits back in his chair, sipping at his wine, and observing Sventon quietly; he allows the silence to stretch, content to take as long as is required for the man to consider the Constable's words, to attempt to deny them with his own.

[Sventon]

"My mother is very sick. She has been bed-ridden for more than a year now, and every day someone has to give her the dosage of her medicine from the Edificium. I have always been the one to do it," his mouth feels dry but not his dark, glinting eyes. "If someone could please see that she gets her medicine..."

He trails off and rubs his face.

No.

"No."

"If they were faithful, then He would have protected them. Don't you see? He showed me the path of escape, and I took it, and now my own faith is put to the test."

He leans against the table's edge and sounds a little wild with this declaration; there is pleading on his face, like he very much needs to believe that he has some kind of control over what's to become of them. There is nothing more disconcerting or maddening than hopelessness.

"He is cruel," Sventon hisses to him, still leaning at Cinnabar. "He is cruel and capable of awful things. Things that are not fit for eyes to see. " Rather than finding some sort of bleak humour in his word-choice, he grips his cup of wine and sets his jaw. "He could destroy everything, and I serve Him and Believe in Him to put my family under the protection of His great power."

"Who has power like my god?" He does not wait for Cinnabar to answer; instead, he answers hoarsely, beating his fist on the table. "None!"

By the second, the constable can see that Sventon's small outburst is strengthening his resolve on the matter despite his previous hesitance, and it's all because of fear. He is terrified of The Baie above all else.

"I believe that you are trying to help me, sir," the hardened lines of his face smooth out everything but the worry-eyes, and he relaxes his fist, looking down at it. " .. but you're crazy. You're just plain nuts if you think that you do anything for me, for us, against Him."

"He's going to hurt you."

[Cinnabar]

The silver-haired young man nods as Sventon speaks of his mother, of her sickness and medicine and dosage. Yes, that can be arranged. Ways and means.

As the young cultist speaks on, however, as he speaks of faith and trials and cruelty and power a frown creases his brow, grey eyes narrowing a touch as he watches the man; every gesture noted, every flicker of expression and glance of the eyes. Sventon rants on, he pounds the table and preaches the Baie's litany of fear, and Cinnabar is content to let him do so for the moment. Let him say it now, that it might be answered later.

Eventually the prisoner winds down, seemingly coming to a halt on that threat, that dire prophecy. And the captor merely shakes his head slightly.

"I do not believe so."

And that is it, a simple denial of the man's warnings. There is an easy confidence in his words, as if expressing doubt as to some particularly tall tale. Assured, determined, steady in this conviction. He allows a pause before continuing.

"And even if I did, it would not sway me. There are others who oppose the creature, you know. Some of them you saw, in the caves. Some of them have fought against it for years now; they have been hurt, yes, but they continue. There are things worse than hurt, even the hurt that the Baie might inflict. They know this. They have survived its efforts, some of them several times. And they still oppose it, because the only thing that the hurt has demonstrated to them is why the creature must be opposed."

He considers his words for a time, then looks to Sventon once more.

"I am not inclined to traffic in fear, or pain, or despair, as it offends me. Were this not the case, I would remind you that while you are in this room and your family go about their business in Myrkentown, from your point of view I have every bit as much power as your god, in all the ways that matter." His tone is even, conversational for all that there lies a host of unspoken threats behind his words. He allows the young man time to consider this, to let its full implications sink in before he speaks again.

"But I will not use those methods. I will not threaten your family, for that would make me little different to the creature itself." A grin at that, and he sips at his wine. "Your family will not be harmed. Certainly not by me, and not by the Baie while I still have the means to shield them. You have my promise on that, Hans."

[Sventon]

"I am no one, you know," the unkept lad looks down at the tabletop, ruminating on Cinnabar's words for a time before he continues. "I make fine shoes. There is no one prominent in my family. A lot of bad things happen in Myrken Wood. Things have been happening for years and years."

He looks up and smiles ruefully.

"You know all about that, though, my lord."

His smile fades again, his eyes pits of tired shadow with the deepened look.

"It was a long time customer of mine that told me about the Order and the - and Him. It was someone who trusted that I would Believe and become part of it, at the same time condemning me to it by giving me the information at all. If you know of its secrets, you're either a part of it, or you're fighting it."

"I am no fighter, and my family is precious to me. We've only ever depended on ourselves. I did not see any other choice when it happened, with the law as it was - with the town as it was, with my mother as she was. It is not in my wages to afford teachers and trainers and weapons to alter my fate."

Hans recalls how young he was at the time - how comparatively more frightened. He looks quickly across the table at Cinnabar, knowing he's gone on a tangent.

"Forgive me for saying so, but I do not believe that any god is as civil and kind as you are, my lord," he laughs nervously, swirling his cup as he looks down into the wine that he's barely touched. He's trying to be careful with his words and failing just a little; he tries not to pray too much, too. It might bring attention to them.

"You sound so sincere," he remarks, clearly troubled. After all, the cultists were very sincere about carving out eyes. His world was anything but lacking in sincerity; he's simply not used to an outlook that is so kind and favourable.

[Cinnabar]

That prompts a wry grin, and another sip of wine as if to encourage the young man to have more of his own. He waves a hand as if to dismiss or at least deflect the compliment, the casual gesture of a man at ease among friends who finds himself the target of unwarranted flattery.

"Forgive me for saying so, but it would seem to me that you've perhaps been looking to the wrong gods; I'm sure there must be some deity out there with a far greater capacity for kindness than myself, or indeed anyone. I'm not greatly familiar with such matters, however, so I couldn't really advise you on that." He leans an elbow on the table as he regards Sventon thoughtfully for a moment.

"Things are different. You had no choices before, but I'd like to offer you one now. What I would most like is to help you untangle yourself from the Order, to go back to your life and family without having to worry that they might find out about your involvement in the cult. Because I don't think you're suited to the Baie's service." Brows raised as if to dare him to disagree. "You don't strike me as the murderous sort, Hans. I find it hard to believe that such things truly appeal to you."

[Sventon]

"I do not understand where this is all going," Sventon admits, after listening closely to the constable; it's hard to focus on their conversation when he can't see his future anymore. "Say I were to agree with you. What then? I have no information that could actually help you, if that's what you are thinking. I am of no use to you at all."

"You know what the Order has done to people, how they have - " he gestures, leaning back in his chair as though to separate himself from the situations in his memory. " - killed. I have been a member for quite some time. Even had I managed to get this far without killing anyone, there's no question that I did my part."

"You are a good man, I can tell, and not in the business of putting killers on the streets," he growls out. "So what is all of this? Are you trying to make me see the error of my ways, only to let me sit and rot in this room with my regrets? I can not see what you get out of all of this."

"You must have some direction," his words rush out; he insists that Cinnabar must have some purpose, some reason for all of this beyond simply helping Sventon to see. He has no reason not to trust the silver-haired one, and yet a certain amount of suspicion and cynicism has grown in him for years - it has everything to do with survival.

[Cinnabar]

"You did your part, yes. You stayed silent while innocents were murdered, I have no doubt. You protected the identities of those who slew townsfolk and harvested their eyes, certainly. But did you enjoy it, Hans? Did you take satisfaction in how the Order spread uncertainty and fear throughout Myrken? Did you revel in the blood shed in the name of the creature that the Order worships as a god?" The smile fades as he speaks, expression calm, almost curious as he asks these things.

"Would you see the Order spread its influence across the land, growing in strength until all kneel at the creature's feet, every man, woman and child? Would you see your neighbours, your friends, your family, your mother, all of them join in adoring worship of the thing in the cave? Would you have them harvest a feast of eyes from those who refused to praise the creature, or even offer their own with gladness and joy?" Questions that compel Sventon to look upon the matter anew, to confront the facts of what he has been involved in for so long, the secrets he has kept and what they mean for his world.

"Would you see the Baie's shadow fall across everyone and everything you know, until all is remade in its image, according to its own laws? Because that what the Order works towards. Is that what you want, Hans?"

The Constable's eyes glitter silver, a mirror for Hans' own gaze; he will find no respite there, only his own fear reflected back upon him. No protection from these questions that force him to view the larger picture, beyond his own small circle of trembling servitude and cowed faith; to gaze upon the implications of his own actions or lack of action.

"Is that the world you would choose to live in?"