Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in caeleste, @ 2009-11-05 21:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | a ruined way, eithne savastian, eragos feareborne, tanist leoncour, thiele varchardt |
poison (eithne, thiele, tanist)
The low court was not as polished and purposeful as the high, in the opinion of Eragos. While the former was used to resolve land disputes, contentious divides of wealth and property, minor criminal matters and more complicated disputes that did not land in the lap of the High Lord the latter was a tower of imposing gray, built for the purpose of enforcing the law in cases of challenge to the constitution of the Free Cities or cases that required the personal attention of the presiding Lord. Here the grandeur was played down instead of up. There were no gilded lions, no long halls lined with torches. Only long white marble corridors with heavy wooden doors, spear point double-hinges affixed to them plainly. Here the work of the people was truly done day in and day out - while the high court might be unused for a week, or a month, or longer. There were torches, to be sure, but they hung from plain metal chandeliers evenly spaced in those long corridors. And the light was not so imposing as it was in the halls of the HIgh Lord's tower. That was part of the reason this venue was chosen, he thought. There were three judges elected by popular vote whom High Lord Arand trusted to do their job properly. And there was ample space for whatever questioning needed to be done.
There was even more space simply to wait.
They were in one such holding area - a square chamber with no entrance and three exits, fed with criminals and plaintiffs by a short marble corridor, and lined with uncomfortable wooden benches. The sort of benches the schoolmistress had employed, built to specification by her hardworking carpenter of a husband, and the kind of benches that Eragos was glad to avoid - in favor of dueling with live steel on the side of a mountain in the dead of winter, at the tender age of seven. He did feel something like a child sitting here, waiting for something to happen, unable to cause that something to happen with all of the anger and righteousness he could summon. A cast of his eyes about the room revealed the truth. In the center there was a small bubbling fountain, which never seemed to run over its lip no matter how it flowed from the top. On that top rested a fellow with one hand - and he raised the blade Justice over his head, while looking away from it. Tyr, child of Bahamut, greatest of the gods in single combat and purveyor of justice wherever he would go. It was from the hand-less arm that the water flowed - which was either extremely tasteless, or a well thought-out design by the architect. Cut from clean white marble, it was, and the water looked fresh enough to drink. It was roughly his height, which would make it even more perfect, but Eragos did not think he could drink water that flowed from the stump of Tyr.
No matter how thirsty he was.
There was Bahn, pristine as ever and looking every part the White Rider in the dress uniform which he claimed was "simply lying about". Of all the White Riders in the room he alone went without a weapon - and he seemed to prefer it that way. Though no one could ever accuse the quick-talking Rider of slouching he appeared very much at ease leaning against the wall just so. Every so often the fellow would look to Thiele, with concern in his eyes, but he said nothing. Of all of them only Tanist was brave enough to sit next to her - and he alone would occasionally speak to her, though not for Eragos to hear or remember. Cols was there as well, apparently deep in conversation with Eithne, though their voices as well were muted. The man looked as though every day had been a constant reminder of this world's brutality since he'd left - and he had not seen the worst of it, though he appeared to have heard it. Most surprising of all was the blue scarf he wore tied to his belt, and the wide smile he'd given Eragos upon seeing him again. Such things made him uncomfortable. Of course, Cols - like the rest of the Riders - was dressed in a plain uniform, but managed to look no less excellent than Bahn for all of that. It was Eragos who felt like the uniform did not fit. It was Eragos who felt as though he did not belong in this room, bearing witness to conversation and emotion which was not his and could never be his.
Talon.
When they were both boys, it had been obvious who Valos favored. Vaili would do what she could to ease her son's pain - but Valos left the instruction of Talon to others, while he and Eragos would ride out for weeks at a time and do nothing but brawl from sunup to sundown. Yet it was not his father's skill in arms that Talon was missing - it was his code. That personal honor that Valos wore as another weapon, willing to brandish it boldly whenever the situation called for it. That uncompromising valor that marked great men. All of his life Eragos felt he'd failed to live up to that, failed his father in some terrible way which could never be remedied. That failure, combined with the malice and the desire to dominate that inhabited the last remaining traces of Feareborne blood, made him feel unclean for donning this uniform. Made him feel - every time he looked to Thiele - that if he'd done nothing, if he'd simply let the fires consume them all, that this generation of failed children might never have come to the Free Cities. Never caused a single soul in this place any pain. But for Eragos' willingness to shatter his own beliefs to save life. What would he do if he was given that choice again? Would he damn himself twice to keep death from another doorstep? Would he hold to the code, hold to his honor, and cast aside his doubts? There was no reason to do that. He knew what end awaited him. If good could be done by his sword, let it be done.
That did not help his mood.
When he looked at Eithne, what did he see? Some part of himself staring back at him, leering, unashamed? That was not what he had come to love. Love. The word felt odd in his chest, in his blood, for the heart of the damned was not where love lived. Try as he might he could not justify or reconcile the feelings he carried for Eithne Savastian and the Lady Vera of Beit-Orane in so sorry a heart as his. He was not worthy of either of them - was not indeed worthy of anything but scorn. This never would have happened to Vargis. With that salty tongue and roving eye of his, Vargis did not feel love in the way that poets meant it and never wanted anyone to feel it for him. There was something about that idea he found attractive - even if he still remembered the fondness in his mother's eyes when she looked to his father, or the rare shattering of his reserve when she returned home to him. Those were the days that he spent mucking out stables with Talon, giving their parents time alone. To reconcile their hearts. Red heat was creeping beyond his collar. He tamped that thought down. Eithne did not deserve to have the love of Eragos Feareborne inflicted upon her. Any more than the Lady Vera did. And try as he might, he could not separate what he felt for either of them. It was simply a mess of thought and emotion without direction. Knowing that he could not ... love both, or treat both in the way they deserved, only made it worse.
Bahn would have known what to do. Yet he could not make himself tell Bahn what he felt - saying it aloud felt as childish as being unable to reconcile those thoughts and feelings for himself. This was not a problem that grown men had, not a trouble that an honorable person experienced. All he could think of was ... the sensation of the Lady Vera's lips against his. A rose blooming, in a mist-soaked morning that promised more mystery than the stars themselves. The feeling of Eithne, the first punch in a fight, that rush of hot blood that charged your heart and ruined your rational thought. There were only harsh words for a man who could have thoughts such as those. No comfort and no quarter. Certainly no advice save the obvious - that he should do the honorable thing, and decide, either one or the other or neither. That he should not spare his attention for another woman when his heart already was ruled by one. But who ruled his heart? It was not him, with feeble will, with tainted blood, but someone else. That, too, was a coward's thought. He could not credit it. Nor could he dismiss it. Bahn might not have laughed in his face, but when a man's eyes held mischief always, Eragos could not make himself confide. Cols ... he stopped himself before barking a laugh. Cols was a good man. An honorable man. That was the end of it. So, whom did he trust enough to tell him what was real? Whom did he trust enough to give him that which he wanted so desperately? There was no one.
The judges of the lower court were taking a hand in conducting the interviews, patiently tapping into the resources made available to them - both human and magical - to make the experience as comforting as possible for those being questioned. There was only one way in and one way out, with the other three walls occupied by one door each. In two of those rooms were the girl that Cols had brought to Hatharida - her name was Silari, as he'd learned - and in the other, Frozen Pond. Sleeping Tiger had nearly insisted upon coming into the low court today. Eragos could not let him. For fear of what would happen if he saw Frozen Pond again. And perhaps because he wanted someone outside to keep an eye on things, someone who was not so beholden to the High Lord - and someone who would see a different way of doing things. It pained him to think that. Not as much as it pained him to sit so far apart from Eithne, pretending she didn't exist, when the only thing that he wanted was to be tangled up in her. Thiele was to be questioned by the third judge and his staff. This judge, Eragos knew well enough - Gurvol was his name, and Eragos had worked with him before on matters of importance to the White Riders and to the court. Only he had not yet arrived, and his staff was still occupying the third interview room. Arranging things. Just so, they said. For Gurvol's arrival. It was enough to...
When Tirad entered, Eragos' eyes narrowed behind his mask. The man was a nuisance and inconsiderate - instead of simply leaving, he'd insisted that the matter was important. And because of that, Eragos had been forced to help Bahn pen a page of the High Lord's speech. Eragos had no gift for prose. By the time he'd stormed out to look for Eithne - she was gone.
"Ho," Bahn said sleepily to the eldest of the Riders. "It isn't exciting enough outside, is it?"
"At least it's warmer here," Tirad remarked as he stripped one of his gloves off, beginning with a deliberate tug of each fingertip.
Eragos only grunted.
He also had no gift for waiting.