In Favour of Excess.

[Carnath-Emory]

"I saw his eyes. They were... terrible."

It had been a night for speculation of the most dire sort, a night for whispered plans and talk of murder. Plans had been made, secrets had been revealed: oh, star chamber meetings in the homely tavern, and weapons drawn in wrath, in fear. She'd called upon what few allies she'd possessed -- and they had responded. When she'd struggled from her sheets this morning, ellation filled her still, a great flood of it that overwhelmed even the agony flaring across her spine.

The khet demands a certain price from its users. She'd swallowed down a second vial of it before even dressing.

There's so much work to do. She'd repeated that over and over, to all who would listen, and particularly to herself. The phrase galvanised her, just as the lingering fury had, sparking bright life in her limbs, a sizzle of energy. It enthused, to the point that the woman who strode from the tavern that morning spared little thought for the ramifications of what she had set in motion -- three deadly men; the Militia -- or even the woeful confusion which besieged her still. So much work to do.

Nevermind that there's a three-hour span of emptiness in her memory, a void of (terrible things) confusion that all her best efforts cannot fill.

To town she'd walked -- would have jogged, if the day had been less warm, such is the vigor which the khet lends. There'd been a purseful of coin at one hip, a sword at the other, and by noon the former had hung flat against her thigh. In time, she must find work which pays, but today a horse had been her priority, and she'd bought the first that passed her examinations of mouth, gait, hooves. It will occur to her, much later, that the militant black of her garb, the furious bruising of her cheek, had earned her a bargain. There are some sorts of trouble that people will pay to be away from.

The mount had made the rest of her expedition far easier, and such is the khet's potency that she'd hardly felt a shudder of its light trot. When Ariane departed from the morning markets, it was with a bundle of new garments folded away in the saddlebags, and a mirror tucked into the purse at her hip. She is not without some small modesty, but this was a more purposeful purchase: those wounds had been displayed for several people last night, but she's yet to see the ghastly message for herself. This is essential, this and the ability to see how many of the small stitches have torn.

Purpose has driven her this far, purpose and furious determination -- and it did not fail her, when she neared her final destination. But still, it was with some trepidation that she left the horse by the Meetinghouse doors, and climbed the long flight of stairs within. There are memories associated with this place, few of them pleasant. There is the recollection of the Governor's assault, not far from here. And... there is the Governor himself to contend with. Their aquaintance -- their friendship? -- has become infinitely more complicated, over this last week. So it must be held breath that she knocks lightly upon his door, this battered thing in mercenary's black, with hair in need of a washing and eyes dark for want of sleep.

The courage which has driven her this far falters. But the old anger rushes to fill the space it leaves.

[Altias_Bromn]

It had been a fitful sleep, at best. There were memories mixed with dreaming, facts mingling with nightmare. The ever present possibility of Avel's return, despite the removal of her few favorite dresses and her bag. Through it all, each segment of sleep had somehow been touched by Ari.

"He is a good man."

She had said last evening, though if she spoke of him or of Proxenus, he could not be sure. The townfolk were losing faith, he had to do something. The question that lay heavy on his mind as he slept had been where to begin. He would need council. Most likely Treadwell, and Kilborn, maybe even Proxenus. But the council he most needed was tainted by his in ability to speak to her constructively.

So, as he awoke from the less that restful sleep, drinking the last of his tea immediately, he was stil very puzzled and troubled. Drawing himself up from his bed, the idea of putting clothing back on was ghastly, but necessary. The townfolk had enough to gossip about without him parading around without a stitch on. A robe of pale silver was chosen, darped loosely around him until he was finished writing his letters.

The knock on his chamber door was startling. For a moment he said nothing, did not move. The door was locked, and a chair nudged under the handle, just in case. Hesitation.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Altias. Do you think they would knock if they were coming to get you?"

Laughing softly at himself, to keep from believing that they just might, he strode to the door. The chair was removed, as quetly as he could manage, before the lock was unlatched.

"Ari...this is a surpise. Do come in."

The chamber was a dark as it usually was, the thick curtains drawn for no other purpose than to keep the sun out. A single oil lamp burned on his desk, for more than one would have increased the temperature too much. Retreating from the door to allow her entry, he moved to his desk, platinum robe trailing gently behind him.

"If I don't miss my guess, this is not a social call. What can I help you with?"

His lithe form would curl into the chair behind his desk, doing his best to look official despite the heat.

[Carnath-Emory]

This is not a ... comfortable place. The very air which she breathes is thick with the memory of Avel, sweet and charming monster that she'd been. The walls are reminders of unpleasant times: this was where she'd spoken in her sister's defense, years ago; this was where she'd stood at Phuri's back, when the Judiciary met, and Treadwell's after him, and Bromn's after him. No surprise that she is eager to leave, and already turning away by the time that the Governor answers her knock.

But answer he does, and relief wars with trepidation as she crosses that threshold. Will he notice the reluctance in her stride? It's possible, for he'd always been remarkably adept at reading the thoughts from her face, her posture. The room unsettles her: it is darker than the last time she'd entered here, sparsely lit and stifling with the day's unnatural warmth. And he, elegant thing in platinum robes, helps very little. Bromn had been chill and unkind, when they'd met here days ago; she is inclined to expect the same today.

That she's aquired a wariness of men in white robes certainly doesn't help.

Carefully over that threshold, and pausing just within, to almost cling to the wall at her back -- if with care that her spine doesn't touch against the wood. One is careful, with the khet; one does not forget the body's limitations, particularly when it seems that they are few.

"You yet live. That was my purpose here, I -- " No. Best not to leave quite yet, despite the fervent want. She must gather courage and fury in equal helpings, and forget those three hours in the Rememdium; forget the cold words they'd exchanged in this very room, not a week ago. Forget everything but the enraged fear...

"I am glad of it. Cy -- he who guides the Militia -- promises to advise them of Thadius, who he now guards. He wishes that you and he keep to the tavern cellars, where you will be more easily protected. Others have offered your aid." There must be something else. Something, and she fingers clench at her sides in the effort to remember. "They are good men, all of them are. They are devoted, even if they speak but harshly. They wish only to believe in you, as we do."

Believe. In recent days, that word has become a curse.

Here, she reaches her limit, the most that she can stand of this -- which was intended to be the briefest of visits in any case. "I am glad that you are well," she manages, the words falling free from her lips in a hurried tumble, and turns back about to catch open the door.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Ariane. Wait."

It was a plea as much as it bordered on an order. There was much this man could learn from her council, and he did enjoy her company.

"It has been many years since I have had to deal with men of a military nature. Kilborn, Kanashia(when had he ever called the man by his surname in her presence?), they were different, they worked with us to help keep Myrken from harm. It was, is, part of their nature here in Myrken. This situation is of a different flavor entirely."

"I would benefit from your knowledge of these things. Your wisdom in these situations far outweighs my own. I would ask for your council in this matter."

There. It was said. Out in the open, whether either one of them liked it or not. If there was any one core lesson to be learned from the events of days past it was this; One can not always stand alone, no matter how much they might wish to.

"And there is one more thing. I am glad you are well, also."

There was a want to ask of her wounds. How were the stitches holding up? Could he see them? Would she care for some ointment for them? Be he held these things back. For if she wanted his help, she would ask for it...wouldn't she?

"I am impressed, no stunned, at your recovery. After how badly the Flux had taken you, it is nearly a miracle how quickly you have healed from this."

Words were unspoken in those phrases. How did this happen? How *can* this happen? Was it him who healed you as well? Words left unspoken, trying his damnedest not to run her off...again.

[Carnath-Emory]

Whether a plea or a command, his words halt her. It may be best that he doesn't think upon which aspects of them managed that; in any case, she is turned about to listen quietly, and that's surely good enough.

To her amazement, he does not ask what she'd expected -- insofar as she dares expect anything at all, these days. Of him, particularly. Kilborn. Kanashia. Straka. She must stifle her biases now, for Alexander had been an ally, and the Lieutenant a horror. But here is the difficulty: that he has framed no specific question, and that she is reticent in giving advice, these days. There have been... errors, in the past. Cataclysmic ones. Oh, no wonder at all that the Lieutenant thinks her hopelessly corrupted by her proximity to politicians!

"I ... will say what I can," she begins slowly, uncertainty bright in the grey eye. "I am not sure what you mean to ask."

She shifts a little against the wall, restless as the khet and the fury are wont to leave her; it is a potent, unstable combination. Ill-fitting boots shuffle, and she's grateful a second time that there are new ones to be had, when she returns to the tavern. Oh, belongings all her own, this time, and not a thread of charity amongst them. It bolsters her spirits. But now he moves to more familiar ground, to words for which she has a ready reply, and there's relief in her sharp features as she nods.

"I seldom suffer such illnesses at all. It has been my good fortune, I suppose," begins the woman who believes in no such thing whatsoever. "And did I not explain this last night? I am not without resources. " I am without limits. This once. Just this once. Drawn breath is held in her lungs a moment, released gently; a summoning of ready nerve, of carefully-chosen words.

"The man that accosted you last night: Cy." The name Mikhail had chosen for him; it suits as well as any she can imagine. "He has experience in such matters as Myrken faces now, I think. He is accustomed to command. He speaks for the Militia, or guides them at least, and -- he apologised to you. Do you recall? That is no small thing, in such a man. He -- " How does one say this, to a Governor unaccustomed to spending time in the company of such men? She'd lived her life out in a small succession of barracks. Some things are simply understood.

"He... is worth something," she settles upon at last. "He speaks reason, and he will concede when he feels it warranted. It would be an error, I think, to have him as anything but an ally." There. It's close enough, perhaps. She can hope for that much, and not dwell on what troubles her throughout all of this:

That something has been forgotten, something in that black void at the heart of her memories. That they are discussing the wrong matters.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Why does this place make you so uncomfortable? Why do I?"

Questions, like so many words of late, go unspoken.

"You are right, of course. I am sure this Cy is a man of honor and principle. Though I must tell you, in confidence, I have no idea where to begin with this drought. It is a force of something much lager than myself. What can we possibly do about it?"

"And not look weak in the eyes of the people."

More words unfit to speak, he felt fit to drown in them of late. A shake of his head and he was rising, the robe falling down about his shoulders to rest in the crook of his arms, his fingers lacing at his waist. Turning his back to her, the pacing begins.

"I would like to speak with Cy. I would like you to go with me, if you would. You understand so much more about this sort of thing than I do. It is why I asked you to be my teacher in the first place."

"You can put a sword in a man's hand, you can not make him a fighter, 'Tias."

There were few days of late that Nathan's voice did not haunt. Echoing through the void his death had left in Altias' heart.

Movement stilled, as he settled on the corner of his desk, his back still to Ari. A nervous hand pulled through cropped tresses.

"You still need to let me fix your hair."

A soft laugh, a dismissive wave.

"You needn't stay, I am sure you have more important things to do. I am keeping you. Just let me know if you want me to trim your hair. I suppose I will stop in the inn later. Maybe you could see your way clear to helping me talk to Cy."

[Carnath-Emory]

Perhaps he will at some point think back to their last meeting here, and tone in which it had begun. Perhaps he will think back to the evening on which he'd sewn closed her wounds: three hours of painstaking, remorseless stitching. Perhaps it is simply the hue of his robes! These things remain unclear, and are not the sort of which she easily speaks. The drought, on the other hand...

"They say that there has been water -- for the fields, even the lake. It is senseless, but they swear by it, and I -- " No. This is impossible. Her eye sinks closed a moment, snaps open with a shake of the head, to fix firm upon Bromn's own gaze. "That is not what they wish of you. They wish comfort, they wish guidance." To be told that there's nothing to fear. He's good at that. She knows, for those were his words, when she'd lain half-dead beneath the Flux, and despite it all, she'd believed him. "To know that you have not abandoned them."

Yes. That above all else. Is there a flinch to her features, when that shining robe falls from his shoulders? Perhaps, but then her face is so quick to avert, to turn her gaze away, as simple courtesy demands. It's only as he turns his back upon her that she can look towards him once more, and even then with some small trepidation. It is, after all, an ... unusual sight. And reminiscent of something, the memory of which elludes her utterly -- and yet still inspires horror.

Such terrible eyes...

"I will," with some small struggle to regain her composure, "I will accompany you if you wish, when you choose to meet with Cy. But I know not what my role will be." Besides the obvious. They'd verged on drawn weapons, the night before: she'd made her assessment of the older man, and he -- she is certain -- of her. "I will do all that I can to aid you. I had already sworn that."

Dismissed, she turns back about once more, only to pause a second time as she draws open the door. The glance turned back towards him has some small chagrin, some hint of almost-pleasure, as she nods. "The hair is terrible, I know. I would like that." Hasty: "When you've time." The door's handle in her hand once more, and there she lingers a moment longer, and just a little yet after that, half-turned upon the threshold. There was something of which they should speak. And still, it elludes...

"You should come tonight, I think. They would like that. I wo -- " And about she twists, with a hasty sketch of a bow, to duck through the doorway and draw the door closed behind her.

[Altias_Bromn]

As the door closes behind her, he turns to look at what is but a fleeting memory of her standing there.

"Your role will be to steady my hand when it begins to quake. To hold your head high, when mine is bent in fear and confusion. To be my voice in things I know so little of. To be the strength to my passivity. Your role will be whatever you will offer to me, for I know not how to ask."

Rising from the desk, rounding it to open the drawer, the silver scissors taken from within. They will join his precious brush and mirror in a soft sack of silver velvet. He would trim her hair, for her sake, it was apparent that it bothered her, whether she would admit it or not.

"I always have time for you, Ari."

For now, the lamp on the desk was extinguished as the governor sat in the near complete darkness of his office. The room was not near as dark as the shadows which swarmed to smother his heart.