Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-07-11 15:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | a ruined way, npc |
understand, my heart (narrative)
That stinking, swelling stench of humanity filled his nostrils. A city was a living thing, thousands of them contributing to one massive organism that lived and breathed. Expansion. Contraction. All of it what a living organism would do. The city would not be without the people there to make it so, and yet he wished he could see these living organisms work without the humans who made them so. One of the most repulsive qualities they had was contributing to the smell of decay. He could remember a time when nothing decayed. When nothing ever rotted as it lived, died as it went on. He could remember a place where such a thing had been true. How long since the august time of those days? Days were an imperfect system. What if the whole world slept through one day, and though it was the previous day? None of them would consider the possibility.
Soon it would not be a problem any longer.
There was something in what Orb had described to him that sounded incredible. They all had their games to play. Gola would have liked a chance at a man who did not feel the touch of magic. Who was immune to what they did, as much as one could be immune. Another time and place, perhaps. He was one of many who were wearing the same colors, trudging down the street on the way to pointless drudgery. It seemed fitting somehow that this would be the beginning of the end. Mentally, he ticked off each step in his mind. Eliminate the witnesses to Hatharida. Eliminate the symbol of this case and its eventual end. Throw this city into chaos. Make them all afraid of their own shadows. Eliminate the evidence that Vera had gathered up to that point. And then return to them for further instructions. Further instructions.
No one thought to ask Narim Gola where his powers came from. No one ever thought that they would be unable to kill him, if the day came when such an action was necessary. The truth was that chaos was all around, at all times. It was the nature of Ao and of the world he'd created. Every living thing was surrounded by chaos. They surrendered that chaos to order, to a system prescribed by Ao's opposite, in exchange for a sense of security. That did not mean all things in this world were orderly. Merely that everyone behaved as though they were. Ironically the natural end to such a thought process was the end that would bring true terror to the populace, if they knew of it. If a thing was ordered, if it had a beginning, then it also had an end. The end was not a thing that one could contemplate without something like longing or something like fear. They would rebel against it, if they knew.
So if he truly was born of chaos - if chaos was not just his parent but also the thing whcih truly defined him, why should he shy away from it now? Something they all wanted that they thought impossible, or could not think to ask for. He would give it to them. Ironic also that Gavrie would be just as surprised by what came next as Vera and her ducklings would be. The only challenge among them, Vera, but she was still as vulnerable as anyone. She gave away all of the places at which one could strike without knowing what she was doing. Or why. Perhaps she would think about it that way in the future. Perhaps she would wonder if she had caused this. No. She would know before Gola was done that this was her fault. The thought made a gleeful grin spread on his face. Slowly. As an infection might. The fellow next to Gola stared in open disgust before he turned away.
Fine.
They filed in without comment or complaint. No one's face was checked. The White Rider standing by the door - a bony old woman whose name, he knew, was Hasna - merely nodded in a sleepy fashion. Focused on something else, he supposed. Gola knew he needed to go deeper into the basement to find what he was searching for. So when a select group turned right, following the short wing to the servant stair, he trailed behind them. Out of sight. Out of mind. So it was. There were both good and bad things about this. He had to scramble to make it through the cellar doors before they closed. Once inside, he was pressed flat against the top stairs, staring through orange light with wild excited eyes. So close that he could taste it. There was an art to this sort of thing. A game, if you would. Today he would play because there was nothing else to do while the city burned.
A cancer was being removed.
He couldn't help the small, short giggle which escaped his lips.
The largest room in the cellar was the first. A common area of sorts, for servants. Well-kept and dry. Oil lamps burned in a loose circle, hanging from the ceiling by wrought-iron chains that could be reached with a step-stool. A fine wooden table, made with obvious care so that the usual gaps between boards were not visible, and an assortment of chairs. One fellow was reclining in a chair, boots up on the table, smoking a pipe. Another was attacking a side of bread with gusto. The third was scrawling something in a cheap, glue-bound journal. This was the life of those who served. Would it have amazed them that the White Riders engaged in much the same activities when they were not investigating crime and dying in droves? Would it have amazed these servants to know that ninety-five percent of their lives was precisely the same as the lives of the White Riders?
Trading chaos for order lent everything such a sameness that he couldn't stand it. Did Orb's imaginary nemesis feel the same way? Could he see the chaos lacking in everything?
There were four doors. One, to the kitchen. One, to the main stair and lift, where meals were hauled upstairs by pulley. One, to the collection of storage rooms. And one, to the room full of cots. He'd been here before, hadn't he? Once. Not long ago. Gola stopped at the table. One of the empty thumbs he filled with that amber liquor. A toast, which was half-heartedly acknowledged by strangers, and he gulped down the liquid. It was supposed to burn, wasn't it? That was what he always pretended. Eyes open too long watered, as though the drink was too much for him. His tongue lapped at air. One of the servants, smoking his pipe, smiled in amusement. He didn't realize Gola was toasting something terrible to their faces. Taunting them, or as good as. The empty thumb he placed on the table. And then Gola was walking briskly for the heavy wooden door which would take him where he wanted to go.
Along the way he saw a cap unattended. A rounded thing, flaring out from the tight brim like some kind of flower bulb. Without a mutter or a word, he snatched it up from its resting place and settled it on his head. The cap was a sign of rank. It would keep him from being stopped by persons too observant for the other tricks to work on. And he did need patience combined with a sort of solitude. Easy enough to stand in one place and wait for your prey. Harder if every face that passed you held one thousand questions. Even harder if those faces told what they saw to other persons, who would then also have questions that they wanted answered. Better for him if those questions never were asked. He could slaughter his way upstairs, kill anyone who stood in his path, but it would not be as entertaining. He'd promised Vera a game.
He meant to deliver on that promise.
The fellow he'd marked came out of a storage room with empty arms. Delivering something while the lord still slept. Gola had propped himself on a stack three boxes high, compressed into a strange position, without a single eye touching him. As soon as the servant's back had turned Gola flung himself onto the ground. Picked up the same pace and manner as the servant ahead. That man was used to listening for signs. He did not know where Gola had come from when he turned, but the easy smile on Gola's face put him at ease. For now. Their steps were taking them deeper and deeper into the cellar. Only when the fellow hesitated did Gola strike. One arm snaked around the fellow's neck. Another flung open the door to an empty storage room. It closed heavy behind them, kicked dust into the air. The servant was trying to bite his hand. Gola wondered how long the fellow would chew before he realized the truth.
Not long.
A hard squeeze, between thumb and forefinger. A loud crack. The man was clutching his throat in agony as he sank to his knees. Not dead, yet, but he was trying to scream. Nothing came out. He couldn't understand what had happened. While he writhed and tried and tried Gola made the door secure. A touch of his hand, almost hesitant, to bar against sound and against opening. They would think the door jammed and move on to another. It made Gola smile. Only when he turned did one of the candles in the room come to life. Not much light, and not for long, but enough for the moment. This fellow had a haughty air about him. Something many servants acquired, as though the importance of the one they served somehow translated to them. It did not. Their glorious nature lived wholly within them.
It had nothing to do with servants. A drop of sweat appeared on Gola's face. The servant looked up with pleading eyes.
Good, he was done.
"You are High Lord Arand's handservant," Gola whispered. "Are you not?"
The man shook his head furious. Gola struck like a viper. One finger twisted and splayed away from the others. Grotesque. Gola's soft laugh filled the chamber while the servant again tried to scream. For a moment Gola worked the seemingly boneless finger before he let it go. Not worth the effort or the trouble.
Not worth it.
"I suppose we don't need to have this conversation," Gola began to walk in a greater circle, around the servant. "But you see, I'm going to pretend to be you. And later this evening, I am going to put my knife in your master's throat. Then I'm going to cut his head off. Not slowly, you understand. There won't be a great deal of time in which to work. I suppose your shame is utterly meaningless, especially now that you can't confess... but if you tell me what you've done, or try to, I'll see what I can do."
Silence. And then, weeping, muffled against the stone. The man did not need much time in which to become a believer, did he? Gola pulled the knife from beneath his coat. It was the only weapon he needed, and need was in this case only a loose analysis of why he carried the thing in the first place. Despite the swinging, feeble hands of the servant Gola managed to kneel over him. With a cheerful humming the knife sank in, just below the surface, where skin met muscle. And as low animal sounds issued from the servant's mouth Gola began to cut. Removing a face was both patience and precision, neither of which he had in spades. But the blood that flowed across his fingertips cheered him. As did the struggle that continued long into the process.