Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in caeleste, @ 2009-12-26 22:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | a ruined way, eithne savastian, eragos feareborne, nieve beit sad'r, sleeping tiger, vera of beit-orane |
wreckage (eithne, sleeping tiger, vera, nieve)
The memorial had been markedly brief. There were men working in the square at all hours. Priests and soldiers and White Riders alike, clearing away rubble. Searching for anyone who might have survived. And so the site itself had become a memorial. Estimates and rolls of the court's staff listed casualties at nearly three thousand. Perhaps as many as one thousand dead. Eragos could hardly credit such numbers - but the tower itself had collapsed into dozens of other structures, which had not been evacuated, and the tower itself had still been conducting day-to-day business. Some simply ran and hid with the start of the commotion. Those were the rolls he studied with a stone face. Emotions kept in check only because he did not know what would happen if he failed. Tanist and Thiele, missing. Presumed dead. Cols, dead. Birloch, dead. The Lower Court's judges, dead. Frozen Pond, dead. That poor girl, dead. Sarta, dead. Again. Every living soul who had witnessed anything - any living soul that could be trusted to be impartial - was dead. And their work was for nothing.
This was what the Red House made of public announcements.
He could tell himself in a quiet moment that it would have come to this anyway, shadows stealing lives in the most public of places, but the truth was simple. He had advocated for the truth being made available to the public. And now a disaster had befallen them, one that could not be traced to the Red House, one that had destroyed most of their living proof that any crimes had been committed at all - and one that ruined a thousand other lives as well. Fires still burned in the square, by night and by day, as oil-soaked tapestries caught candlelight or torches to begin the process anew. Eragos had worked no shifts in that square. Instead he'd prayed to a god that would not listen, hoping all the same that his friends would find swift welcome in the afterlife. Bahn had joined him, and Grees. And Eithne, though he did not think she would pray. Perhaps for Cols she would. All of this until today. Today when his hurts were not serious enough to warrant a healer's attention. Today when he felt as though he were falling apart, as though the world around him were falling apart.
Today when he was forced to acknowledge, however silently, that he had been wrong. Perhaps twenty years ago it would have been worth their while to make any and all evidence public. But no one in this room could be without the knowledge of what was coming next. Instead of being at a crucial turning point they were beyond it, and now they stared into an abyss in which the High Lord Arand's influence was for nothing. In which the text of his speech was used to staunch wounds in the street - all while High Lord Gavrie's forces claimed that those responsible had eluded them. A world in which the people now feared that the White Riders' wild claims were making things worse instead of better; a world in which the ambitions of one man did not stop the clip from coming in or the harvest from filling reed baskets. A world in which no one would notice their freedoms gone until it was too late to do anything about it. Eragos despaired of ever changing a mind when they lived in this world. Even knowing that was what Gola wanted Eragos could not stop himself from thinking it all the same.
"I told him to come with me," Grees said into the silence. "He told me he was going back for Vera. Said he would tie her to a saddle, if he had to."
Silence.
"A brave man," Bahn finally answered his.
"He should have been sensible, instead," Grees answered roughly.
Gola.
Birloch risen just as Barada had, Sarta risen just as Barada had. The Lady Vera had witnessed it before her very eyes. Gola was responsible. His hand had been in it the first time that Eragos Feareborne and the Lady Vera of Beit-Orane had ever encountered one another. Those riders in grey had been his. And now it all began to make sense. Just as Gavrie and his heavy weapons manufacture stood to benefit from a continued war between Astora and Malondir, the case in the court of the public stood to benefit from mass panic and a destruction of evidence. These Gola had engineered with only his own two hands and a frightful power that Eragos could not contemplate. Until now - now there was nothing left. A few scraps of paper. A journal. The word of the single most hated organization in all of the Free Cities. Bleak did not begin to describe it, and hopelessness was not in it. Eragos did not think it was possible to live for long without hope. Did that mean he was soon to die? Or perhaps it was not so complex as that. Perhaps he already was dead, and simply did not know it.
"You mustn't blame yourself," Bahn murmured quietly.
"Then who?"
"Without them, no one would have tried to kill Cols. Blame them."
"He wasn't ready," Eragos whispered bitterly. "I should have left him behind."
"And you were ready?" Bahn's exhaustion was plain on his haggard face, but his eyes still bore heat. "For a warrior risen from the dead, and a collapsing pillar of stone?"
Their faces told the tale. Grees with his eyes, empty and yet accusing. Eithne with a look that could not find him. The Lady Vera with the same. Tirad who was inspecting one of his gloves as though a hidden flaw would reveal itself. Bahn, seeing nothing but his own exhaustion. They blamed him. Well, everyone but Bahn. They blamed him at least in part. And they were right to. Eragos couldn't ask, and wished Bahn would be quiet.
He might have had his point. Eragos did not want to hear it. A sour grimace was his only reply - and Bahn shook his head. Those blue scarves had doubled in number. For what? A failure. He saw them in the street, even on the wrists of some who were not White Riders. Or at least did not wear the uniform. His mask was known. His sword was known. They knew him, in turn, would bow or shake his hand or embrace him. Some still believed. Not enough. When he closed his eyes he saw that poor desperate fool leaping from a falling structure. He saw a wave of dust rolling toward him, overwhelming him, erasing everything that he was from this world. Needless to say his sleep was troubled. All of them were troubled. And that was perhaps more mild, more kind, than the nightmares and terrible weight deserved. There were moments in the dead of night when he could not breath despite the cool dry air. When he flung himself from his cot gasping, dousing his face in the wash basin, retching violently into the nearest empty pot.
There were only two nights between this meeting and that day. It had happened aboth nights.
It would more than likely happen again.
This room was most likely meant for receptions of a smaller nature. The High Lord's manor had many such rooms - but this was the only room which had not been converted for those without a place to sleep. The tower had destroyed a great many homes, homes that had been evacuated in time. Some. A few. So this hall was all that was left. It was not truly a hall. It was a box-like room with a circular table and barely enough room to stand if one was not in a corner. Eragos had somehow wedged himself into a seat and there he remained, staring dully at a cup of win.e Trying not to think about what he'd done. What he hadn't done. And how many lives had been lost as a result. A table of fine oak, well-polished, and chairs of the same. No cushions. He did not want a cushion. The molding ran around the ceiling and down each corner, ornate and gently carved with birds of various stripes. A chandelier held ten oil lamps too small to be of use. And in the center of the table papers were scattered. Endless papers. Reports of the dead. Reports of the living. And of the damage.
Wine had been served at every seat, some of which had not yet been filled. There was Tirad looking pristine as always, and beside him Bahn, whose hands were bandage and whose dirty face did not match his relatively clean uniform. As a mage of considerable strength and knowledge of healing Bahn had been pressed into service. He had worked numerous shifts at the ruins of the tower. The better to help him sleep, the White Rider claimed, though if Bahn had slept since that night Eragos would be stunned to learn of it. Eithne was staring straight ahead. Seeing the unseen. And Grees was doing the same, though he managed to sneer at the unseen, as though he cared not what mocking thoughts it wished to share with him. Eragos could not complete the circuit. He took a long gulp of his wine and tried to forget the look on the man's face. As he jumped, knowing that he would not make it but trying anyway, his face drenched in sheer terror. How could you fight a power that could ruin buildings? How did you fight something which could not die?
That, among other things, was the question the'd come here to answer today.