I am exhausted, I am exhausted----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking
hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they
accomplished, why am I cold?

-- The Bee Meeting, Sylvia Plath


Her bandages were ultra white against her skin even in the orangish glow of fire light. It was difficult to ignore them when her next visit with the priestess was due. The healing hands of Lorien's follower were welcome and Vera was suddenly glad for her elf friend's connections within the country, even if she knew little of them. But the idea of ridding herself of the worst of her pains was distracting Vera. The thoughts that kept spiralling back to the things she had to accomplish in Tyrus' court and what had occured on the road...they chipped at her focus too.

Floorboards shook beneath her as Vera dipped her pen into the inkwell by her knee. The celebrations had begun the second night after arriving in Tyrus, after the proper pause was taken for the ones everyone mourned. Vera tried to stay away from the villagers and her friends, for her ability to smile was nearly as wounded as her body. She feared pulling them all into the blackness she'd inhabited since waking in one of the wagons. Eragos had lifted her up from the mud, they'd said. He'd carried her for some undetermined amount of time despite his wounds. No one would tell her how long, as if it were some type of betrayal of trust. She'd given up asking the villagers, but there were phantoms of memory: seeing his face in the rain, feeling the shadows of his hood. She wasn't so sure that what stirred in the depths of her chest, the thing that kept distracting her above all else, was shame...but it should have been.

Vera dipped her pen in the ink and wrote:

'Captain Agrippa...'

The name was drawn with care, the sharp scratch of the pen tip ringing over the subtle shaking of the room. Vera paused and listened for a moment, then leaned over the parchment, her heart squeezing tight in her chest. Pen strokes came in a sweeping rush, slanting like fire against the paper. And she knew this letter would burn her. She was telling him everything, as her honesty with the Captain was always brutal and forthright. When she returned to Simanel with broken pieces of her mask in hand to receive the Captain's judgement, his words would be worse than lashes from a whip. Vera refused to fear him. Or the consequences.

This would be the last trial she would endure for the sake of Tyrus. After Sisenand.

***

( The rain was pouring down again when she arrived back at the inn... )

Mud clung on Dinaden from his hooves to his knees. Collecting rainwater made the road slick and sloshy—-impossible to navigate without getting dirty. The day was made miserable by torrential rains coming down in spurts and blasts, as if Armas was emptying a bucket of rain he’d forgotten by the back door some weeks ago. The water and the low clouds made it difficult to see down the road or very far past the trees of the surrounding forest. This wasn’t the reason for the slow pace Dinaden and his rider took, however. They had ridden together through windstorms in the Acierran Plains and blizzards in the Central Mountains, which were far worse than some mud in the summer months. Vera’s held the reins tight for the first few hours, knowing that her horse wanted to dart forward and run as if the two of them were alone again. Dinaden was impatient because Vera never made him stay so long in one place and when they were finally on the road, she held him to a steady trot. The rhythm of Dinaden’s hooves squishing in the mud, the turn of the wagon wheels behind them created the odd rhythm of a march in Vera’s ear. Even when she encouraged the wagon drivers to pick up their speed the rhythm never changed. The beat morphed into a memory: sitting cross-legged on the balcony of the Red House, listening to the loud field drums on the spring fields of Eistocene that urged the city into competition and battle once more.

( The caravan that Vera led from Gali was unconventional at best... )

It was the light that filtered through the drawn shades that woke her, the warmth that bathed her skin lifting her sunken deep state of unconsciousness. Elemmírë stirred slightly - her vision blurring before coming into focus again. The shapes and shadows sharpened as her eyes fell on an every day earthenware bottle tipped onto its side and its conents spread out across the coffee table like a dark stain.

Elemmírë sat up suddenly but stopped as her body responded sluggishly to her command. Rolling slightly to her side, she eyed the bottle and the sickly sweet smell coming from the spilt contents. A deep sigh escaped from her lips as she leaned back against the bed head and held out her hand with the other, palms crossed. The grey elf knew the sluggishness and the brackish taste at the back of her tongue would soon fade but there were many things that wouldn't. Like the darkened welts that ran across her body, hands and arms. Elemmírë's hands trembled as she raised them to look at them in the light. Shadows fell between the gaps of her fingers and covered some of the welts as she drew in a deep breath and fought to concentrate. Her brows knitted together as her hands shook, with the welts blurring before disappearing form view.

The grey elf stared at her hands for a moment longer before rising from the bed slowly. While the battle had left her unharmed but drained, it was the attack of spasms that plagued her ever since Ellecdral that drained her even more. Even now, after recovery and study, the healer of Feinharad could only prescribed a temporary relief in the form of an opiate potion to alleviate the symptons While Elemmírë appreciated the held, she couldn't help feel a sinking sense of despair each time these attacks occurred.

Forcing herself to turn away from those thoughts, she focused on the present - the battle and the aftermath. She had done what she had promised to Vera and the council will be waiting for her report soon. The only way was to send a message discreetly from the next town or somewhere else. Elemmírë had no way of knowing what Vera was up to after this but she can only guess that the White Riders would have a higher calling somewhere else, like taking care of the survivors to somewhere which may or may not include her. The grey elf rose slowly from her bed, holding onto nearby surfaces as she moved across the room gingerly towards her packs. It was a few days journey to the capital and from there, there should not be a problem of sending a message back. Elemmírë had a feeling that this attack was just a small test of what was to come - for all that she knew, the cultist seemed to have acted out of fanaticism which did not fit the bigger scenario. If Eragos was right, then there is someone out there who is shrewdly strategising each of the attacks and that the someone escaped this time.

The council needed know.

Her fingers reached her pack, scratching across the surface searching for something and coming into contact with a smooth glass vial which she gripped for a moment before her fingers grew numb and dropped the vial onto the floor with a small crash - splattering the contents onto her shoes.

From a distance, Elemmírë watched stonily, her face a masque of impassiveness, as the surviving archers dragged the remains of their comrades over to the makeshift graves. Conscious of their lowered voices and fearful looks that they cast towards her, the elf chose prudently not to reply to their looks nor their whispers "witchcraft" that seemed to run through the village after the battle. Standing as still as she could in an effort to mask her own weariness, Elemmírë watched as they gathered before the graves, each removing their hats in plebeian obeisance, pledging to take care of the families that the dead had left behind and as well as to keep save whatever secrets that was exchanged between the dead and them.

The grey elf watched them calmly, wondering if they as humans could truly know what it was to be alive while other had left before you? To survive and the weight of survival. Elemmírë had her doubts and wondered which one of these men would wake up in the night, screaming of the horrors that he had seen. Her eyes flickered from one to another as she waited for them to say their peace before taking their first steps away from the scrap collection of religious objects that they had salvaged from their houses and temples. Ignoring them, she moved silently in a straight line that seemed to cut through their shadows and crossing the gulf before them.

Pausing to bend down slowly and pick up a handful of earth, the elf ignored the sudden rise in whispers behind her. Hefting the handful of earth on her palm into the air while pulling away her hood, she crumbled the earth between her fingers and allow the earth to fall between her fingers onto the fresh graves before her. Her voice shook for a moment out of exhaustion before steadying to rise to a lament of her own people, the grey elves and one that had not been heard out of the Central Mountain Range in years. The lamentation spoke of the mountains, the vales.

Rest your swords
Your trials and journeys have ended
Forever in Lorien's grace

Elemmírë scattered the last of the handful just as she repeated the last verse, allowing it to fade off into the thin air. The grey elf knew she could hardly be named as a priestess of Lorien but she did not cared what the temple elders would have thought but merely that these people had given their short minute lives to protecting their right to worship as well as Lorien's right to be worshiped - so protocol be dammed. Stumbling back slightly as a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed her, she quickly steadied herself without the help of anyone and turned to head back into the village without another world to the surviving archers. Waiting silently for a few moments, she stopped before a long figure furiously shoveling out another grave. The figure attacked the earth as though it was her enemy and that with every stab of the shovel, there was something to be begotten. The elf paused for a moment, trying to mask the fatigue and numbness that was slowly encroaching on her. Giving the lone figure a long enigmatic look, she spoke at long last,

"Are there really so many dead that you would rather bury them all then to tend to the ones who need you?"

Vera squinted against sunlight slipping through the old window panes of the cottage. There was a brief jolt of confusion that brought her back to full consciousness. She shifted in her wooden chair and her back popped in protest -- revenge for an entire night of merciless abuse. Running a hand across her forehead, she smeared away some of the dirt that remained. She was still filthy despite having been forced by the healer to dunk her face and hands in water to clean up. As if she’d been pulled right out of her own grave. From the way Vera had been digging it might as well have been. Her arms no longer wanted to obey her brain, they ached so badly. Vera rubbed her fingers together before moving her head so that her face was shielded by shadows. Without the glare of morning in her eye, she could look upon Eragos. Somewhere in the early morning hours she’d fallen asleep sitting next to his bedside and no one had come to wake her. Vera couldn’t fault the villagers for not doing so. It’d taken two men to pry the shovel from her hands and the coldest glare Alatáriël could muster to prevent her from wrapping herself up in another task. The elf had a way of provoking the worst emotions in Vera, but this time shame beat out the anger. They must have known she’d been avoiding the eastern cottages from the way she drove her shovel into the dirt every time a villager told a story about how Eragos picked up a building and chucked it at a giant or how he spat lightning at enemy archers.

( She'd been afraid to come here. )

To the naked eye it would seem as though nothing was moving in all of Gali. Night lay across the small village like a blanket. Bringing stillness to arms and legs in its quiet the night sought to stamp out all life. Eragos' hood was up, casting his face in shadow, and the ornate mask which was his by accomplishment covered his mouth and nose. Only the eyes were visible beneath that hood, and those just barely. He was crouched on the lee side of a cottage, with darkness hiding his white uniform as best it could, and watching the wall as it vibrated. They were trying to break through without making any noise. For the most part, it was working. What the attackers could not see was a blanket of archers lying on rooftops. Waiting for the time to strike. Elemmírë was up with the archers, where the best view could be had of the approaching enemy. That gave him enough time to collect himself and offer a prayer before the battle. Prayer was not his usual companion at such times. Bahamut had long ago stopped being a part of his life.

( Long ago, but the prayer was the same. )

Late evening stretched its fingers across the sky with determination both beautiful and terrible. Eragos caught himself for half a second watching those red appendages of the gods fading into black, replaced with black. It couldn't hlep but give a religious man the feeling of something ominous. He recovered himself just in time to block the swing of a stick with his own, and then another, and then another. The young men who had fought against him for two days' time were improving greatly in skill. Someone who was watching and knew nothing of swords might not have agreed - none of them had managed to strike him, after days of trying - but Eragos could see the progress. Variable attacks. Never repeating the same motion. He'd told them not to set themselves into any mental pattern but simply to fight. The Lady Vera had given a helpful speech on focus, pointedly not said anything directly to Eragos, and then gone on with her business. That was the way it was to be, then, with both of them pretending the other didn't exist or finding in their quiet moments that nothing of substance needed to be said.

( Which wasn't true. )

There were times that Cael disliked what her job entailed – in particular, moments like these. With her hands clasped in front of her as she sat at the chair, she couldn’t help watching her guest, a tall, dark haired elf sitting still as a statue in the chair in front of her. The price of power perhaps, Cael thought silently to herself as she cleared her throat to continue her conversation – albeit being a one way communication when her basic niceties were met with perfunctorily deadpan answers.

“The Council of Galadhad has received disquieting news coming from our northern neighbours of Tyrus.” Elemmírë’s face remained as placid as ever, almost as though she was somewhere else and lost to Cael’s words. “Word goes that a group of miscreants going by the name of ‘People of Aumzahad’ has banded together wrecking havoc and anarchy while trying to enforce their belief of atheism.”

( Cael allowed a moment of silence to fall between them. )

Painful bursts of color and swiftly passing memories danced like lightning across her eyelids. Hands pressed against her shoulders as her lungs pushed frantically against a heavy warmth on her chest. No matter how deeply she breathed, she was suffocating. Highs bells rung in her ears, washing out whispers of sobs and commands in the background. She was shivering, but could do nothing about the coldness in her blood because her limbs wouldn't move and her eyes would not open. Her mind strained to find a place of darkness and silence, away from the cyclone of images, sensation and sound. Every time Vera neared blissful peace, her right wrist burned. It burned until she was sure she had no wrist, no bone to support her hand. It burned until her throat was raw, though she could not remember screaming.

How she got to that place wasn't something she could explain, any more than how she would escape it. The transitions were lost as her head was held under the rushing current of Time. Only the final destinations remained. At some point, Vera opened her eyes and stared at a thatched roof that she didn't recognize. The warmth across her chest wasn't frightening anymore, just present. It was an arm...a small one. She knew that she had been afraid, but couldn't remember why. The reason it hurt to lift her head or move her shoulders was a mystery. She didn't have the energy to solve it. Vera looked to the side, at the face of a young girl who slept beside her. Antare, she thought. Yes...that's her name.

( Pleased with herself, she went back to nothingness. )

Eragos stared at the opposite wall for a long moment, not because it was interesting or even relevant in any way but because there was nothing else to do. In the dead of night which had descended upon Oisea there was nothing moving. Night had never been his favorite time of the day. A warrior was meant to have only concerns of duty to occupy his time. That was the theory, in any case. His desk, which was not really his desk but merely the station he used while staying here, contained only a few packets of guidelines and instructions which he hadn't yet opened. Dotted along the edge with candles dripping wax onto the floor. Someone would clean that up. He would clean that up. Behind him the hearth roared with flames. Creaking of wood and leather was his only company as he shifted in the low light. Those slave traders had, for all intents and purposes, given themselves to the mercy of the gods. Now their slaves were Free People, and working in his circle of cottages until they could find something more suitable to their taste. Some would never leave.

Some were already sorry they'd come.

So those packets held no interest for him. Not with the bitter knowledge that, even as Free People, their lives would be hard. No one would ever think of them as anything but property let go. Eragos had a hard time doing that, himself, and he wanted to believe that he respected their independence. A man known as a child was always a child no matter how tall he grew. Was it the same way here and now? So the White Rider chewed on his pipe and stared into space. Not his pipe. Eragos stopped chewing. Who had given him the pipe? One of the White Walkers. It was his pipe. A gift. A moment of careful contemplation and he resumed chewing. Smoke curled around his face in waves, red-orange as the candle light was. Something about this evening held an ominous note, a glorious warning of things to come. It was those packets, he realized, with instructions for him and the men under his watchful eye at these cottages. Some things he simply didn't understand.

( Orders. )

"What do you think?"

It was ten kinds of a viper's pit. Every conceivable exit had a man posted outside, his blade already drawn. They were expecting trouble. And white was not the best color for sneaking around in shadows. Eragos Feareborne squinted at the wooden structure for a long moment and thought to himself very carefully. It was no wonder that a group of Riders, passing through the city, would find themselves drawn into this. The civilians weren't up to the task of wiping out an entire cadre of well-armed, professional slave smugglers. Eragos was not entirely certain that the Riders with him were enough to handle the job either. But as he stared into the inky black all he could think of were the tattered, frayed human beings that were huddling together in hopes that their new master would be kinder than their former. That Trone sanctioned slavery was to him a barbarism that had no place in the 'Free' Cities. He would take any pretense and any life to see it ended, if only for a night, and to whisper in the ears of every slave that they were free. This was no way to live, and no way to make a living.

"How many of them are there?" this voice belonged to one of the Walkers, who were heartily sick of trudging along dirt roads for no visible gain.

"Does it matter?" another gruff voice demanded. "We've got twelve."

"Five," Eragos corrected stonily. "The Walkers are going to sit this one out."

"But-"

"If you were really being honest, you would admit to being terrified and go look after the horses," Eragos informed him.

They were supposed to be taking the Riders to Oisea to meet their instructors, who would be urging the young men to do a great deal more walking. It was supposed to be something for him to do to keep him from getting cabin fever. Literally and figuratively. The Lady Vera seemed to have forgotten that he existed, and if there was something happening Eragos wasn't aware of it. After everything that he'd put at risk to back her plays he felt like he deserved better. Then again there was probably something he was missing. There usually was something he was missing. Torchlight distant as it caressed the surface of the building. Muted torches, spread out in between the guards. Wouldn't want that naked steel to catch any light - it would be difficult to explain why slaves were being kept under armed gaurd to even the most simple of citizens. Everyone knew it was illegal to sell slaves anywhere in the Free Cities.

So there they were, five White Riders and seven White Walkers crouched behind a thicket of trees and observing the building. None of them had been expecting a visit from the city's civil guardsmen, asking for help on something like this. There must have been a chest full of gold changing hands right now. The seized funds would be a welcome addition to the war chest in Simanel, but it was about more than that. It was about doing the right thing. That was what all of them were wondering at that moment - at least, the Riders were. The Walkers were caught up in the excitement that comes before a battle. If the Riders stormed the building, would they kill the slaves? Hard to prove that they were selling corpses, after all. Eragos had seen it before, and it disgusted him every time. So what were they supposed to do? Charge in as though it was nothing and hope for the best? He wanted nothing more than to bury his blade in the chest of every man who sold human life.

( It wasn't to be. )