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[Aurelia Bretane]

---

Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. He who sees too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand.
~Harold Bell Wright (The Shepherd of the Hills)

***

Here, in this place, there was only darkness.

Ashencrosse had grown into a city of light and life, and it thrilled her to watch the progress of stone upon stone, and tile upon tile as the Church took shape. The city moved around her with the comings and goings of old acquaintances and new, but it did not move her.

By day she wrote, and by night she watched over her city. Laughter poured from the warmly-lit theatre as the citizenry gathered in the evenings to plan, conspire, and fellowship. The warmth of the light lingered in the hearts and eyes of those who retreated in ones and twos into the hazy darkness that enveloped the city like a tomb.

Aurelia stood atop the watchtower, her cloak wrapped tightly around her in the biting chill of night and watched as they filtered out into the night with laughter and song. But another light shone in the darkness beyond the palisades. A small campfire to the northeast burned, and those who were not of her city also conspired. And she watched.

And remembered. Soft and lingering touch upon her flesh – hearts ablaze in the dwindling light of candle flame. Whispered promises between stolen kisses. But men were never meant to be bound by whispered promises in desire's embrace. And so she waited. And watched.

Laughter from the brigands' campfire beyond the palisades brought her back. Behind her, an unlikely quartet filtered out of the theatre, bent on spending their evening in the hunt. A portal opened, casting a hazy azure glow on the theatre and the newly-built church. And then it closed. Her post as sentry was on the perimeter. Here, there was only darkness.

But the light had returned to Ashencrosse. And that, for now, was enough.

[Chanticleer]

---

And now he was Sir Chanticleer of Ashencrosse.

At the invitation of Countess Aurelia Bretane, he had abandoned the cold winds of Northridge to become a knight in this small Malas town. Since his arrival weeks prior, his encounters with its people and visitors had been decidedly mixed. But he was there to honor the oaths he had made, not for friendship, and his social expectations were limited. Those that did not comprehend the value of his presence were fools, and he did not lightly suffer stupidity. The carelessness of mental inbreeding inevitably yielded one an untimely demise, and he was conscious of where their folly would guide them. He could provide fair warning, but it was not his purpose to challenge their miserable destinies for them. Life in Ashencross was preferable to his prior employment as one of Countess de Mor's guardsman, but his gratitude would never blind him to the pitfalls of his new home.

There was blight in the air, but he could not quite determine its source. Perhaps it was related to the recent discussion of secret illness that involved the Countess, Friend Rosar, "Mistress" Jolicia, and the Painted Lady. Initially, Chanticleer believed they were attempting to conceal a deadly disease suffered by Sir Letholdus, but Friend Rosar assured him it was not the elf they spoke of. Yet, what disappointed the young knight was not his failure to uncover truth -- their tale would most likely have bored him anyway -- but Aurelia Bretane's subdued presence during the meeting. When he was first introduced to the Countess, she spoke with clarity and confidence, quickly inspiring him to enter her service. But something was absent, she was now lesser, not even capable of commanding a caravan to relieve the troubled City of Minoc. While Chanticleer cared little of the personal dramas that plagued her, she was still his leader. And as one of her knights, it was his duty to force her into focus, no matter what measures needed to be taken. For in a world drifting rapidly towards chaos, her weakness was simply unacceptable.

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

It had been the perfect plan.

A plan born of secrecy and trust, and lies. And all of the dark and beautiful shades of desire that lay beneath the surface of her pale flesh. She was no longer as she was before she met him, and she could never be again. For that, in many ways, Aurelia was thankful.

But oh, the nights are long, and darkness creeps into the soul through any crack in the facade. It overtakes and overgrows, and overwhelms. Perhaps Rosar was right. Perhaps she was no better now than when she lay fire to the camp and burned the plague along with those who suffered it. Either way, it was better that Eclyse should now watch over Ashencrosse by day.

Oh, she would spare a midnight dream in the haze of Ashencrosse, wandering quietly as slumber claimed every precious soul within that mighty fortress. She would see to it that no one should lay a hand upon those within whom she claimed as her own – these cherished few who remained hers.

And when she returned to the quietude of her sanctuary in the moments before dawn – in the secret space between her shadow and soul, only there would she spare thoughts for the one who was no longer hers. Where had his haste to escape her carried him? Was he safe? Was he happy? Did he know how much of her he had taken with him?

She had done her part. Paine had, after all, imparted to her the news that Judas had fled. He had imparted, as well, orders not to attempt to contact him. But her plans had faltered, and her lies and half-truths to protect him, had grown. For now, she bore the brunt of mistrust and accusation. At least this protection, if was the last thing she could ever give him, was his.

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

It was the strangest sensation, cooking for herself. It felt more like preparing food for her pets. Foreign objects, in foreign combinations. Seasonings didn't even enter into it. They wouldn't make the items in the pan any more or less palatable. It was the first time she'd ever been able to objectively experience the scents of various foods – raw, cooking, burnt – without the association of physical response.

Onion cooking, for example, rendered a sweet and pungent aroma that permeated the cabin, and Aurelia found the scent nostalgic and pleasing. Perhaps some part of cell memory recognized the scent. By contrast, potatoes had very little scent whatsoever when cooking. But their plainness, she believed, might be her best chance of success. Sharper, more powerful flavours did nothing but turn her stomach all the faster.

Aurelia sat quietly before her plate, as she had now thrice before. A candle flickered lonely on the table, illuminating what looked to be a plate full of a bland, but steaming pile of potatoes. A glass of red wine – Yew vintage – sat just beyond. For once, it was more than a prop.

Outside, the wind tore through the trees like a rabid banshee, and chased fauna from their sanctuary. Hoof falls betrayed a deer as it fled the tempest for higher ground. Pirouette lay curled in the corner of the tiny cabin, and lifted his nose as the deer's scent crossed Aurelia. Then, it was gone, and he buried his nose again beneath bushy white tail.

Aurelia lifted a forkful of potato to her mouth and chewed it, first slowly, then quickly – her expression reminiscent of a child dared to eat a beetle. Quickly, she swallowed and followed with a mouthful of red wine to wash the rest of it down. The meal became one of repetition as she willed her body to make use of the food she gave it. It had been a little more than a week since she had fed, and her stomach had promptly rejected previous offerings. Oh, she knew it was an exercise in futility. And the roiling pain set in before she finished half the food on the plate. Just like thrice before.

She laid down her fork on the plate and took a slow, steady breath. Her body spasmed in violent protest, and bloody tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as she swallowed, and swallowed to keep the food down. Pirouette lifted his great white head again, this time watching her with concern. Aurelia doubled over, covering her mouth as the dog padded over to her, forever vigilant.

How weak d' ye have to become before you utilize the food that's given ye? Silently, she cursed her body for revolting against her, but within seconds she fled from her seat to the door and out into the storm, vomiting piles of pink potato that melted and sank into the snow. Bloody tears streamed down her cheeks as she, on hands and knees in the snow, retched the last of tonight's attempt, and vowed to try again tomorrow.

As ever, his words echoed in her mind as she wiped the sick from her lips with the back of her hand. “I love who you are, Aurelia. But I despise what you are...”

[Chanticleer]

---

People usually disappointed Sir Chanticleer, which is why he often turned elsewhere for perfection. At that moment, the young knight was rigidly positioned in front of a large mirror, carefully scrutinizing every aspect of his reflected appearance. He admired the fit and feel of the brand-new armor, and found the colors of Ashencrosse quite suitable. Next came his sword, which moved from scabbard to hand in less than a thought. Blade of the Fist -- a fitting name for the weapon he now wielded. For this sword was like Chanticleer, forged in flames and ready to be unleashed upon Sosaria, eradicating all the darkness and stupidity it encountered.

Chanticleer had found Minoc dull, but the journey had been far from fruitless. In a small cabin southeast of the town centre, the young knight and Jolicia, an unlikely traveling companion, had discovered the Countess Aurelia Bretane hidden in seclusion. She seemed even weaker than previous, and suffered from illness, streaks of blood upon her face, unable to keep her food down. Perhaps a gypsy's vengeance, he mused. The words that passed between them were unimportant, all that mattered was she eventually surrendered to their will. Others of Ashencrosse might complain. And Rosar would protest. But Chanticleer had won, his Countess returned to Ashencrosse.

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

“He's moved on, Countess.”

The words stung, deep and instant, and her expression no doubt betrayed her pain.

“And you should, too.” The stranger whose eyes glimmered with the oddest gaze watched her, seeming to sense that he'd struck to her core. He couldn't know how she felt. Something wasn't quite right about the man, but she found herself willing to share more than she should – if only for the masochistic hope that she might learn any tiny detail of Judas' existence now.

What he could not know – what no one could know – was how deeply-rooted the bond had been, and still was for her. She thought of little else, and begged and prayed for a day when her heart's yearnings would grow fainter, and more easily-endured. She knew the risk from the start. But there was never enough time – always a need to replenish the bond. And with each kiss, it became more firmly-entrenched, until all that was left for her was this aching need to be near him.

The stranger spoke – saying little, but enough. They had been in Ocllo. There had been a murder. The perpetrator was still at large. And no one could be sure yet whose hand had slain the girl. But for all of it, the man had been near him. Near enough to tell her the tiny details for which she yearned. Near enough to tell her....

“He's moved on, Countess. And you should, too.”

Her heart sank, her expression stricken as she struggled to regain her composure. “If ye would jus' come with me, Lord Renthar, I'd be glad t' show ye to your cottage. Yer welcome here in Ashencrosse, long as ye care t' stay.”

[Renthar]

---

His arrival in Ashencrosse had not been without incident. Word from Ocllo had reached this small Malas town quicker than expected, and Renthar was immediately greeted with threats of arrest and forced return to the angry justice of his former home. It was not the nature of these accusations that troubled him -- in the grand scheme of things, the murder and violation of a sixteen year old girl was hardly a noteworthy crime for a man of his caliber -- it was the suspected source of the suspicion that irritated him so. Once again, Paine Drakul had managed to interfere in matters that did not concern him. No doubt filled with self-righteous fury and squealing secrets that were never his right to share. He used to fantasize about decapitating his old army friend, but eventually came to realize that it would do little to still the incessant wagging of the immortal fool's tongue. Renthar could see the potential enjoyment of owning a talking head for a pet, but not if that head belonged to Paine Drakul.

Despite his mixed reception, Renthar found Ashencrosse itself to be quite welcoming to his current needs. Although not as isolated as Ocllo, the town fortunately lacked the island city's cold and gloomy demeanor. Not to mention the Countess Aurelia Bretane, who was everything he had hoped for and more. Her soft features made for a pleasant sight, which pleased to him greatly. For Renthar despised ugly women, along with their failure to deliver the world the courtesy of ending their own lives. This Countess of Ashencrosse was also gracious, almost to a fault. And all that sadness and suffering she carried around in that delightful little vampire heart of hers -- it was so palpable he could almost taste it. There was almost too much here to work with!

As Aurelia guided him to the guest cottage, Renthar contemplated the mutual benefits that had been hinted at during their discussion. It would certainly be a struggle, but he promised himself not to take advantage. At least not of the Countess Bretane -- the rest of Ashencrosse, however, remained fair game...

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

Armstrong pulled a small, flat box from behind the jewelry display case, and held it close to him, a hand covering the lid as he watched Aurelia questioningly. “It was crafted precisely as you asked, Countess. But I loathed to do so. If I may be so bold, my curiosity and doubt get the better of me. Why would you not want the purest gold? My work is second to none. It kills a part of me to corrupt the purity.”

“Dear Armstrong I've my reasons.” Aurelia smiled warmly and held out a hand for the box. “Call me...sentimental.”

The jeweler nodded once, seeming more at ease, and he placed the box in Aurelia's hands, opening the lid for her inspection.

Aurelia gasped breathlessly. “It's beautiful.” And it was. She reached out to touch the gold pendant, but paused.

“It's all right, Countess. It's yours. The ankh is sturdy, you can't damage it, beyond a few fingerprints.” Armstrong smiled now, rather confidently.

Aurelia gave a slight shake of her head, and looked up at him, concern darkening her gaze. “The one bead I provided – tha's is all you put into the mix?”

Armstrong inclined his head. “Of course, Countess. Was that not your instruction?”

“Oh no...it was. I jus' wanted t' make sure.” Her voice betrayed a hint of anxiety. “Could....could ye put it on me, Armstrong?”

“Oh aye, with pleasure.” Armstrong placed the box on the display case and removed the pendant from its nest of cotton. Carefully, he placed the chain around Aurelia's neck and clasped it in back.

The weight was immense. As if it might drag her to the floor. Her flesh stung and burned beneath the ankh. She wanted it off, wanted it gone. She clenched her teeth against the flames that she could feel, if not see.

Her expression must have been cause for concern, because Armstrong straightened the ankh hastily and looked to her somewhat frantically. “Something wrong, Countess? What is it? Something I can fix? Want me to get a mirror so you can see--”

“No!” Aurelia managed with a gasp. Then, more calmly, “No, no mirror. The...weight of the bead was just a little more than I expected.”

Armstrong's brow furrowed. “My lady, I smelted it thoroughly through the gold. It couldn't have weighed more than feather. Silver's a light metal....”

His confusion was to be expected, and Aurelia brushed his explanation aside. “I'm sorry, Armstrong. Don't worry, it's perfect.” She took a deep breath, wrapping her mind around the pain, and the weight of the pendant. “It's exac'ly what I asked for – exactly what I needed. Thank ye, ever-so much.”

Aurelia pulled a folded slip of parchment from her waistpouch and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Take the extra to buy somethin' nice for that wife o' yours, aye?” She forced a smile and closed the box to take it with her.

“Aye, M'Lady Bretane.” The jeweler smiled too, now, and beamed. “Thank ye for your business. If ye ever need anything again, don't hesitate to visit Papua. We could do with more of your kind here.”

Aurelia nearly laughed at the irony of his statement, struggling to maintain her polite smile as she pushed open the thatch door with some effort. “Yer too kind, Lord Armstrong. And aye, I'm certain I'll be visitin' ye again, very soon...”

[Renthar]

---

These days, Renthar was more likely to hug a small child than once again pick up a blade. Decades ago, he had developed a taste for the magical arts, and eventually set aside his old weapons and armor for a life of spells and secrets. Of course, there were many who had been surprised by this transformation. During his years of service, he had developed a reputation for his abilities with a sword, as well as his complete and utter lack of discrimination. Man or woman. Young or old. Guilty or innocent. None of these were of any particular consequence to him, he only cared about the manner and speed of his opponent's death. He had never been one for remorse or regret, and the passage of time had only increased his need for cold practicality. Which is why current circumstances vexed him so. Despite all his well-honed indifference, Renthar still wanted, and he was growing impatient with the obstacles that prevented him from fulfilling his plans for the Countess Bretane and her town of Ashencrosse.

Presently, the worst of these impediments was the outstanding matter of Isileena Thorne of Ocllo. Renthar was not entirely unsympathetic, and he even understood why the others believed the crime to be so horrific. On the other hand, it had already been weeks since her unsolved murder, and they were still whining about it. He had found Isileena to be pleasant enough, but what potential did life truly hold for the girl? At best, she might have been a farm wife or something equally insipid. Instead, she had fulfilled a much greater purpose, motivating him to finally leave that isolated island behind. But between Paine's initial meddling and Rosar's incessant need to inform everyone of Renthar's alleged crimes, attention was being unnecessarily diverted, and not to his benefit. Predictably, no one actually possessed the fortitude of character to take the necessary action, they were far too preoccupied with notions of law and proof and fairness. When he was young, men would rely upon their own power and instinct, and Renthar deeply missed the old ways. He had no fondness for the world that British had left them, but without any choice available, it seemed he would be forced to participate.

It was thus up to Renthar to give them justice for Isileena. Or at least a reasonable approximation thereof.

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

She came, as always, without pretense or expectation. The native wanderers who settled in the camp near Compassion always accepted her presence. Always smiled and let their children pick out brightly-coloured ribbons and lace – buttons and swatches of fabrics that offered no apology for their offense to the eye. The gypsy children had taught her to love colour. For there was a beauty there that transcended right or wrong. It simply was. And colour fell softly upon her soul and gave her something to love that didn't need to love her back.

Aurelia carried a large basket as she approached where the children stood playing a game with two sticks and a leather ball. The children, at least, hastily surrounded her, smiling and ogling the basket in hopes that the treasures that lay inside might be for them. And Aurelia smiled, glad to open the top and give them all a peek before she set it down to let them divide up the precious cargo amongst themselves.

“Aurelia.” The voice was familiar, though she could not place it. She lifted her head and saw him watching her quietly from the fire. He wasn't the only one watching. Far from it. But he was the only one she saw, for now.

“Arahim.” Aurelia approached the gypsies' bonfire slowly and bowed her head slightly to him. “It's been far too long. How fare you?”

His expression was guarded, as was his answer. And the next answer, and the next, as Aurelia engaged him in quiet conversation. Without warning, he stood and gestured to the perimeter of the camp. “Come, we're interrupting their bonfire.”

Aurelia followed him, watching the dozens of eyes that watched her as they went. When they stopped, he turned again to look on her, and her eyes were drawn to a strange marking on his forehead. The way gypsies adorned themselves had always fascinated her. Unabashedly, with anything they found beautiful. It was a characteristic that she'd begun to adopt, in small doses, herself.

Arahim turned to look back at the bonfire as the others gathered in. But Aurelia watched him. A spider fetish with glittering gemstones for eyes clasped his hair in back. The craftsmanship was immaculate for so odd an adornment. But when he turned to her again, here away from the fire, she noticed something more intriguing. The mark upon his forehead glowed faintly.

“This is new.” She smiled as she nodded toward the mark.

Arahim looked at her oddly, but nodded. “I'm trying something different.” He lifted a hand to rub the fledgeling goatee that sprouted from his chin.

“No...I mean th' mark ye bear.” Her gaze lifted to his forehead as he watched her, somewhat incredulously.

“I bear no mark but scars, Countess.”

Aurelia furrowed her brow. “Surely you know what I mean. It's there. 'Pon your forehead.”

Arahim shook his head. “I washed my face after working, I saw my reflection. I'm sure I would have noticed.”

Had she finally gone mad? He wasn't the type to jest with her so. Reluctantly, she let the issue drop, her eyes wandering again to the bonfire where the entire camp had gathered. A young girl with new ribbons in her hair carefully fashioned a rose from a piece of bright yellow linen.

“You'll find no welcome here, Countess. But linger awhile around the bend. The evening song is something to behold.” Arahim gave her a nod of farewell and retreated to the fire to join the others.

Aurelia was left standing alone on the perimeter. The eyes that had watched her now watched the fire. The children with their bright new baubles bounced and spun around the bonfire, and Aurelia took heart in their mirth as she clicked her tongue lightly and gathered Pirouette to her. The great white dog watched the children with her, then lowered his head to follow as Aurelia made her way out of the encampment and around the stone foot of the mountain.

As she reached the deepest part of the valley, where darkness had already fallen, a sound like shining bubbles floated aloft to her, and the colours of the gypsies painted her soul with the voices that rose to the heavens and covered the valley. She closed her eyes and allowed the colours of sound to wash through her and displace all else from her heart and mind. Everything fled, of course, but one. He was always there.

Here, in this world where she was not welcome, she found peace in a single moment. She opened her eyes and looked to the sky, where infant stars shone in twilight's fading, and a slow smile played across her lips.

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

Tears stung her eyes. She could feel them coming, beginning to spill onto her cheeks. Without hesitation, as indeed there was no time, she turned her back on Rosar, on the night, on the haze that couldn't hide her tears – and Aurelia ran.

She ran into the Church, no longer willing or able to stem the flow that painted her cheeks with streaks of crimson. She stopped at the steps of the altar, looking up to the ankh with a sense of irony. Why would one such as me be safely hidden in the ankh's shadow?

But Rosar had followed. She heard his halting step behind her as he paused. She dared not turn around to face him.

“Aurelia, we suffer a death of a sort when we commit such a terrible crime. And when we do, we have to grieve.” Rosar's tone was even, and matter-of-fact. “You cannot take back what you've done. Nothing you do could ever do that.”

The tears would not stop. And there were no words to speak, any truer than the ones he spoke. And so she didn't even try. The moment had come when she couldn't even pretend to be strong. It was time to let someone else be the voice of reason.

“Weep, Aurelia, for the woman who died that day when she put that camp to the torch. She died just as surely as those within it. You will become a different person, but you will carry her with you the rest of your days.” Rosar took a step closer behind her.

“Rosar...” Aurelia began hesitantly. “I'm nay sure I can come back from where I've gone. I'm tryin'...”

Rosar sighed. “I know.”

“Do ye?” Aurelia turned her head slightly to look back over her shoulder at him. Bloody tear tracks marred the fair flesh of her cheek.

Rosar inclined his head, squinting at her profile, but said nothing of her tears. “I do. It's a long road, Aurelia, and you may never see its end.”

“But I'm willin' to take it.” Aurelia took a deep breath and turned her face away from him again.

He shifted slightly behind her, repositioning his walking staff. “There will be nights when you feel you cannot take another step. I'm sure you've had them already. Constantly, even.”

Aurelia nodded once, unwilling to voice what he already knew.

Rosar stepped closer once more, and took her hand between his two. “That is when you must reach out, Aurelia. You are not alone. But all I can offer is a hand to pick you back up. It's up to you to do the walking.”

[Rosar Ashande]

---

Two familiar feelings swelled and swirled within Rosar as Eclyse offered herself up to their orcish enemies—an exchange for the young woman the beasts held captive within their fort. They were feelings he had long associated with the man he used to be, yet he had become reacquainted with them in recent months. Even so, it had been years since he had felt both at once, and felt both so intensely.

At that moment, one clearly overwhelmed the other. An icy claw gripped at his heart. He froze as he fell into despair.

Did she not understand his terror? Why did she have to be so brave, so unhesitating in her sacrifice? It was her readiness to sacrifice all for the sake of others—even strangers—that had inspired such strong affection for her in the first place, but all he could comprehend through his fear was how that could now so easily lead to her loss.

He shouted out, masking his fear with defiant words and threats of violence. Moments before, he had pleaded with the orcs to accept any other price, but they were unmoved. He had already shown his weakness—his words now meant nothing, if they ever did at all.

As Judas whispered a plan into her ear, Eclyse began to ride closer to the orcish gatekeeper. The pig-man looked upon her with bestial lust. All at once, the fear that had paralyzed him was overtaken by the other feeling—one much colder, still, but one that promised an end to his suffering if he submitted himself fully to its embrace.

Did this beast not understand his hatred? Would it even care if it did?

Whatever Judas had in mind, it hardly mattered. Rosar would have none of it. The orcs wouldn't take her—not for an hour, not for a single second. His hand moved, as if of its own accord, to the explosives on his belt. He did not remember the moment when the potion left his grasp or, indeed, even recall throwing it at all, but it did not take long for the consequences of his impulsive action to manifest and rock him back to his senses.

Rosar was deafened as the potion detonated just behind the orc, showering it with flame and shards of shattered glass. It roared, obviously more angry than injured, and in the next moment, the squad of orcs fell upon the party. All drew their weapons to face the charge.

Now they were all in danger.

Rosar's fear and hatred subsided in an instant, replaced with a measure of relief, as now there was only the option to fight or to flee, and he would never leave her—or any of these new-found friends—while he could still find the strength to resist.

He fell back upon his instincts as a former warrior, following the lead of the more capable members of the party and flinging potions into the paths of the orcs to restrict their ability to maneuver. The battle dragged on as the orcs took to the woods, wheeling about and attacking sporadically to mitigate the party's advantage in numbers. There were a few close calls, but in the end, the air around the fortress was filled with the stench of sulfur, and all the orcs lay critically injured, with only minor injuries to Rosar and his companions. The young woman was released, and all returned to Ashencrosse as the remaining orcs breathed threats of revenge. Plans would have to be made to defend the town from a future counter-attack. For now, however, the orcs were beaten and everyone was safe.

After he had inspected her wounds, the young woman's friends brought her away from the town, supposedly to a safe, secret location. For his part, Judas pledged to aid Ashencrosse if the orcs came to avenge the insult. Eclyse silently withdrew. Rosar followed her from a distance, but quickly stopped. He doubted she would approve, but she would understand—she always did. The battle was won, and he would have to be content with that.

Physically weary and emotionally sapped, he would sleep soundly that night, but it would be weeks before he could again enjoy that luxury.
_________________
a.k.a., Killian Ond, Oliver Dunham, Iorwerth (ap Gruffydd), Husam (ibn) Sadid, Ortinlem

[Rosar Ashande]

---

"Tell me, Judas—is it worth becoming a monster to destroy one?"

Rosar's own words echoed within his mind. They were spoken to Judas, but his concern then was and had always been with Aurelia. Now, however, he began to doubt his own warning as it applied to him. After all, he had surrendered himself to his hatred, and it had protected Eclyse from the orcish tribe.

But did it really? And even if it did, what had he given up in return?

They were but more questions to vex him as the threat of an orcish counter-attack loomed over Ashencrosse. Anxiety had hounded him day and night since the raid upon the orcish fort, and it could only be quieted by his repeated inspections of the town's defenses. He checked for strong points and weaknesses, referencing a mental checklist and devising ways to fortify the town for an assault.

The palisade was a weakness. It had not been constantly manned and maintained, and it would have to be reinforced and protected from fire.

Did he have any other options? What if he had let her go through with the plan? Did he risk the young woman's safety for Eclyse's sake? Of course he had—was that wrong?

The two palisade entrances were vulnerabilities, but were also potential kill-zones. If the orcs could be confined to attacking one at a time, they could be funneled into the sights of mages and archers. Barricades would slow their progress, and the tight confines would make Rosar's potions more effective.

Was it his actions that were wrong, or just his motivations? In the moments before he tossed the potion that would begin the battle, he had imagined the pain he would inflict upon the orcish chieftain for even considering the harm he would bring to Eclyse. He saw himself kicking in the beast's skull with his boot. He saw its severed, pulverized head spitted upon a pike for all to see as it rotted to bone.

Numbers—the orcs that they had encountered were few, but they were unusually skillful and hardy, and there could be more. Ashencrosse ought to call upon whatever allies it could find to bulk out its defenders. Tokuno, maybe, or even the warriors from Stonegate. He would have to discuss the matter with Eclyse—she had far more contacts outside of the town than he did.

In spite of it all, he knew he could never have made any other decision. He may have been overcome by emotions, but in the end, he had regained control. The orcs were vulnerable to any suffering he could have brought to them, but he thought nothing of them as they lay helpless—it was enough to know that everyone would be able to return home safely.

No. He wasn't a monster. But he had come close, and it shook him to his core. His thoughts turned to Aurelia, as they often did when pondering such things, but for the first time, they were not tinged with the anger he felt for her crime. Now he realized how close he had come to making the same mistake, and how easily fear and uncertainty could lead one with the best of intentions to commit the most horrid acts.

The hatred he harbored for her had driven her to Renthar, seemingly the only person who did not look upon her with judgmental eyes. It had caused her to retreat in shame from those she once called her friends. It gave her no cause to hope to be anything other than a broken woman, and that served no one.

For Rosar, it had caused him to lash out and to suffer his own shame as he thoughtlessly bellowed indictments and threats. They were offered up for the sole purpose of injuring Aurelia, but they had wounded him just as deeply as they had her. He despised the man he was becoming; a man consumed by his hatred; a man he thought had long since been vanquished.

If he could not let it go, it would destroy him.

It had to end.

It would end.

With the pledge made, he would have one final confrontation with Aurelia. Whatever happened, he would release her from judgment. He knew her path; he had walked it several times before, and he knew her suffering.

She had to be made to see this. He had to be made to see that goodness remained within her.

For her sake and for his, they had to be made to understand one another.
_________________
a.k.a., Killian Ond, Oliver Dunham, Iorwerth (ap Gruffydd), Husam (ibn) Sadid, Ortinlem

[Aurelia Bretane]

---

“Aurelia. Genevieve. Bretane. What have you done?”

The young girl startled, strawberry curls afly as she turned around to face her mother. “Mama, I –“ She remembered the white porcelain wing in her hand, and swiftly hid it behind her back. “I didn’t do anythin’ Mama. Honest.”

“Don’t ye lie t’ me girl, I’ll turn ye o’er to yer father. I din’t raise ye to be a liar, an’ I don’t intend t’ start now. Yer five years old now—yer old enough to know better.”

The child began to cry, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean t’ do it. I just wanted t’ fix it.”

“Now, ‘Relia, ye know what I’ve always told ye. Tell th’ truth an’ we can fix anythin’ together. Tell a lie an’ yer on yer own.” Her mother reached behind Aurelia and picked up the figurine, taking the broken pieces from the child’s hands. “Ye’ve broken the wings off an angel, have ye? Well now…wouldn’t it be a sin t’ hide such a thing, and let th’ angel just stay broken an’ flightless?”

Aurelia nodded, and wiped away her tears on her sleeve. Her voice was thick with sorrow as she softly replied. “I’m sorry, Mama. I din’t mean t’ break it. I wanted to fly with her.”

“Well nobody’s flyin’ ‘till ye tell th’ truth and find someone who can help ye.”


********


“I trust you, Aurelia.”

“I’ll take care o’ it, Judas. I promise.” Once again, a promise sealed with a kiss.

Arriving at the doorstep of Carden was a different matter entirely. Here, she was in her own world. One where Judas did not belong – where she wasn’t sure even she belonged. But it was a craved indulgence, one she could not deny. She opened the heavy iron door and stepped inside. Here, near things that belonged to him, she felt a peace that she no longer felt anywhere outside those doors. Quietly, she turned the crank of the music box and listened as the haunting ballad filled the hall, and echoed through the corridors beyond. She knew, too, when the music reached his ears and he hastened forth to meet her.


********


“I trust you, Aurelia.”

Her Lord’s demeanor was stern, but gentle, as he watched her expression – her every move. His words shattered her façade, and she struggled to keep the pieces together.

“Thank ye, My Lord.” She lowered her gaze, that she might not look into those eyes that knew her to her soul, and accepted her for what she was. The gaze that did not judge, the voice that did not cast her aside for iniquity. For all that she had said and done, here was one who would never turn her away.

Perhaps he would understand – if she could only trust him with the truth. Perhaps if he loved her, as she loved him – she could offer up her broken angel to be fixed. Or perhaps he would smash the pieces and call it lost – bleed and burn her for her sins.

No, the pieces would, for now, remain hidden. Her Lord seemed content with her answers.

Aurelia smiled more boldly, and slid over into the seat beside him. “Let us, then, speak o' lighter things, My Lord.” She lifted her eyes and gazed intently into his own, biting her lip in nervous flirtation.

Marcus’ expression softened as he watched her, and he smiled. “Yes, Aurelia…let’s.”

[Arahim]

---

The Hall was too newly made to play host to phantoms. No reluctant memory lingered here clinging to stone or root. Desperate to be acknowledged, and coloring the air with its presence.

No memory, at all, made this place its home.

Most halls Arahim had walked, and even taken oaths in, had seen its floors washed in spilt blood. Be it an isolated incident, or custom, where those of like minds gathered in numbers, their opposites were oftimes drawn.

And at the behest of a similar call.

Here, the floors and walls were pristine, recently washed, and without the briefest signs of age. White marble, and grey stone were offset by rows of red cushioned chairs gilt in gold filigree along the arms and legs, and a thick red carpet leading to a raised square dais.

High above, a large stone ankh hung suspended like some watchful bird of prey with outstretched wings. Whether to take flight, or offer shelter, Arahim could not tell.

He was early, and took care in studying the many tiny facets, and features of the cavernous room. Finding delight in every quirk of detail, or craftsmanship, and quick to imagine a reason behind every discovery, no matter how seemingly minute.

His hard-soled boots clicked mechanically across the alabaster. The sound folding over upon itself in echo, lending it a bolder volume than it truly was. The acoustics funnelling everything skywards to the open roof where a three sided balcony, lined with more chairs, peered down.

The audible illusion made him smile.

Speaking his own name quietly, Arahim craned his neck to listen to his voice race upwards and away. Carrying the secrets of his identity, in a single word, to he knew not where.

His eye was again drawn to the ankh above.