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Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

Lost. The word echoed in her mind. Utterly lost. Cezanne mouthed the words to herself as she walked the sandstone streets of Trinsic. Her dark grey skirt was ragged at the hem, and snagged by brambles, some of which still clung, tangled in the fabric. Her hair was finally long enough to tie up into a ponytail again, but the shorter strands still fell wildly about her face.

Her face was pale, much more so than it had been in recent memory. She caught herself in a reflection and tried to smooth her hair, open handed, with her palms, as her hands trembled too severely to catch the fine strands between her fingers.

Lost…The word returned again and again to her mind as she tried to wrap her mind around the aching cavity left in her soul. She spoke the word softly sometimes as she heard it in her mind. Other times, she pushed it away, shaking her head. “I don’t care. I don’t care…”

Shopkeepers peered out of their doors, watching as Cezanne shuffled past, her internal struggle becoming more external than she even knew. She glanced up into the pitying gaze of a seamstress, hand halted mid-stitch to watch Cezanne pass by. Cezanne lowered her eyes to the stones and hastened her step. Without thinking, she took the flask from her pocket and pulled from it, then pocketed it again without pause. The mere action seemed to give her some measure of peace, before the spirits could even begin to filter into her blood.

A child playing with his dog stopped to watch as Cezanne passed. “I don’t care…I don’t care…” Even the dog’s tail was stilled as he watched her, head cocked and ear perked.

Too many people here, too many who know, or will know…She had passed this child thrice already, she realized. There was nothing here that could ease the pain, the emptiness, or the trembling of her hands and spirit. He wouldn’t be found here, and she was certain she wouldn’t want him to see her. Not now, not this way. Valentein was gone to find his sister. Or so he said, but he had not returned as he promised in his letter. Why would he? He must know about Morio…why would he return to her after such treachery and betrayal?

Her mind began to churn violently, and her stomach followed suit. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, trying to avoid retching on the cobblestones. The reflex quelled, she halted and took out her runebook. The worn binding fell open to the page entitled “Bramble Rose Theatre.” As much as she despised the thought of returning to the darkened and sorrowful hall, she knew of nowhere else to go. She took out her flask and drank from it again, then slipped it back into her pocket, contemplating the page. Without giving herself another moment to second-guess, she uttered her spell and allowed it to carry her heavy heart for her. “Kal Ort Por.”

Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

“Damn!” Cezanne heard the crack as her knee bumped a table in the darkened theatre. The lamps and candles all sat dark and dormant, as they had for months. The shuttered windows blocked out even the scant purplish haze of Umbran twilight. Cezanne stumbled against a stool and reached into her pack for a few reagents. She held them tightly with a shaky hand and gestured minimally. “In Lor.”

She flinched, squinting at the sudden illumination of the theatre’s main hall. Cobwebs and dust covered everything. Vines, snaking their way in from outside, crept up one wall, but had died for a lack of sunlight. So much to do…maybe this will take my mind off…even her thoughts trailed off these days, for fear of pushing her mind to the edge of sanity. Once her mind pressed against the thin membrane that held her spirit intact, it would always instantly shrink within her for fear of crossing beyond. She closed her eyes as her heart sank again. “I don’t care…” Who are you trying to fool?

The blanket of dust covered every surface, save one. A crate on the bar held bottles of liquour, no doubt delivered faithfully by Stephen Cawood in the past few days. He had no way of knowing what series of events had brought her to this moment, and for that she was thankful. She noted a small pile of sawdust in one corner, and a handsaw that lay on the table. He must have been making repairs. Steve had always been faithful in his service to her. How long has it been since he’s been paid? I’ll have to make sure he gets his due pay and then some tomorrow.

She took up the saw, lacking any other tool, and sawed open the crate on the bar. The bottles were shiny, new, and inviting. Each full of scotch, aged to perfection. She uncorked one bottle and poured it into a glass. Cezanne unceremoniously tipped the glass up and drank deeply. The liquour burned her mouth, her throat, and her gut, but pain was no longer a deterrent. She downed the glass, thinking and trying not to think.

Cezanne recalled the first moments when she had found Valen after he’d taken up with the Lich Lord. The apologetic expression he held in his dark eyes as she realized what he’d done. How could he have cut off his own hand for anyone, let alone the lich? What twisted mind felt that his gentle spirit deserved such a punishment? There were many more deserving souls in this world…

Again, her thoughts trailed off, but this time it was not to protect her. She tipped up the glass and drained it again. She reached for the bottle, but found it empty. There are many more deserving souls in this world…

Cezanne turned her attention to the saw lying next to the crate. She picked it up and examined the blade for a moment. The liquour and resolve that coursed through her veins had steadied her hand. Without hesitation, she pushed up left sleeve, leveled her arm on the bar, and drew the blade solidly across her wrist. She felt every sinew, every fibre of her flesh as the teeth of the blade tore through them. She winced, setting her jaw with determination, and pushed the blade this time, tearing tendons and ligaments as the blade cut deeper still. A gutteral scream escaped through her gritted teeth as she pulled the sawblade across her wrist once more. Blood poured from the raw and gaping flesh, ran across the bar, drenched her dress, and pooled on the floor. Bonemeal gathered in the bloody metal teeth as she sawed. Soon everything was becoming blurry as she struggled to maintain consciousness. The world around her greyed out. Cezanne lost sight of all else. Nothing mattered now but her penance, which seemed, if ever-so-slightly, to displace her guilt with every plunge of the gruesome blade.

Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

The new day had dawned, and Stephen Cawood was making his appointed rounds early. The firewood was chopped, and garments were mended and wrapped in brown paper parcels, loaded onto the packhorse to deliver to the Bramble Rose Theatre. He stood outside Empath Abbey near the vineyard, talking and laughing easily with a monk as they watched green glass bottles of wine being carefully wrapped and stashed into the packs on his horse. Once the order was filled, he took up the lead rope and led the laden horse toward the moongate. It would be a longer walk from Luna to the theatre, but Umbra was a city he avoided at all cost anymore, and so he stepped out of the gate into the shining city of Luna to start his trek to the south.

The horse, as always, seemed jittery at the bridge south of Luna. Steve paused to tie his deep red hair back, and he took out an old dark green cloak to cover the horse’s eyes so that the endless field of stars that lay on either side of the bridge would not strike fear into the beast’s heart. The horse dutifully crossed the bridge, face covered, and blinked in the sudden light of day when Steve uncovered him on the other side.

I don’t get paid enough for this. Or at all, anymore. Stephen knew that Lady Cezanne had fallen into what seemed like a depression as of late. He hated to ask her for his pay when he saw her so little anymore. The theatre was shuttered and dark, covered in dust and cobwebs. He had no way of knowing whether she even had the money to pay him anymore. But she was a woman, living on her own and trying to make her way, even if she had to find her way as she went. He didn’t do anything for pay that he wouldn’t have done for free. Still, even a simple life came with expenses.

There were footprints in the dust up the theatre steps. Far too small to be his own from the day before, and they did not exit the theatre again. Steve led the packhorse up the steps and tied him in the stable. He untied his ponytail, then removed his hat and smoothed his hair as he stepped to the door and peered inside. “Cezanne? Lady Abella?” Stephen called into the theatre, but heard no response. Nothing stirred in the dark and shuttered main hall. Perhaps the lady was sleeping. Clasping his hat with both hands against his chest, Steve stepped inside and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkened hall.

Something was amiss. It looked as though wine had been spilt on the bar, and the crate of scotch he’d delivered was crudely torn apart. The lady never left the tavern in such disarray. Stephen prickled, peering up the stairs and shouting louder. “Lady Cezanne?” There was no answer.

Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

Stephen took a cloth from his pack and went to wipe up the wine on the bar before it could stain the delicate wood. But before he could reach the bar, he began to realize all was not as it seemed. The smell inside the theatre was not unlike the thick and rusty scent outside the Umbran bloodletters. Stephen covered his nose and mouth instead with the cloth as he stumbled over stools and tables to reach the crumpled figure lying on the floor next to the counter.

Cezanne lay folded over on the floor, in her right hand, a bloody saw. The pool of blood on the floor around her was drying, but it matted in her curls and stiffened the soaked fabric of her dress as it dried. Quickly, he touched her shoulder: still warm. Steve turned Cezanne’s head toward him gently, her face peaceful for the first time in quite a while. He lifted her from the pool of congealing blood and carried her swiftly up the stairs to a guest room. He laid her on the bed and lit a candle.

Only now did he take the time to unwrap her fingers from the dreadfully tainted saw and place it aside. He hated to remove her clothing, but he had to know where she had been injured. He lifted her skirt to her knees, but her legs and feet were relatively free of blood. He unbuttoned her drenched doublet, but found only smears of blood. No injury marred the creamy flesh beneath. Hesitantly, Stephen began to push up Cezanne’s left sleeve, which was already unbuttoned. Beneath, her arm was mangled at the wrist. Only slivers of bone and tendon remained, barely attaching her hand to her arm. The flesh was torn, ragged, frayed, and shredded beyond normal repair.

As he turned her arm and wrist, examining it carefully, he heard a muffled whimper. Cezanne had awakened, and covered her mouth with her right hand. Her eyes were wide, frightened, even terrified. She began to tremble, and Stephen feared she would scream.

“Shh, shh, S’only me, M'Lady. Steve…I’m ‘ere, nay one can ‘urt ye. Who did this t’ye?”

Cezanne only stared at him, her dark green eyes brimming with tears in the candlelight, and he read the confirmation of his fears in her expression. She did this. Bloody hell. What sort of torment does this to a woman? He didn’t wait for an answer to his questions, spoken or unspoken.

“We can get ye to a ‘ealer, Lady Cezanne. This is worse than I can mend.” Cezanne’s eyes flitted down to look at her left hand, and then back up to Stephen’s own pale green eyes.

“Don’t take me anywhere, Stephen," she whispered pleadingly. "Please. You have training, I know you can do it.”

Stephen flinched slightly at the thought. “I’m nowhere near wot I need to ‘eal this, M’Lady. It would ne’er be th’ same. Certain it would scar.”

Cezanne nodded slowly and sighed. “I don’t care. Please, Stephen. I don’t want anyone to see…” She trailed off and sat up as Stephen propped pillows behind her.

Stephen sighed deeply and dropped his pack to the floor, taking out a roll of bandages and wrapping the bones and rent flesh of Cezanne’s left wrist delicately. Once the wound was covered, he carefully cupped her wrist in his hands, closing his eyes and concentrating on what regenerative powers he had. He felt a warmth spreading from within the bandages and knew that he had done all he could.

“Stephen…” Cezanne began, and he lifted his eyes to meet her apologetic gaze.

“Don’t say nothin’ Miss. We all got hard times, sometimes. I on’y wish I could ‘elp more wi’ this.”

Cezanne shook her head, searching for words. She settled her right hand on top of his head as he knelt, stroked her hand down over his red hair lightly, then rested it on his shoulder. Stephen lifted his gaze to find her expression again peaceful, head lilting gently with the persuasive caress of slumber.

Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

“Nay, like this M’Lady.” Stephen’s soft voice instructed Cezanne, his hands steady and sure as they covered hers. “There, ye got it, tha’ time. Jes’ keep yer hand steady Miss.”

Cezanne smiled faintly as she shaved a parchment-thin layer of wood from a rough carving of a duck. Under Steve’s gentle direction, she had surprised herself with how well the carvings had turned out. So far, a wooden owl, a bear, and a monk sat at her bar. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. She blew the papery curl from between her thumb and the knife’s blade, then watched it whirl lazily to the pile at her feet.

Stephen grinned broadly and streteched out in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head as his chair tipped back. His legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles before him, Stephen looked like the epitome of contentment. Cezanne knew that his lessons in woodcarving were a thinly-veiled plan to rehabilitate her hand and help her heal. But he didn’t say as much, and she never let on that she was any the wiser.

Cezanne’s hands worked quickly now, almost skillfully. The scar twisted and gnarled angrily like a river of hateful crimson winding its way around her wrist. But the pain did not seem to hinder her so much anymore. She smoothed the edges and details on the wooden duck as Steve closed his eyes and hummed mirthfully in his repose, unwinding the afternoon languidly moment by moment, hour by hour until her newest creation was complete.

The difficult conversations had been explored. Cezanne’s sense of loss had begun to subside as she realized that what was lost was behind her, and so many possibilities lay ahead. Steve had told her his own stories of a beautiful barmaid in Minoc that he’d once left behind, and how he regretted the day he said goodbye. Someday, he allowed, he’d return and see if she could ever forgive him, or if she’d found love in his absence. He recounted stories of his spitfire of a sister, taken too soon, lost to the frantic ire of a man overcome by the powers of blackrock. How he hated that man, and would give his soul if he could only find, one night in a dark Umbran back alley, the wretched one who stole the fire from his sister’s eyes.

Cezanne blew the dust away from her finished duck and looked up to Stephen, now dozing, a dreamy expression across his face. She had long hoped that she could find a way to bring him some measure of the peace that he had given her. From this angle it looked as though, perhaps, she had.