Dawn breaks

[Altias_Bromn]

As the sun rose over the treetops, shards of brilliant light cascaded through the window. Apparently the occupant of the room had forgotten to pull the blinds the night before. A low groan escaped the covers, as the thick satin comforter was roughly yanked up over masses of fiery red tresses.

"Lord and Lady..."

Even his voice felt foreign to him, echoing through him so loudly it was painful. Thin legs kicked at the covers, trying to free himself from the bed, realizing that it was not the bedding that he was tangled in, but the long green skirt from the night before. Finally extracting himself from the bed, Altias Bromn attempted to stand upright, without much success. After two attempts he managed to right himself and make his way to the dressing table.

"Oh aren't you a pretty little thing."

The face which looked back at him would certainly be comical to someone else, but to Altias, it was hideous. His hair had not been carefully braided back last night, instead it was left free. His reflection revealed the price of that mistake. He was faced with waist length hair that very nearly stood on end.

Silks, usually carefully folded and hung, were a wrinkled mass around his lean frame. He looked like a bloody scarecrow! It would take hours to tame the mess, but in the mean time, he had a letter to write.

Once more moving toward the bed, a short struggle with his travel pack, and a notebook and quill were found. THe ink took a little more doing, which ended with all of his herbs and stones dumped into a pile in the middle of the bed.

Rubbing his temples, he settled down to write.

Councilors,

I pen this note to announce to those of you who had yet to hear, that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, again. I have returned to Myrken, once more ready to assist the council in matters of law, safety, finance, and the general happiness and productivity of this fair region.

I am currently staying at the Inn, as my chambers are currently occupied by my daughter, Avel. Should you need me, please come see me, or send a missive to the Broken Dagger until such a time as I relocate to my own home.

I do hope that we can arrange a meeting soon, it has been too long since all of us have been together at the same table. I would like a chance to discuss a memorial for Pritchard. He was a staple in this place, the people knew and loved him. He should be honored.

Always,

Governor Altias Bromn

[Altias_Bromn]

~I seeee you...father.~

Crimson slits glittered in the darkness. Soft laughter, broken, tarnished, dirty somehow, echoed from the shadows beside his bed. Amethyst orbs slowly adjusted to the light, seeing the outline of the child who was really..not a child. He had come to understand that now.

~They will come for you, you know. They will blame you for this. For me. It was your perversion that allowed this to occur. It is your fault. Everyone knows this is your fault. He knows it is your fault, and he will come for you.~

The rising sun warmed the room slightly, throwing light amidst the shadows, flickering over the obsidian flesh and sterling tresses of his daughter. Eyes which once mirrored his own seemed alive with crimson light. Avel smiled as the door splintered open, a shadow bursting forth from the hallway beyond.

"Avel, no!"

The maid blinked rapidly as the governor screamed.

"I'm sorry, Sir! I didn't know you were still here. I knocked and you didn't answer. I did not mean to intrude."

"No, no...it's nothing dear. Do not fret over it. I was just...dreaming. I'll be out of your way in a few minutes, alright?"

The trademark smile. Warm, inviting, accepting...comforting, everything he truly could not feel at that moment.

As the maid retreated, Altias sat up in the bed, his lean form shaking despite the temperature of the room. The dream had been too real. One had come already, who could say how many more had been touched by Avel.

The travel pack, so carefully repacked yesterday, was methodicaoly unpacked again. At the bottom of the bag were two highly ornate daggers. With a shake of his head, Altias Bromn removed them, tying them to a rather grand emerald silk sash. It was time that those who would come understood he would not simply bow his head and accept death.

His skills had become rusty since...Nathaniel. He needed a sparring partner, and perhaps a new sword. The daggers would do, but the long blade was where he found his comfort. Perhaps it was time to speak with Ariane.

[Carnath-Emory]

It most certainly was.

"Make me understand," she'd asked, without asking. "Give me proof," she'd insisted -- demanded, of a man who'd proven nothing but his insanity, months ago, nothing but his madness. There'd been a lover's corpse left to rot in her bed, that morning, and she'd barged down the stairs wanting nothing but to destroy the one who'd left it there, nothing but to give him a taste of the suffering he'd inflicted.

A prolonged taste.

The world in those days, those bad old days, had been turned on its end, twisted into a thing that she could not fathom, and did not much care to. But times change, even times as dark as those: their Governor had vanished at the most opportune of times -- she'd broken his bones, but not him -- and while her conviction of Bromn's insanity had not altered during the months he'd been gone, her fury had cooled.

That she'd been mistaken as to the corpse's identity had certainly helped.

So: proof. Proof that his strange story of spirits and incarnations, of flesh and rot and corruption, had some truth to it. Proof that he wasn't the savage butcher that he'd become, all that time ago. Proof, above all, that she could swear her sword to his service once again -- and not find herself caught in a murderer's cause.

Bizarrely, it was not Bromn himself, but Heldenbrand -- Jason Heldenbrand, as long-lost as the Governor had been -- who'd provided precisely that. Oh, they'd talked, the night before; more precisely, he had talked, and she had listened, and even though he'd finally run out of answers for her questions, she'd left well-satisfied. Of a sudden, things were making a modicum of sense.


So when the knock came at her door, she was not entirely surprised. More importantly, she was ready. The time had come to speak of Avel, born of Avel, birthing... Avel.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias stood at the theshold, as Ariane opened the door. The sight which greeted her might have come as some surprise.

Gone were the flowing garments of silk. No more were the soft angora sweaters, the satin suits. Instead the governor stood before her decked top to tail in a uniform. Black leather had been cleaned, conditioned, shined, until it appeared almost new, though in truth he had possessed the leather armor since he was but 18.

Crimson tresses were plaited back into a severe braid which was then fastened beneath the collar of his jacket through a leather loop. He would not cut his hair, but he had made sure it would not be used as a handle either.

The only hint of his former flamboyant dress was the wide emerald silk sash which held the two daggers at his hips. It seemed the perfect compliment to the more somber attire, at least in his eyes. Hands were clasped behind his back, giving him a decidedly military apperance.

"Ariane...first, I've come to apologize. I had no right, nor invitation, to man handle you so the other evening. I've no excuse, I will not blame it on the drink. I would simply ask that you please forgive my actions. I lost control, and I am sorry."

What was it he was sorry for exactly? He was only sorry that he had embarassed her. Well, and perhaps sorry that he had passed out drunk only minutes later. It had not been his most flattering moment, and he had pushed himself on her. It was wrong.

"On the heels of the apology, I've a favor to ask. I am sure you have many questions...I am ready to answer them before I ask anything of you."

From behind his back he drew a bottle of the spirits she had been drinking the other night. At least he thought it was the right one, he couldn't be sure. He'd been drunk, after all.

"Truce? At least until we talk for awhile?"

[Carnath-Emory]

He is a revelation.

It's the first she's evidenced of surprise in days -- since that drunken evening, as it happens, but this is not the time to dwell on such things. Does she approve of this change? (And oh, he's not the only one to have changed...) It's possible; the single grey eye sweeps its gaze over the tall length of him, an inspection which scours the man from braided head to booted toe, before she slowly nods. Leather armour is not her preference, but it will suit for now, and he's kept it in good order; neither are the matched daggers, but that's hardly important. Can he wield them? There's the important question, and the answer to that, too, changes everything.

That nod, then, and some surprise lingering in a charcoal gaze that would otherwise be severe. He is admitted before he can rightly begin to speak, for she steps back with little hesitation, ushering him into a room of spartan contours. The bed is unmussed, the furnishing sparse, the floor empty of rugs or other ornaments; one could almost think that the room has no occupant, if she weren't there to prove otherwise. He is gestured towards the one chair.

No questions, as he speaks -- so far. The apology, such as it is, is received with nothing but a second nod. He will not blame that farce on wine; she will -- to do otherwise would be ludicrous, and painful in ways she does not wish to consider. The bottle, however, is accepted, a quick examination proving it to be spirits rather than wine. This suits well enough, and it is placed on her ink-splashed desk. There is a sign of life: crumpled parchment, several balls of it, scattered upon the floor there.

"Truce." Stated flatly, and without further hesitation; she'd have offered it herself, if he hadn't come to her before she'd had the chance. "Certain matters ... have been explained to me." Her speech is as halting as ever; it's the pattern of, not reluctance, but a woman who must search carefully for the appropriate words. But perhaps he will not find it unsatisfying, for when she meets his gaze again:

"I am prepared to give you any aid which is in my reach."

[Altias_Bromn]

The chair offered is taken, gladly. It had been a tiring day, though it was barely dusk. The retrieval of the armor had been painful, as he had not seen it since Nathan's death. Swords and armor, sparring and sweating, all of those things had been buried with his friend, his mentor. Metaphorically, of course.

The soft creak of well worn leather rose from him, as one long leg crossed over the other. A quick adjustment of the daggers, obviously more ornamentation than a chosen weapon, allowed him to settle in a bit.

Altias was a bit stunned by her offer, though the only sign of such was a slightly raised eyebrow. He had anticipated having to explain so much, but it seemed that someone had given her information already.

"I am in need of a sword, Ariane. Something well made and light. Not thin, you understand, but light. I had mine melted down after..."

A pause, as he swallowed hard. It seemed as if he could not bear to speak the words aloud. Violet eyes closed for a moment, composing himself, chasing the vision of what Baie had done to Nathan from his mind.

"...a death in the family. It was foolish, I see this now, an emotional reaction. Certainly not practical. I also need someone to spar with. I am afriad the same death robbed me of that as well."

Only then did he once more open his eyes, raising them to meet her gaze.

"Your skill with a sword, your savage grace in battle, made you the logical choice. I have trusted you with my life, in much different circumstances, I once more place my life in your hands. Help me to defend myself from those who will surely come. Give me the tools to once more stand on my own."

Surely these were strange words coming from such a...delicate man as he. Though if anyone would understand that he was more than capable, it was Ariane. She had seen what he could do, given the right battle.

What she could not see, was that this request was not only for himself, but for her. No one else shard the information that she did. No one else, not even Heldenbrand, as far as he knew, was aware that Ariane not only knew who and where Avel was, but where she came from. That knowledge, he was relatively sure, could put her life in danger...even, if not especially, from the likes of Heldenbrand.

[Carnath-Emory]

"A death in the family..."

She hadn't known, of course. In her world, he had existed independant of such ties, such concerns. In her world, Altias Bromn was The Governor, a creature sprung of some nameless void, existing to write law, control Straka, and leap into howling mobs at risk of his own life.

Time and experience work harshly on such naivetes.

A death in the family. Brother? Father? Her cultural biases rule out the possibility of it having been anything female, not if weapons were involved, but -- Perhaps not blood after all. His pain seems to be a recent one. But such concerns, questions, are soon dismissed.

Right now, they simply don't matter.

There he sits, in his creaking leather -- the very reason she prefers not to wear it herself -- and receives no comfort for the pain he's spilled out before her. Perhaps he will understand this, having spoken so of emotion, of practicality; he has, in a sense, defined her very being with those statements. But consider this: that he is not the first to come to her with such a request. There'd been Duke Burel himself, in the past ("Show me my weaknesses; with but one eye, I must have some."), and Straka at some point, and even young Agnieszka ("You teach me. I gotta learn!"), who'd touched her heart with an eagerness reminiscent of her own, a decade before.

And now him.

It is not an entirely unexpected turn of events (but oh, she remains blind as to his true reasoning); once again, he has anticipated her, for she'd have offered, if he hadn't asked. But then, he's made a habit of that, lately. There is no comfort in her eye, but there is assessment, a great deal of it: a second inspection, head to toe and back again, even as she nods. It remains an unlikely sight. She's seen what he can do, yes -- and even so, her vision of him had been one of a certain... delicacy, yes. Still:

"This, I can do -- and will. I've a student already, who you will meet. I will make time for another."

Is there pleasure in her eye? His words were a considerable compliment, as unexpected as the request had been. She is not immune to that. But neither is she deaf to his plea, nor in any way merciless to his situation. After all, it might as easily have been her, in his place right now. The fullness of his motive, however, is yet to occur to the swordswoman. That Heldenbrand might turn his blade against her is surely a ludicrous proposition (she would recall, if he mentioned it, the words the old soldier had spoken just last night), and in any case, her imagination had ever been a meagre thing.

"It will be difficult. It will hurt." A paraphrase of her caveat to Agnieszka, and likely just as unncessary -- but in any case, that nod once more, silent assent to the proposition. "But as to swords: what have you used? With what are you familiar?"

A moment's speculative pause then, as she eyes the man; the corner of her mouth lifts, in a slow, small grin.

"You'd be a devil with the schiavona."

[Altias_Bromn]

As he watched the grin turn the corners of her mouth, his face seemed to mirror her expression. He was at once happy to see some sort of excitement from her, and curious of this blade she had mentioned. It was a name unfamiliar to him, but if Ariane thought it would match him well he was excited to concider it.

She had asked what kind of sword he had used, but he had no real name for it. Nathan had forged it, especially for him. The blade had been long and wickedly curved. It was primarily a slashing weapon, useful both on foot and mounted. Though Altias rarely used it from horseback, given his distaste for horses.

"Nathan used to call it a....shamshir. He said it meant 'curved like the tiger's nail'. And I know it will hurt, Ariane. I am not as unfamiliar with a blade as you might think."

A smile spread over his lips as he remembered sparring with Nathaniel. Hours spent, day after day, working with the giant ebon skinned man. Even Altias' father had been impressed with how well Nathan had taught him to weild a blade. They had sparred, Altias and Nathan, the day before he died. Nathan still bore the small cut on his forehead from Altias' blade. Even after the carnage Baie had left in his wake, that little reminder was left...almost as if it had been on purpose.

The smile, of course, faded as he remembered.

"I would ask that you treat me like any other student. Do not pity me. Do not go easy on me. Above all, do not assume I can not take what you have to give. I can, and will, take whatever you ask of me, Ariane. It is paramount that my skills return to, if not exceed, their former strength. There is much to protect."

He certainly did not mean Avel. As much as a part of him loved the girl...he knew what she would become. Or rather, he had heard. He still found it hard to believe that she would become some monster.

[Carnath-Emory]

His smile is not as heartening as he might have hoped it would be; her delight does not quite mirror his in turn. His vulnerability, his almost-delicacy, had been a precious thing to her; he lacks the knowledge to appreciate the ramifications of this new turn of events.

Still, solemn as she might be, the woman is not unrelenting; there's some pleasure in her eye, as he speaks of these things. It makes for easy conversation, for one thing, a topic upon which she can speak with the confidence of knowledge, and that the words she selects will be appropriate the the subject-matter. That he doesn't recognise the schiavona is clear from his initial silence, but talk of this 'shamsir' is not completely unfamiliar...

"A flamberge, then." Flatly stated once again, but not without a certain eagerness, not without a tiny gleam to her eye. "Curved, as you described: the blade has a," one hand lifts, undulates, "wave to it. Like so, you see?"

She is pacing, somehow, her slouch at the wall abandoned for this quiet, short stride to and fro before him. Although he might mistake it for restlessness, this is nothing but plain enthusiasm, if exhibited in an unconventional manner.

"It is no longer than the rapier, and almost as light, but the marvel is that very curve: parry another man's blade with it, and you'll slow his weapon a little. You'll give it a .. shake, with that curve, too; it will jarr a man sometimes, to feel that." Oh, another of those slow, small grins, as she glances back to Bromn. "Particularly in these days of dragons and magicking."

Back about now, upon one heel, allowing her to face him once more. "It's a thrust-blade, not one for cutting, and that's all the better; few here seem to have much familiarity with those. More importantly, with your reach, you could be deadly with it.

And Ser..." A moment's pause: she is not without any sense for the dramatic. "I will be pitiless. If you are to be a student, I will treat you as one, and perhaps more harshly." Quiet a moment, as she returns to him, and the grey gaze level upon his own, pale and blunt.

"Ser. Your life may depend upon this. If you cannot take what I would inflict, you certainly could not combat what awaits."

Protect... oh yes. He has an entire province to protect, and what he must fight to do it -- hah. Heldenbrand's revelation had staggered her.

[Altias_Bromn]

"A flamberge."

He parrots her words, allowing himself the momentary luxury of learning a new word. Watching, with perhaps a more critical eye than he has used in some time, her every move. Trying to understand her nearly wordless form of communication. There was so much she did not say, if only he could decode her movements, he might better understand.

"I can take what you have to give, make no mistake. It pains me to even feel the need to do so, but I am able."

He had rejected the blade, the battle, many years ago. It was his father's way, not his own. Altias was a healer, a nurturer. Although he understood the need to be able to protect himself.

"Ariane..."

He paused, looking from the cool grey gaze to the stitching of his trousers and back again. Abviously, he was uncomfortable about what he was about to say.

"...I am afraid. I know that is not a trait that is desirable in a leader, or even most times, a friend, but I am. I know what I have to do, but I don't like it. I don't want to pick up the blade again. I don't ever want to see the look in a man's eyes as the life flows out of him, again. I do not wish to kill my child."

There. It was said, no taking it back now. Feeling purged, he rushed onward.

"Would that I could, I would hide behind you, as I have so many times before, but I fear that this time, even you may need protection. Protection that would not have been needed if I had not confided in you. I should never have told you. Should never have involved you in this. I put you in danger, and that is unforgivable."

Quickly he looked away, his lilac eyes filling with tears that he hoped would not escape.

[Carnath-Emory]

Near wordless. Utterly wordless, if she had her way, and there was the wonder of Micah and Quincy alike. She could sit at a table for hours, with either of those women, and converse with nothing more than an exchange of glances, a shift of the shoulders, a turn of the hands. The understanding between them had been flawless, the purity of such communication precious; their loss weighs heavily on her, even now.

He is, in any case, absolutely correct: nothing is meaningless here, not even the hang of her hair.

But here she pauses in that pacing, backstepping to the wall once more, for there's nowhere to sit, and she'll not kneel before him as Heldenbrand had done, the night before. The abasement inherent in that posture had horrified her. He is heard: more importantly, he is understood, and here's the first hint of compassion that her eye has shown.

"It is not...undesirable." The word is not one that pleases her, but she lacks an alternative. "It is not co -- " A pause. "Ne --" Another, frustration sparking briefly in her eye; a new path is found. "A man may have courage, while still knowing fear. That, I have seen, many times; it is what all of we saw, when we fought through the streets of Orvere at the Duke's very side. You fear. You are willing to combat what you fear. That is courage."

As if it were that simple. But here she leans closer a moment, and only briefly, to add lowly: "You think that I do not know fear? It is what I wake from, every morning."

No more than that, for she draws back with some haste, and perhaps some wariness of that brief proximity, to pace once again. "You've the armour already, if you insist on wearing something so loud. You'll have need of a rebated blade for training, but that can be easily bought. A shield, perhaps; a small one -- "

She doesn't pause,when he speaks again, so much as halt. It is a sudden stillness of both voice and limb, an absence not just of motion, but volition.

"No."

As simple as that, as if with a single word, she might drive the fears from his mind -- oh, fears for her sake, at that! It is a marvel of the very worst sort; it sickens her with a sort of dread.

"'Hide'? You will do exactly that, if you must. And you will train so that you need not." Which is unfounded optimism on her part, and she knows it well, having discovered exactly what they will combat. This knowledge, like so much else, does not quite betray itself in her eye.

"And as for the rest -- Ser, I already knew. You have not condemned me to danger; you may very well have saved me, with all that you've explained." A fingertip taps grotesquely upon the crimson shell of the eyepatch. "This is the price that I paid for that knowledge, long ago, and of my own will. It was necessary, as is this.

But make no mistake: I was involved before Avel's corruption fell upon you; I was involved before Sera Lenore was stolen by that beast Audmathus. I was involved from the instant that he set his gaze upon my sister, and Altias -- " She turns full upon him now, eye fixed steady upon his own. "-- I remain so, until the end. Until it is done with. I cannot escape that. I do not wish to."

[Altias_Bromn]

The hesitation over her words was mildly amusing to him. He remembered a long period in his life when emotions were not just frowned upon, but forbidden. For a moment, he wondered what event in her life had shaped her great need for care with her emotions. This was his assumption as to her inability, or refusal, to speak straight from her heart.

The words that she did choose to speak brought him a moment of solace. A man can know fear, and still be strong. Oh, how those words would have infuriated his father.

~A man goes in to battle knowing that he may die, Altias. He presses forward with the knowledge that he will watch both comrade and enemy alike fall beside him. These things make him strong. Each death will remind him of those who have come before him; of those who died with pride, glory and honor for this kingdom. These are brave men, men of courage and conviction, men who know no fear.

You will be one of these men, Altias. You, like your brother, will make me proud with your dedication, courage, and skill. You will know no fear. Your only concern in battle will be to win, and to make me proud. ~

“You already knew?â€

[Carnath-Emory]

He has mistaken her, but not severely: in this case, it was vocabulary, not reticence, which limited her. And oh, for a mentalist's arcane gifts: if she'd possessed such talents, or even a more substantial sort of empathy, she might have glimpsed some of her brother's struggles within him, some of her brother's pain. And certainly an echo of her own frustration, for he was to be the warrior, and she the wife, and so it had ever been, and so it would always be --

Northern Dauntless clings as stubbornly to tradition, as she does to life.

The heart is irrelevant at times such as these, she might have said, had she the knack to peer into his mind; the heart is a traitor, and inclined to sentiment. And because she lacks that gift, and the ease to shape such words, simply nods, and makes to shape a name with her lips, when he speaks again. It is a simpler question now, but one that's at the same time more... challenging. How does one condense so long and unpleasant a tale, into the time they have available to them?

"It was not only we two," she begins -- that much is managed without hesitation. "Gerard Marquise. Elil." Does he recognise the names? But no matter, for there are more of them. "Elven Thorn. Kazanthi de-Arlunn. Shikei. The wolven Biske." A moment's pause. "Heldenbrand." A glance to him, at that last -- and two names go unmentioned; she is not about to involve the Duke in this, nor his wife, not unless it should prove utterly necessary.

But then, in their own terrible way, they've become involved already.

"The beast's lair was hidden," she continues after a moment, "beneath cover of foul magicking." This is not exactly accurate, but she's not equipped to know better. "It could not be seen nor navigated by mortal means, but by tiny ... balls." A poor choice is all that her vocabulary provides. "Eyes, to replace our own." Another tap of fingertip upon eyepatch; the gesture remains as grotesque as it was the first time she'd done it.

He is regarded closely for a moment, then; he is examined. "Do you understand?" For she does not care to say it aloud, will at least spare the man that much. "It was no injury. It was the necessary sacrifice." For Quincy's sake. For sweet Lenore's. For Vornheim's, who she'd feared was the next to be stolen. Thin shoulders shift in a shrug, as she slouches back against the wall. "It is not a thing we speak of. There is no need."

He may realise, at this point, the extent to which she views her world in terms of necessity and relevance.

But now he returns to the task at hand, and there's some relief in her eye. Tension drops from her like a flung cloak. "Your training begins immediately. A rebated weapon will be necessary, and certain other things. And if time is as short as you fear, then best you cleave to the weapon you know best. I know a smith of some skill: if you can describe this shamsheer to him, we will have one made for you in its image. I will not have you unlearn one, and learn a new in its place." That chance meeting with talented Eagle will serve a purpose after all.

When he speaks again, however, the hint of pleasure which had emerged during that brief diversion is lost from her features The placid mask, that absence of expression, slips back into place as she listens and listens. 'Animal', he says. 'Simple', Captain Kerrak had preferred. 'Sentimental', by Vornheim's judgement. A woman must find her place amidst that tangle of opinions, or ignore it entirely; it must be quite clear, which option she's chosen for now. But he beckons her to sit, and she is quietly compliant -- to some extent. A seat is found on the narrow bed's edge, silent refusal that he stand over her, and her head lifts to turn the tight-lipped mask up towards him.

"There. I sit." His humour is ignored, quite possibly because it's not recognised as such. Another failing, one of which she is only slowly becoming aware. "What shall I consider? Avel's true nature? That she is far more than malice given skin?" A thin snort flares her nostrils, a shake of the head dispelling the question. "That we challenge the gods? I find this strange, for my people have none, and are gladder for it. That Straka will have me hang for murdering a child? And Gaol for you; exile, perhaps. Ah!" Her lips twist into a grin of ironic humour, the only sort at which she excels. "Perhaps that Heldenbrand would have me for a friend, but will surely tear the head from your neck, if he suspects that you harbored that thing willingly.

You will forgive me, Ser, if I do not care to dwell on such things. You see, I do not wish to flee this land in shrieking terror of them."

[Altias_Bromn]

Thin lips opened, a sound began, but was quickly cut short as she continued. Jaw was left dangling in a most unflattering fashion as her words cut through any delusions he may have had of this ending well. A stumbling half step backward, his back colliding with the wall as he considered what she had said.

~Perhaps that Heldenbrand would have me for a friend, but will surely tear the head from your neck, if he suspects that you harbored that thing willingly. ~

“Then what would you have me do, Ariane, bring Avel to Heldenbrand tied with a great red silk bow? What makes you think that would stop him from tearing my head from my neck, as you so eloquently stated? Will he not still blame me for allowing her entry into this world?â€

[Carnath-Emory]

He staggers, but does not fall. He startles, but does not flee. If anything could have reassured her further that he's once more the man she'd known, many months ago, it is that.

"Two things only. That his true interest is Avel, only Avel; give her to him, and he will be well-satisfied. And that he knows her touch." It is the closest that she's come to explaining Heldenbrand's true involvement with that living corruption, and the most she can bear to say of it. "Knows, also, that a man can be rid of it. He can be reasoned with. He is not beyond that." Not any longer...

A woman could want for wine, at times such as these. A woman could want for more pleasant things to talk of, for companions on which to draw -- but there are none to be had of those, save perhaps for Elil. There's a thing to think on.

"There is no sense," she continues, in the vein he'd begun, "to dwelling on any of this. As for what Avel becomes, this I know: that it's not to live, that she wishes, nor rightly to be born." Which had been her first guess, the only conclusion that had seemed reasonable to her then. "The true --" the first "-- Avel died long ago, to become Avel-That-Is-A-Weapon, a goddess' tool. Which..."

And here she lapses into silence, slumping back a little on the bed's edge. "It is...u'ebitsche, the thing that cannot be. Like a tale for children, but no Dauntless child would believe such rubbish. How does one fight such a thing?" Her thin features contort into wide-eyed dumbfoundedness. "Jebalom sch'elkat'!" With a shrug that leaves her laughing; another strange attempt at humour, evidently.

It's a shame that circumstances don't allow it to last. A natural dislike for speech demands a time's silence from her; the darkening of his eyes dispels the laughter from her own. And those words: 'You are not allowed to die'.

Even the Duke had not demanded that of her.

She can, at least, shake her head in mute defiance of the man, and nevermind that the determination he exhibits is heartening. That is is reminiscent of a night ago is unfortunate, but it's as well to know that he requires no liquor for this display. To and fro he paces, long and lean: Who's the animal now, Governor? But that is another thing, one of a great many, that is best left unspoken.

"No," she begins instead. "It is you who must instruct me, for my people are not given to such fancies. We do not feed our children such tales. She is a goddess' weapon; you must consider me yours. So tell me, Ser:

How does one defeat a myth?"