sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-26 15:51:00 |
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It should’ve been easy to focus on other things; she had survived an attack that many had not. Rubble littered city streets, buildings were collapsed, and ownerless pets roamed free. And if not that, Scarlet should have been paying attention to others on the road, to where she was walking, to her breathing, anything other than the Holy Knight walking beside her, as they made their way to a Pharist orphanage. Her combat boots left behind a trail of dust clouds before it settled, and she put one foot in front of the other with relative ease, despite the soreness and aching from the battles. She thought of topics to converse about, or snarky comments about the condition of this city, before eventually settling on not saying anything at all. Outwardly, she looked collected, albeit the quiet anger that seemed to be just bubbling beneath the surface, simmering as they passed the destroyed orphanage she had come across just hours ago. It wasn’t a comfortable silence at all: it hummed between them like piano wire strung taut. Rictor watched the ruins as they passed by the rubble, his face settling into another set of strict lines (a mask, a shield just as solid as the one Caspar carried). He readjusted the bag slung over his shoulder, which was filled with preservable food and medicine. Rictor sighed. He had to do something to puncture this before it drove him mad, this headache pounding in his ears, an emptiness scoured in his lungs. “So,” he said stiffly. “You were just out looking for orphans or what?” The task of tackling the damage in the city had seemed too big, too wide for him to look at fully: the holy knight needed orders, a clear-cut plan of attack, someone to point and tell him precisely what to do. So the moment Scarlet brought up the subject of the damaged orphanages, the man had seized on it like a dog with a bone despite who she was. Here was something he could do, something to keep him busy, something to distract him from everything else—not thinking of another fell knight, a deeper betrayal than the blonde stalking by his side. Scarlet wasn’t sure if she felt irritated or smug that he spoke first, finally breaking the silence. There was a moment’s pause as the Fell contemplated just how much to tell the man (the stranger) walking beside her. If she should even bother to explain and if he even cared to listen. “I used to visit once a week,” she finally said, the past tense feeling foreign on her tongue. By now, she knew most of the children by name, though that would mean little if they were dead. But at the time, there wasn’t much she could offer them but a different face from the usual and whatever small treats she could afford, though she had history with this institution. And as they passed the broken orphanage, Scarlet’s walk did not slow, nor did her eyes linger on the rubble. She continued on, because that’s what Scarlet Beau did. “My father was very much about bettering and serving our community. As a child, I helped out at the orphanage.” The memory was pulled from a much different, happier, warmer place. The same place she now stored the memories of her newly deceased (murdered) mother. The rage for that was neatly boxed in another part of her mind, set aside for a different time. It was easier to compartmentalize things. “I still remember the flicker of disapproval in his eyes, when I chose the non-Pharist orphanage to volunteer my time. And I reminded him that they were the ones who needed Faram’s love most.” Steady eyes focused up ahead, and Scarlet fell into silence once again. It was more information than he’d expected to glean about the woman. After a startled glance at her, Rictor then kept his own gaze rooted on the path ahead of them, not daring to meet Scarlet’s eye lest some flicker of hatred in his eyes give himself away. He might’ve reacted like her father; he knew himself well enough to admit as much. “So when did you choose the Dark?” Rictor asked. It was a sudden question, probing and blunt. At first glance, it might not have seemed related to their previous subject at all, but as far as he was concerned, the two were wholly interwoven. How did a child volunteering at an orphanage end up as a fell knight? (How did his sister?) In lieu of having the other fell knight to question, Rictor found himself digging and needling at this one, his best available target, a scab to pick at. “When? Or do you mean why?” It was a question she was asked here and there, and the answer she easily gave was ready: “Because I could.” She considered leaving it there (the Holy Knight would ask more questions if he felt the need), but decided to clear the air. She was not trying to be mysterious, and perhaps she thought he deserved to know. Maybe she just wanted to tell someone, even if he despised her (though why he was with her now was a question of her own). “Fell powers in the wrong hands can be deadly, but so can Holy. I discovered and dabbled with the Dark as a Monk. I was not discouraged from learning more about it, and realized I had a certain disposition for it. I was not, am not, a bad person, and yet I could harness the Dark without letting it define me. I can keep the temptations at bay. I could do good with it, protect people. I chose the class when I turned 22, perhaps only weeks before I met you.” It seemed like ages, decades ago. A more naive Scarlet who had thought her decision would not bring her to where she was today. Are you? he almost said dryly, a sardonic little knife to slip between the woman’s ribs if he could. It was a kneejerk instinct and only barely suppressed. Instead, Rictor managed to say through his teeth, “Isn’t that what they all say? That they can do good with it. That they can control it, that it won’t fucking get to them. That they’re better than it. You all probably think you’re better than it. Platitudes.” Not that that was much better. The holy knight was all stiff angles as he walked, his grip tightening even further on the sack of supplies. The pair of them looked more like a pair of soldiers marching off to war than volunteers at an orphanage. Not long after Rictor spoke, Scarlet’s walk slowed to a stop. She could read between the lines; hear the words he may have wished to spit in her face. Most cases, she would ignore it, shrug it off and continue. She could speak to him in truth all day and he may listen, but not hear. Rictor wasn’t the first, nor would be the last, to feel what he felt, and Scarlet did not hold it against him. But if they were going to continue this trip, and be among children, this was necessary. “Are you sure it is me and Fells that you are angry at? Or is it something, someone else?” His face seemed to shutter itself, a door slamming shut as she hit on the exact heart of the matter. “I’m not angry at you,” Rictor said, but the strain in his voice revealed it as a bald-faced lie, of some sort. “Well. Not personally, because I don’t know you from Adam. Just—all of you, in general. I don’t fucking get it. Why you would.” Halfway through his sentence, Scarlet rolled her eyes and continued walking, rather breaking the tense moment. This wasn’t her issue and she had spent a good amount of her time actually trying to explain things. He wasn’t just deaf to her, he had ear plugs in on top of it. He didn’t want to hear, to understand, and she’d be damned if she would be the one to hold his hand through his family problems. This Beau had issues enough of her own. They kept walking in this painful silence that seemed it would never end. They were exposing all his issues on a platter for her to pick through and sneer at; Rictor wound himself even tighter, a spring on the verge of bursting. Finally: “Fine. I can’t pretend to understand, but I appreciate the explanation,” he said stiffly, formally. It wasn’t an apology—nowhere near it—but it was an acknowledgment. Scarlet’s speech had been a way towards some form of comprehension. Not a proper bridge, but perhaps the first brick in building one. He snuck another look at the blonde, trying to measure her against his conception of a woman met years ago, a whirlwind week simply scraping at the surface of her. More of an idea than a person. In hindsight, he’d been trying to build himself into an idea (Faram’s) all his life—and it seemed it wasn’t working. Scarlet had hardened herself years ago, and instead of being angry, she was indifferent. Everyone had the right to feel and believe what they did... and so did she. But it was stupid of Scarlet to have felt the butterflies when she had seen him again, as she fought alongside him as they reunited. Silly of her to think she would have Rictor as a friend here, to pick up where they had left off. If he thought she would sneer at him, he was wrong; it was he who had done that first. “For the record,” she said, as the orphanage came into view (the Pharist orphanage in pristine condition among the damaged buildings around it, of course it would be). “Most Fells will say as you said. But it is wise not to believe them all.” Those words unveiled an uneasy middle ground. Not the black-or-white harsh extremes he usually employed, sorting life into easy categorisations: it was another line drawn in the sand, allowing for the possibility of fell knights that were different from one another. Perhaps Scarlet Beau was not like Aspel Cassul was not like Divina Marcos. It was an uncomfortable thought, one he didn’t like to consider, and so Rictor set it aside for now as they walked in through the gates of the orphanage and towards the doors and the help they could both offer, holy and fell alike. |