Anthony Brennan ჯ Tristan (ofmisadventures) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-05-29 00:04:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !event #020, barachiel, isolde of the white hands, tristan |
[completed/closed]
Characters: Isolde of the White Hands (brokenly), Barachiel (stormblessed) & Tristan (ofmisadventures)
Date/Time: May 29th, afternoon
Location: The Arena
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and death.
Summary: Archangel versus knight as someone's wife watches on.
Leaving the twins that morning had been among the hardest things Bianca had ever had to do. Her eyes red from all the crying she'd done the night before, she nonetheless took her seat in the audience with as much serenity as she could muster. But how could she be calm inside? Underneath it all, she was but a child, horrified at the knowledge that the man she'd come to love was nothing more than a traitor.
Or, at least, that was how she, in all her selfishness, chose to see it. Her hands fisted in her skirt as she remembered his question - And if you killed me, would you truly be happy then?
Of course, she would not be. How short-sighted could he be - all she'd ever wanted from him, as Isolde and as Bianca, was his love. And in turn, her own love flowed freely. She would never be happy with killing him, and the first occasion had been more a crime of passion than deliberate intent. To kill him now... she could even imagine it. But she could not allow him to think it was acceptable to hurt her. Yet as she did so, she put more and more distance in between them...
Whatever the outcome, she would be here, and she would cheer for him. She had misled him about her intentions, but... let him make of her presence what he would.
Barachiel stared down at his blade, unseeing and absorbed in prayer. Many a time, it had occurred to him to sacrifice himself for this knight. But the effort would be fruitless. Without a good fight, the dominus and domina wold not even consider setting the other man free, even if Barachiel did fall in battle. Perhaps after putting on a good show, he could let himself fall... Ultimately, Barachiel was chief amongst the guardian angels, and it was his duty to protect humankind.
Yet even as he resolved to lay down his life, he could not help thinking of Léonore. Would she be all right, were he to fall? He did not want to put her through that pain - he was not so falsely modest as to believe his death would not cause her suffering. And there were still Amélie, Juliette, and Yves... Alison and Alphonse... He'd been told that there was no true death in Khaos's realms, but he still could not suppress the fear that he would no longer be there for them.
So what was the right thing to do? To save this man Tristan's life, or to save those of his family members? It was a moral dilemma beyond even his understanding as an archangel. He'd fought for his country, killed for his country. Yet this kind of killing was another matter entirely.
No, he could not kill an innocent man for sport. His family forgive him.
Tristan's greatest distraction that day would be Isolde. The woman he had come to know for about two years was truly the wife he had betrayed. Now she was his wife again, the mother of twin boys that he had not seen and, if this turned out badly, would never know. And that woman who insisted on being called a name that was not truly hers would be alone and God knew what would happen to her.
He couldn't do that to her. He had to fight, had to win and had to gain his freedom to see her and find a way to make amends. Even if she fought him on that, he would try.
Still, despite those thoughts, he spares a moment for Barachiel and smiled for the other man. A familiar enough face from days he spent as a military man. He hadn't told Isolde that, there had been no need to do that.
"I rather we point these blades at the throats of those who would do us harm but I think that might cause everyone more trouble than good," he called out, readying himself for whatever would come.
"I'm sorry, Anthony." He was surprised, finally making the connection between his comrade and the knight. The smile was returned, full and bright. It was the little they could give each other in such troubled times.
Had Barachiel a choice, no steel would be pointed at anyone. But choices and easy situations were not what defined people, not what made them true instruments of the Lord. As the signal to fight was raised, he muttered under his breath, "His will be done." If nothing else, he would fight for God. The noblest and truest of causes, even if it meant that Barachiel would have to lay down his life in the middle. All for His greater glory - Barachiel's own pride meant nothing.
And then the song of steel began.
Apologies were unnecessary, he thought while he took a step back and lifted his sword. The hard clash of their swords was felt throughout himself and he pushed forth to try to force Barachiel back, to try to obtain an opening for himself. And as the battle progressed, misses disappointing and true strikes accepted silently, Tristan's mind could not stay on just the battle. His focus was constantly threatening to shift away.
Was Isolde here? Was she watching this? He just couldn't get her off his mind. What would she think of that?
That she was, and her skirt threatened to tear with the force of her worry. Every strike against Tristan and her fists tensed; every time Tristan succeeded she could relax. And there were bouts of self-loathing as she realized she was hoping the archangel would die, a minister of the God she'd always believed in...
But even if he had been Tristan, this was Anthony. And the love she felt for Tristan had been made purer and more genuine in Anthony. No matter Tristan's worries, he could be assured of her constancy if only he were capable of looking beyond the facade.
Her breathing hitched as Barachiel pushed harder...
For some reason, Tristan's focus was flagging. Blows Barachiel had intended to be gentle landed with unexpected force; certain swipes meeting their targets when they clearly could have been avoided or blocked.
A particular thrust landed badly, impaling Barachiel's sword through Tristan's shoulder. Barachiel froze, not withdrawing his sword for fear of the consequent blood loss (and it would flow in torrents the moment the obstruction was pulled out - Barachiel had seen enough men down to know this much).
"Anthony." The angel's voice was strangely calm despite the situation. "Focus."
Pain exploded when he felt himself pierced and brought him back to his senses, long enough to comprehend what he had been doing. His eyes caught the archangel's and he actually smiled at him. "My wife is here," he offered in returned, as if that would make as perfect sense to Barachiel as it did to him.
His thoughts were back on trying to win, even as his shoulder screamed in agony and would likely never be able to function the way it had before. But he knew if Barachiel was forced to pull that sword free, that if it became dislodged somehow, he could die slowly and in agony.
Mercy pleading was no option. He'd seen from behind the bars of the gate how that had gone the first day of the battles and he was not a man who liked the option anyway. Manipulating his way out of a bad situation was one thing but to plead for mercy was not thinkable. Tristan's jaw clenched.
But they couldn't linger this way. The crowd would get annoyed and then they both could be damned. And so he made his move to slam down his sword on Barachiel's sword arm in an attempt to get him to lose his grip on it. There was a fifty percent chance of it going his way or going a way that would see him eventually die.
But the unexpected strike had Barachiel's arm moving, the blade twisting across the knight's chest into a far more fatal position. Barachiel grit his teeth - if he retrieved his sword now, death was a certainty for the knight, and it would come painfully. He had to end it now - to give Tristan the gift of mercy.
"I have to remove this, and then I'll have to..." Kill. No, Barachiel hadn't meant for it to come this far. He hadn't meant to kill another man. But what else was there to do? "Relieve you."
There was a moment of uncertainty, with Barachiel holding his breath and steeling himself up for the act he was about to commit. "I'll see her safe, whatever happens."
Tristan would debate on whether any of this was truly merciful. He'd seen how those who had died reacted when they returned and knew death to be cold and unloving from the times he had passed on in other lives. In his first life.
There was no release, not when one was so burdened by guilt and regret. Yet to begin such a thought-provoking debate in the middle of the arena was beyond foolish and unnecessary. He was the dead man here and Barachiel - yes, he was a good man. A man who understood family and how to protect.
Isolde would be alright. Somehow, she would be.
"She loathes answering to her true name so she remains known as Bianca," he told him in a soft voice while his free hand came to wrap around the hilt of the embedded sword. "I owe her so much, Barachiel. Tell her I will die knowing that and that I have even taken this from her because I was distracted. Tell her I am sorry for it."
Then he tugged himself away from Barachiel, painfully sliding back on the sword, as if to make it a fraction less horrible for the kind archangel to do what had to be done. If he had through it going in was bad, it was possibly just as awful it being taken out.
"And never blame yourself for this. For your sake, never."
Were their first names really their true names? Barachiel had to wonder. Édouard was as real to him as Barachiel was, and the siblings he had in this time were as real to him as the brothers he'd once had. If Tristan's wife preferred her new name to her old one, then Barachiel failed to see how that was a problem. Édouard d'Orsay had as much right to be a true, living being as Barachiel did; he was a creation of the Father as much as the archangel was.
But indeed, thought-provoking debate had no place in the arena. Barachiel knew he could fulfill the first promises - to speak with this Bianca and let her know that this knight had died with her name on his lips - yet the second demand...
Nonetheless, Barachiel withdrew the blade only to plunge it quickly into the man's chest - a painless and easy death. And then Barachiel invoked one of the few graces he had been given uniquely amongst the archangels:
"You are forgiven."
"Anthony, what are you doing? Anthony!"
But even with her newfound voice, Bianca's cries were useless. She had watched him die a second time, and this time too she had sent him to the grave without words of love or comfort. Her hands came to her mouth, muffling her violent sobs as she slumped into her seat.
He was gone, and she loved him.