Violet Black (feldwebels) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-28 20:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, rictor cassul, violet black |
Who: Rictor Cassul and Violet Black
What: Discussions of their private lives
Where: The Grande Cathedral
When: 3 days after New Years, then day two of the attack.
Rating: PG-13. Mentions of dead family, maudlin New Years times, stress during the attacks
Status: Complete!
New Years Eve had come and gone with about as little pomp as Violet was used to. Lacking the energy to fake enthusiasm for a new year, she’d slept through the night while the rest of the world celebrated. She’d wished her Blades well and then given herself a fair amount of distance from them, a common enough occurrence that none seemed to notice. If they did, they didn’t bother her. She told herself that she liked it best this way. Solitude wasn’t so bad a thing when you were so very used to it. But there was a quiet nagging voice in the back of her head reminding her that another year had gone by without husband or child. She was growing older and lonelier and though these were facts that typically didn’t bother her, the holiday was an unpleasant reminder of time gone by and of time yet to come, making the facts press against her skin like the old scratchy wool of a well-worn coat. She’d gone to church when the thoughts got to the uncomfortable point of being oppressive. Violet found comfort in the Grande Cathedral, especially on cool evenings such as these. Mass had let out an hour earlier and the space seemed sacred in the silence. Bowing, she took a seat in the center of an aisle, leaned forward, and clasped her hands together in prayer. The woman sat there alone for quite a while before anything disturbed her peace. It wasn’t immediately apparent at first—the cathedral was majestic and imposing no matter what, offering complete stillness when the aisles weren’t packed with shuffling, breathing, coughing, restless people. But footsteps eventually sounded down the stone, boots echoing in the empty space as someone approached. For a moment, it seemed the walker might cross the hall and take a seat elsewhere—but then, after a pause, a holy knight settled into the aisle beside Violet. It was a respectful distance away but still relatively intimate, considering they were the only two humes present (and there was Faram, always Faram). He didn’t say anything, didn’t break that silence; it was holy, after all, and he understood the point of coming here. Rictor had no witty quips to offer, no need to try rattling the samurai like usual. Instead, Rictor faced forward and leaned forward, his forearms against the pew in front of them, head resting against his hands. The sensation of not quite being alone didn’t hit Violet so much as it crept on her. When the sensation became strong enough, Violet raised her head and stole a glance at the person who was beside her. She didn’t want to disturb Rictor in his prayers, so she watched him for a long moment, a mild sort of curiosity brightening her features. When he eventually looked her way, Violet slid smoothly back into her seat and let her hands rest in her lap. “Korporal,” she said, voice a reverent whisper that was just loud enough for him to hear, “To what do I owe this pleasure?” “You don’t,” he said, “but Faram does.” Once upon a time, a response like that might have sounded barbed, but today it was simply wry. “I do come here on my own, you know.” The nave of the cathedral accomplished one thing where few things did: it silenced Rictor Cassul, tamped down his attitude, instilled a pious sense of respect and humility in him. Faram weighed down his shoulders and pressed him into the ground where few people could. “How are you?” he asked, after a pause. His first comment only earned a small wry smile. His question, however, gave her pause. For a long, silent moment, her eyes rested on the altar at the front of the room and then focused on the stained glass windows, normally so bright and inspiring when caught by the afternoon sun, that somehow seemed dark and foreboding in the moonlight. “I’m… in a mood,” she said finally, turning to him and hoping that pain didn’t seem apparent in her face. “It’ll pass,” she continued, before he could speak. “And you?” He watched her, eyes drifting across the woman's features, cataloguing what he saw there. Now sitting in such close proximity, Rictor could smell the tell-tale bitterness of alcohol in the air, sharp on her breath. "Fine enough. I had a good family dinner recently." Ric dropped those details cautiously, like one might sprinkle breadcrumbs on the trail. Then: "A mood?" he asked, surprisingly politely. The mention of family brought a small, not quite pleasant smile to Violet’s face. She wasn’t the sort of person who normally flinched when others mentioned their family, friends, or lovers in her presence, but it was a sore subject for her, still. Usually, she could distance herself well enough from a person’s conversation to not let her feelings show. And she wasn’t so bitter that she couldn’t be happy for others in spite of her own losses. The smile vanished as she opened her mouth to speak. “A mood,” she repeated, unsure how much she wanted to share. Her mouth, though, seemed to have a mind of its own. As she thought about what she should say, words spilled from her. “The holiday,” she began, pausing for a long enough moment that it seemed that’s all she would say. “It tends to remind me of the things I don’t have. It’s silly, really, to waste my energy in such a way. Can’t quite help myself.” Voice growing soft, she continued, “My daughter used to love the holiday. My husband had a hard time staying awake through it. I’ve been thinking of them for the past few days.” Extremely cautious with her words, she didn’t say that she missed her family. She never said it aloud, though it was always true. Her eyes were trained on a candle in the distance. It was a rare thing for her to open up, rarer still that it was with Rictor, who had a hard time dealing with unpleasantries like this. Maybe she’d regret bringing it up later. And true to form, the man looked uncomfortable: his posture straightening slightly, his gaze straying away from her as well, as if looking directly at Feldwebel Violet Black in this vulnerable moment would be looking at something illicit and off-limits, or perhaps staring into the sun. “The new year is for reflection,” Ric finally said, slowly. “Like the Vigil of the Holy Saints. Think you're allowed to think of them and remember them. It's respectful, not silly.” The only way he could address this subject—serious where the knight was rarely serious, broaching the type of losses he hadn't suffered yet—was by not meeting her eye, the both of them staring off, Violet at the candle and Rictor into the middle distance. “It is silly,” she pressed, though she wouldn’t turn to look at him. “At least a bit. It does me no good to let thoughts linger on the things I no longer have.” Her voice was soft. Violet couldn’t help but hear the sadness in it, a long well of loneliness that she somehow managed to hide in her daily routines. She knew Rictor could hear it and imagined that he suddenly could see past the thick skin and formal attire that she wrapped herself up in while playing the role of feldwebel. Silence hung between them until Violet took a deep breath. She exhaled through her mouth and didn’t think that Rictor might smell the alcohol on her breath. “You can relax, Rictor,” she said, raising a brow and turning an eye on him slowly and catching the way he seemed utterly at attention. It made him look younger than he was, like a boy who didn’t know what to do with himself. “Tell me of your family dinner.” It was invasive and, quite possibly, wrong of her to ask when he already seemed so uncomfortable, but Violet was suddenly curious. There was little she knew of Rictor outside of his file. He never would have expected the day would come when discussing Aspel Cassul would make things better and less awkward, but so it did: Rictor started talking, describing the Kerwonian dishes that had accompanied their dinner, how Aspel and Mag had regaled them with stories from their time on the road, how Seloria had navigated the whole thing with her preparatory school-instilled dignity and grace. How the dinner had started off so achingly uncomfortable, but soon melted away into a familial comfort he hadn’t known for a while. (For years, in fact, ever since he’d traded the mantle of family for the Silver Blades. Every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands for my name’s sake shall receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life.) But they’d traded glimpses of each others’ lives behind the file. They were human now, no longer profesional steel-cut monsters who lived only for their duty—the mask had been peeled back, granting some impression of the man and woman below. The Cathedral was a much different place today. Its halls were stuffed with people, frantic white mages hurrying up and down the corridors, arms bundled with supplies and gauze and potions. They were brisk and efficient, however, the church a hive of activity as it transformed into an impromptu clinic: they were well-trained after the plague, after all. The pews had been shoved aside, clearing space for cots and huddles of people seeking food, shelter, medical attention. Two weary Blades sat on a bench by the wall, in the exact same position as a few weeks previous—but this time slumped, their bodies folding in on themselves, elbows resting against knees, a pair of buildings sagging on their foundations. There was so much noise in the Cathedral that Violet found it difficult to hear her own thoughts. But this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Some of the people around them were sobbing and Violet watched them with cool, light eyes and resented them for their open shows of emotion. The only comfort she took in seeing those shivering figures spasm was that none of them were her Blades. “When’s the last time you rested?” Violet asked Rictor suddenly, her own exhaustion weighing down on her heavily. She was unsure of when she’d last slept, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been recently. The last twenty-four hours had passed strangely, in a slow blur. She’d lost track of her smaller injuries and of how many monsters she’d taken out. All she did know was that she’d need to go back out sooner rather than later. Silently, she prayed to Faram that this chaos ended. “Right now, technically,” he said wryly. His fist kept opening and closing, testing the soreness of the muscles. “I got some healing at the Armoury last night and caught a couple hours of sleep. I'm fine.” Even this moment of recuperation felt like a guilty indulgence—how dare they stop to catch their breath, how dare they not bleed their lifeblood into the streets for Faram against these monsters?—but one of the things Black and Shaw had taught him over the years was pragmatism. They needed rest in order to fight their God’s fight. “Good,” Violet said with a slight nod. “You’ll take whatever necessary potions and rest another two hours and then take a group out with you if you’re able. I’ll do the same.” It was easy to give orders, and Violet took comfort in such gestures. There was a disturbing curiosity in her thoughts, worry that the city wouldn’t survive the attacks, that was pushed out of the way when she thought of her charges. There was no guilt in Violet, not the sort that Rictor felt. Her emotions skewed more on the spectrum of anger, wariness, and duty. “It’ll be your responsibility to monitor your team. When they’re too injured or too tired, you take them back. Especially if you’re the one who’s exhausted and injured.” With no end in sight, they had to be smart about how they fought or they’d end up as corpses. “You’re all doing well so far. We need to keep up the good work,” she added, because she figured he could use the small comfort. He was nodding while receiving these instructions, filing them away as dutifully as a golem receiving its divine script. She was handing him responsibility on a platter, a Korporal to seize the reins and carry half of the team as her trustworthy representative. In time, Rictor was slowly but steadily evolving into the woman’s sword-arm, an extension of her will. “I’ll take Quilloran, Kurere, and Lorz for the half-squad,” he said. “A berserker and a sentinel ought to balance well.” “Good thinking.” Violet nodded. She’d take the rest as long as they were able. Their injuries seemed to spread about evenly, but none had been gravely harmed. Yet. Violet looked around the large room and sighed quietly. In the distance, a young holy knight was clutching a mangled leg and trying to swallow his screams. That she was too tired to feel the proper amount of pity would have bothered her on any other day. “These incidents keep happening more and more frequently,” she mused, half to herself. Silently, she wondered when the next would come. “Aye.” The Korporal watched the man on the other side of the room, the way he almost seemed strangled on his own tongue, the noises coming out of him not even sounding human anymore. “If Faram has something against this city, I’d like to know what we can do to make it up to him.” Rictor said it dryly, but it wasn’t a joke. Not really. “When this is over, we can hold a service,” Violet spoke in a similar tone. She didn’t leave room for doubt in her statement. The end of the violence was an eventuality as far as Violet was concerned; she had to stay strong for her Blades, even for Rictor who had worked his way up to being a trusted second in command. There would be room for uncertainty later, when the chaos died down. For now, the two of them finally rose (wearily, though hiding it) from their seats and went their separate ways, to obey orders and rest before climbing back into the metaphorical saddle, heaving themselves back into the fray as Faram’s indomitable blade. |