Skandra Tyullis (roll_the_bones) wrote in caeleste, @ 2009-03-29 20:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | chosen, elemmÃrë, skandra tyullis |
hollow are the hearts of the gods (elemmire)
From the first of it Skandra wanted to go back. It was clear from everything he could see that they were the first eyes to see this tomb since... well, since Leironuoth had come here. The traces of his battle all those years ago were gone. No dead bodies. No spider web. No mist and no fog. As if all those memories he had of being strong, of fighting with the chosen force of an unstoppable goddess, had just been dreams that his mind had conjured for its own amusement. Skandra remembered humping it through this gods-forsaken jungle once before. Remembered the desperate fight against those drow. The tomb itself had long since forgotten. Its memory lasted as long as the leaves of a tree, and no longer. Maybe that was how it should be.
Now they were here, beneath the markers that called out names of fallen heroes to the ages, and he wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. A sleeve wiped across his brow, and the free hand held a torch at the darkness as if brandishing a weapon. Just one torch. There was nothing to see but ... shadows. Here in the darkness he would have expected moonlight, or perhaps some kind of ... he didn't know. They were clever creatures, these elves, but something about this wasn't right. A great stirring of blood in his chest reminded him that he was alive. Hot blood. Heart beating faster. This was it, the answer to every question he'd ever had. And maybe a little bit more. One way was going to lead him to death, and the other to salvation. Yet something in him couldn't believe it was that simple.
It never was.
"Stay close," Skandra advised her quietly.
Elemmire was there, behind him, with Sita up above to watch what was left of their gear. Skandra wondered how long she would wait before she came down here. Or if she would come at all. He'd made a big production of his story. Oblivion or salvation with no in-betweens. She didn't need salvation, and if she needed saving, it was only from him. Sita would never admit that. Broken glass shifted in his heart every time he thought of her, gone. Just as it did when he thought of her, there. In the present he couldn't live with her and couldn't live without her. That ought to mean something more than it did. There were a lot of things that ought to mean more than they did. Gloves creaked. Because of his low walk, knees flexed, his coat was trailing on the ground. Hat brushed against the ceiling. A ceiling which was little more than dirt. His boots didn't sink in the ground. Didn't catch on moss or rocks or growth of another kind. As if this land and everything in it was infertile and yet... prepared. Ready. There was a spring here, wasn't there? How was there water and no life?
That didn't make sense. A lot of things should make more sense than they did.
The question he'd been asking himself, the one he couldn't come out and say, returned to him. Sooner or later everyone that surrounded him came to hate him. If they were lucky. Not so lucky, they died. And he somehow survived. Every time, he survived, so that he had to ask himself that question. Most important one of all. Here he was because he was a coward, fighting for something he didn't believe in and willing to take the easy way out. As long as it presented itself. Because the other option was to give up, to go away, to turn into nothing. Much as he might wish for death he just couldn't accept it. Did that make him a coward? A hero? A saint? Or maybe a criminal? If he deserved death, maybe he could hope that the gods would give him what he deserved. Ralus needed someone to answer for his death. Ithacles couldn't force an answer with steel. Skandra couldn't take his own life. The gods would have to take it for him.
The very definition of cowardice. There was nothing that he could convince himself to live for in this world except her. Sita. Not Aeotha as it had been, or Leironuoth as it would have been, or Elemmire as it should have been. Or even a thousand other names. Most of them were dead and the others should have been. It was her. Sita made him think of times gone by when the world was younger, when the black day was still leagues away, and when Skandra himself had been in need of someone to guide him. If she was as unlucky as him she was going to end up alone. But if she had a little luck, and he had just a little more, he could stay. He could do what his father and grandfather had never done for anyone. He could stay. He could be there when she needed him, teach her to be her own woman, to bow to no one - no matter how high their station - and most importantly to kill when it was necessary. To fight when you had to and get the hell out of the way the rest of the time. The one thing he could never do and he was going to somehow teach her to do it? That was worth a laugh.
For years all he could do was stumble around and hope the end was coming soon. Only now he hoped it came sooner. She would be all right on her own. Skandra didn't want the ghosts anymore, didn't want to know that he was the one who let a madman destroy half the world. Didn't want to know that he'd failed. All those wasted years he'd spent aspiring to be a hero, all the times he'd almost convinced himself it was true, all the warm arms that snaked around him while they whispered words of worship in his ear. All of it was a lie. He had to find something true, something more than death, before he finally died. If this really was oblivion then it was true enough for him. It would do. That was worth another laugh, which made his ribs hurt. Which summoned a cough from him. Dry and rasping thing that no one could have imagined came from the belly of a hero who tried to save the world. Another laugh.
And then he got serious.
"So tell me something," Skandra said as he advanced slowly to the darkness which swallowed everything but the torch. "I'm curious. How the hell did you end up here?"
Elemmire was the last one he would have expected to see. She was like no other elf he'd ever met, and if something was wrong with her, she could have accepted the healing of the temple for a pittance in alms or even free. So why did she need the gods-damned tomb of the Champion to fix what ailed her? Skandra would have asked, but that would be impolite.
Very.
"Let me guess. You finally figured your life is wasted without me," he grinned in that empty white face which had replaced the strong tanned face of his youth.
Death was always reminding you of how close it was.