Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-01-24 10:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | a ruined way, eragos feareborne, sleeping tiger |
defenders of the realm (sleeping tiger)
For the first time in his life, he felt as though - even if it was just for a moment - he put the concerns of the people above himself. Always it was revenge he wanted, or "justice", that word that could mean almost anything in the mind of the wronged - that word whose meaning was never wrong, even though no two people had an exactly similar idea of what justice was. There was no pride in such a decision. In fact, it was an uncomfortable sensation that was running through his limbs at that moment. Not just because he had been - up to that point - a selfish sort of fellow. Not just because he should have been putting their needs ahead of his own all of this time. But because it meant putting her in danger. When he could not resolve what she meant to him, when every glance in her direction was a tangled web of thoughts and emotions, he was willing to send her into harm's way and ... nothing about that seemed right.
Perhaps it was not right.
No one in a white uniform moved through the city without the escort of soldiers now. Who those soldiers belonged to, and how loyal they were to those causes, remained a source of open debate among the White Riders. But they were meant to keep the peace, not soldiers, and if they could not fight like soldiers the lance-wielding madmen might at least be able to keep them alive long enough to make that peace. Eragos passed one of the soldiers who normally shadowed him in the winding corridor of Arand's mansion. The fellow gave him a diffident sort of nod. From his perspective it was both boring and preferred. Eragos had yet to encounter anyone or thing from which the soldiers had been forced to save him. That might change tomorrow, but only if his legs and arms were broken - and this boy learned how to shave his face without cutting himself. A diffident nod in return. There were differences between a White Rider and a soldier - never more clear than they were just then, awful in that clarity.
It wasn't a soldier that he was looking for. It wasn't even the Lady Vera. It was a young fellow who had some things in common with Eragos Feareborne. Sleeping Tiger was an odd sort of person; but less unusual to Eragos because he'd known others of that order. As a Dragon Knight you did not operate with the mandate of a country or a king. You went where you were sent, and you killed to defend a holy race of beings. It felt like something he'd read in a book - and not something that he'd lived. Here, as a White Rider, things were only less simple. You could not kill someone that you deemed a threat, at least not without making yourself an enemy to part of the populace. That he saw soldiers wearing the blue, soldiers who were not loyal to Gavrie, it did not mean that killing was the answer to every problem. And he somehow had to explain that to a man who shared much with the younger version of Eragos Feareborne. A difficult task on the best of days, but Eragos was not sure he fully understood the lesson.
How was he to explain it to Sleeping Tiger?
A rattle of armor, the clank of spur and boot, gave this place a feeling of activity and purpose. But they were marshaling themselves to defend against an enemy they could not kill. They were preparing to fight a battle they could not win, and the enemy would not march onto snowy fields for a contest of generals and wills. They would skulk in the corner, they would hide and spring out like mad orcs, then vanish again when their purpose was done. Eragos passed several soldiers of the elite who were adjusting this strap or that one, sitting on boxes and watching over a group of displaced citizens who'd been given shelter here. A soldier's duty was the easier of the two, he thought. Never giving over to the emotions that led you to wonder why. Yet those were the emotions that paved the way for a country and a people to have a future. If no one asked themselves what the right thing to do was, if no one asked themselves who deserved to die, then only a few would control all of their fates.
"It's something, isn't it?" Bahn murmured at his elbow. "They all wear different colors, but here they are."
"That's how it should be," Eragos replied grimly.
"It's not interesting because it should be," Bahn retorted. "It's interesting because before now, it never was."
Perhaps he had a point. Eragos did not know why the fellow was following him now; unkempt hair seemed nonetheless perfected. Eragos did not know how someone could keep their hair so long as that. He'd tried it, once, at Vargis' insistence. For all of four months. Then it was back to the barracks, and the clip was in, and Eragos had never looked back. Some things did not feel natural no matter how long one tried to make it so. Bahn was not looking at him - Bahn was looking at the soldiers who passed them by, the crates full of bread which sat unattended, waiting for someone to distribute them. Soon, it seemed. Bahn was receiving and giving nods to those who wore the length of blue at their wrist, around their bicep, or in some cases around their necks. A noose, Eragos thought. It made him laugh. Bahn's face was an interesting mix of expressions when he reacted to the laugh. Yet it was not his expression that interested Eragos. It was the narrowing of his eyes.
"Vera was looking for you."
"Lady Vera," Eragos grunted.
"So sorry, Lord Eragos, sir," Bahn tugged on the brim of an imaginary cap. "Well, in any case, I've talked about money with men who wanted me and everyone like me dead. And I still wasn't in as much trouble as you apparently are."
Something in her eyes, when Gola was done. Something in the way she spoke. Despite all of her tricks, that intense mental training she'd received, Gola had reached her as Gola had reached Eragos. It made him feel only the smallest bit better about what had happened to Sarta. It also made him seriously question whether or not they could defeat someone - something - like Gola. Or if this was all a waste of their last few days, if theirs was to die, and horribly.
"What do you know of it?"
"Probably more than I should," Bahn said, and then tilted his head to the side. "Or want to. I'll tell you this. The look in her eye made me want to take this scarf off."
"Why?"
"So she could burn it," Bahn's short bark of laughter was not a sign of humor.
"It's difficult to believe that you are an ambassador," Eragos murmured. "Even more difficult to believe that you're an effective ambassador."
Bahn suddenly twisted his hips, walking sideways. As if he knew the instant and manner of their approach to one of the heavy wooden doors which marked this hallway Bahn altered directions, took a backward step into the room that was apparently his destination. The White Rider's hands were sliding along an invisible flute as he vanished. Piping Eragos to his death, most likely. Some who saw it spared a smile. Eragos only straightened his back. He was here for a reason, and as he arrived at the door - not far from where Bahn had vanished - he had to remind himself that all of this would be over soon. One way or the other.
It was a lie, so it did not comfort him. Eragos knocked on the door.