Ade Foxe (dracoferus) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-10-17 21:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, ade foxe, bram thornton |
Who: Bram Thornton and Ade Foxe
What: The funeral of Sirina Roberts
Where: Bram's and then the Necrohol
When: Five years ago
Rating: R? Mentions of NPC death, sadness, man!tears. Mostly it's a downer.
Status: Complete.
Sirina Roberts had been a beautiful girl. Eighteen years old. Long blonde hair. Waifish and with a laugh that could stop a young man in his tracks. Foxe hadn’t quite understood why she’d made her way through the Fighters Guild when she could just as easily have found herself a rich husband and made a pleasant, carefree life for herself. It was only after getting to know her over the course of the training that he’d understood; she was wild. Sirina had had the spirit of a certain type of fighter. She’d had dragon written in her skin.
And now she was dead because of it.
Foxe wasn’t sure when he’d last slept. Guilt and pain had jolted him awake at odd intervals. Fear of what he might dream kept him from closing his eyes, even when exhaustion began to wear him down. Though his friends had tried to talk him into seeing a white mage, about taking a potion, he’d refused. In fact, he’d refused most of their company simply for the fact that he couldn’t stand to see the looks in their eyes. They pitied him. Or they sympathized. And in the guildhalls, he would occasionally see eyes narrowed in suspicion at his approach. No matter what their reaction to him, it always made his chest tighten and bile rise in his throat. He didn’t want their emotion thrown at him. He simply couldn’t stomach it.
And yet, Foxe found himself standing outside of Bram Thornton’s home on the morning when Sirina was to be buried. He paced in uneven circles, wearing the same clothes he’d worn for the past two days. There was dragon in Foxe, too, and it was visible in his jerky movements. He seemed more beast than man, loss turning something once restrained inside of him loose.
Foxe could still smell burning flesh if he closed his eyes for too long, could still hear her pathetic mewling if he grew too still.
And so he rapped his knuckles on the double door for longer than was absolutely necessary and almost enjoyed the way the knocking reverberated through his hands to his burned palms. He winced and quietly reminded himself that Sirina was dead and that he had no right to complain about anything. Eyes lowered to the ground, he waited and tried to look less broken than he felt.
It took some time before signs of life stirred within the building. There was nothing but a humble knocker at this home – no new-fangled electrick doorbells for this family, it seemed. There was the muffled sound of one voice calling out to another before the lock slid back and the door opened, with Bram Thornton outlined in the doorway. A ten-year-old boy scurried behind him, all wide eyes and craning his head to peer around his father’s elbow and side. “Who is it, da?”
Bram waved his hand without even looking back over his shoulder, blindly ushering the child away. Jonah disappeared back into the house while the councilman stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.
He’d read the report of the incident, with sparse and clinical details pinned onto the page by noun and adjective alone, but the sight of the man looming on his doorstep spoke volumes instead: the dark circles around Foxe’s eyes, giving him an owlish look. The encroaching stubble, the exhaustion writ in his bones, the shoulders raised defensively.
“Hullo, Ade,” he said. Today wasn’t a day for surnames and clipped distance. Of all the days, not today.
“Thornton.” Foxe gave him the smallest nod of acknowledgement and met his eyes for just a moment. He was grateful that there hadn’t been immediate questions or audible concern in the older man’s voice. Foxe had come here for many reasons, but Bram’s demeanor was one. He didn’t seem the type to attempt to be soothing or to give awkward hugs, which made him stand out from a number of Foxe’s friends. But as the eye contact was maintained, something ugly bubbled inside Foxe’s stomach. Quickly, he turned his head and focused on the facade of a nearby building. Exhaustion made odd details stand out. He noticed an ugly green-grey plant in a window, the particular cut of the stone, and the curve of wood that made the door. He stared for longer than absolutely necessary, trying to center himself before speaking. The last thing he wanted to do was break down in front of a respected friend.
Foxe straightened his back and sucked some air into his lungs before focusing on the ground in front of him again. “Need a favor,” he said after what felt like an eternity of silence. Clipped sentences and surnames were all Foxe could really manage in the moment, it seemed. “If you’re not busy,” he added quickly.
“I’m not,” Bram answered immediately, almost before the other dragoon had finished speaking. “Anything. What do you need?”
His voice was firm and unwavering, housing not a single flicker of doubt or hesitation – he seemed almost unaffected, as steady as if they were discussing the weather, or the latest shipment of spears at the guildhall, or trade routes in the Outlands. Under moments of duress, the councilman endeavoured to be a rock. The foundation on which others could set their stakes and build their walls, serving as the mortar to glue them together.
And Ade Foxe was most certainly coming unglued.
Foxe’s words caught in his throat as a wave of gratitude washed over him. The sturdiness of Bram Thornton was something he needed and also something he probably didn’t deserve. He shuffled on his feet to try and offset the sudden emotion that nearly caught him off guard, a movement that was utterly unlike how Foxe normally carried himself. It struck him as odd, the little things that could almost bring him to tears. Mourning tinged with guilt was a strange thing. When he felt he could speak again, Foxe only nodded in Bram’s direction. It was as close to a thank you as he could muster while feeling so terribly unstable.
“There’s a… service.” Foxe said. “Best to not go alone.” A pause. “Need you to make me leave when the time calls for it.” Even on his worst day, Foxe was logical. He knew that Sirina’s mother wouldn’t want him at the service and knew himself to have a stupid temper at the wrong moments. And so Bram would have to be his keeper and hold him back from doing or saying something stupid.
A pause. A beat, while Bram took in that newest piece of information – he hadn’t actually known the service was today. But he set that thought aside, filing it away. Whatever plans the day had once held, it now contained a funeral instead.
“Alright,” he said. “Just let me tell the miss. Stay here.”
The man excused himself, disappearing back into the house. When Bram reappeared a few minutes later, he was shrugging into his large navy blue overcoat and shaking out a packet of cigarettes, instinctively lighting one as soon as they were several meters away from the front door. (He’d quit when Vera was pregnant, but the habit kept creeping its way back like a troublesome weed.) No gesture or touch between the two friends: Bram simply started walking, striding off down the street of the commoners district with the innate assumption that Foxe, of course, would follow.
One arm jutting into the road was enough to summon a hovertaxi, whose door he cracked open before shooting Foxe an expectant look.
“Necrohol?” Bram asked, shifting to glance at the other dragoon as he prepared to slip inside the cab.
Foxe followed Bram into the taxi and nodded slightly. They would be going to the Necrohol, to the southernmost end where a little chapel sat on a hill. Foxe gave instruction to the driver as to where to go and then leaned back in his seat, turning his attention to the world outside his window.
The sun was brightly shining and white puffs of cloud hung in the bright blue sky and Foxe felt that it was wrong for the weather to be so nice on so dark a day. The ride was spent in silence, with Foxe's attention flitting from the sky to the street. He envied the people going about their day as if nothing could possibly be wrong.
When the streets began to empty, Foxe knew they were drawing nearer to the chapel and he inhaled quietly, realizing that he hadn't brought his wallet with him. He shifted in his seat, patting all of his pockets down and finding them empty. Finally turning to Bram, he quietly spoke, "I forgot gil." As tired as he was, he had the grace to be embarrassed, "I'll pay you back later for this."
Bram was already shaking his head, leaning towards the driver and unfolding his own billfold, extracting enough money to cover the ride and a sensible amount of tip. “You’re not paying for anything today, Ade.” The words were gruff and to-the-point – whatever meagre comfort he could offer by virtue of picking up the tab.
The two men disembarked in a matching pair, two sets of broad shoulders striding through the gates of the Necrohol and making their way through the grass. Bram glanced at his simple wristwatch, checking the time – if they were aiming to be here on the hour, they were just in the nick of time. Cutting it close, Foxe, he mused, but didn’t say aloud.
The miniscule stone building they were headed for was nothing like the Grande Cathedral; it was nestled away in a less-ostentatious corner of the Necrohol, past basic unadorned gravestones and simple stone markers, with names and dates and the occasional epitaph carved into the rock. Nothing like the soaring monuments and familial tombs and sculpted angels that decorated the rest of the burial district – the family of one young squire evidently couldn’t afford better.
Foxe and Bram slipped into the building with only a couple minutes to spare, taking up their position at the back of the room, out of sight of the family members who’d come to attend on Sirina Roberts.
The priest started speaking.
Foxe was torn between turning his attention on the priest, on the casket in the front of the room, and on the bent figure of Mrs. Roberts, a surprisingly young woman whom Sirina hadn't mentioned much in their time together. The room itself was small and smelled of fading incense that tickled Foxe's nose. He wondered in a detached sort of way if they'd used it to cover up the stink of burning flesh.
Foxe's eyes watered only once throughout the short service, at the priest's discussion of a life cut short and the will of Faram. Not a religious man, Foxe didn't put any sort of thought to the will of the gods, but he did feel the sharp sting of bitterness at the loss of a woman so young.
Head bowed, he turned his face away from Bram when it got to be too much and felt a small wave of shame when he had to exhale through his mouth to center himself. When the world ceased to blur in front of him, he turned his attention back to the front and waited for the service to end.
It felt like an agonizingly long time before, with priest's blessing, the room as a unit rose to its feet. A small group of people walked to the casket and, with little effort, lifted it and began a procession out of the chapel. Mrs. Roberts followed the casket, body wracked with sobs, and Foxe watched the entire scene as though it were happening to someone else. Guilt bubbled quietly in his chest, but he regarded Sirina's mother with a mild sort of curiosity. He wanted to apologize. Or, perhaps, to speak more of Sirina, but he said nothing because it wasn't really his place to do so. This both was and was not his tragedy.
"You!" Mrs. Roberts spoke through her tears when she laid eyes on Foxe. "You did this to my baby!" She made a noise that sounded more animal than hume. "You let my girl die!"
Foxe stood frozen in place, something strange working its way through his body. It was anger, but he was wise enough to know that he wasn't really angry at this woman who was half his size standing and probably less than half his weight soaking wet. She suddenly flew at him and Foxe didn't make a move to get out of her way. Beneath the anger was a quiet voice speaking to him, telling him that she was right and she deserved her revenge however she would like to deliver it.
The younger dragoon stood there impassively, weathering it like a rock bears the unstoppable attention of the ocean – motionless like a monument as her fists beat on his chest, a drumming tattoo that turned into clenched slaps, nails ready to rake and rend and draw blood. But before she could go for the eyes, Bram had stepped between them, one forearm holding the woman back, his other hand moving Foxe a few steps backwards and separating the two. With a jolt of alarm, he noticed that it was like moving a puppet, an inanimate object that listlessly followed his lead.
“Apologies, ma’am,” the councilman said with an grimace. For the disturbance and for marring the day.
He ushered his friend out, letting the door slam shut behind them. It echoed. The man’s steady nerves were rattled as he cast sidelong glances at Foxe.
Was this why you came? Do you feel better? Bram couldn’t quite get the words out, and so instead settled for moving the two of them along, pretending he couldn’t see the way Foxe tensed up and went rigid. A hollow shell of a man. If this was the way he chose to exorcise his demons – a manifestation of his guilt made flesh in the form of that small, red-eyed, furiously mournful woman – then so be it. Bram kept maneuvering him onwards down the gravel path.
There were no words necessary, or even possible; instead, Bram fastened his hand on Foxe’s back as they walked, and gave a reassuring squeeze at the nape of his neck before letting go and retreating, each man an island unto himself.