Everything's Going My Way
Jan. 17th, 2019 06:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lionofthelightA quiet lesson. A silent walk home.
Anna will be a good shot someday, Harrowheart is sure of it. But how soon will that day come? Soon enough to save her?
She stops him and nudges his arm, and only then does he realize they’re already in front of the family’s shelter. Boisterous voices and laughter escape the boarded window with a sliver of candle light. Confused, Anna and Harrowheart share a look.
“How fucked is our family if we’re worried that they’re laughin’?” he asks, and she accidentally lets out a giggle that she stifles before he has a chance to smile.
He holds his hand out for his blade and it glides into his grip. Anna adjusts her hold on the rifle. With the tip of his sword Harrowheart pushes open the door and both are startled by the loudness of his family’s laughter that comes springing forth.
Harrow is the first to poke his head in. The bell above the door rings and the smiling faces of a dozen people turn toward him.
Make that a dozen and one.
“Zandros,” Harrow rumbles.
Across the small store stands Zandros Alter, impeccably dressed as ever and draped in those expensive furs. At his feet the Weatherhills have crowded around for a story which he, red-cheeked from his smiling, must have been all too eager to tell. There’s a faint smell of alcohol in the air, but Harrow can’t see the bottle.
Behind him Anna nudges his waist with her gun. ”Who?”
Harrow turns and begins to close the door when he’s stopped by his mother’s voice. “Honey, come inside! We’ve just met your friend, Mister Alter!”
“He’s got the best orc stories!” his sister Robin says, beaming. She leans until she can see the glow of her brother’s eye through the crack in the door, then with a friendly wave beckons him in.
Harrowheart shuts the door.
He turns to Anna in a hurry, but there’s no time to explain. They can only share unspoken looks – her confusion, his guilt, his worry, her scrutiny. She reaches out to touch his hand when the door handle twists and pushes it away. Both of them hurry to make room as red-faced Zandros shoves his way out into the cold.
“Harrowheart! Just the man I came to see! Oh, but it’s your family I met instead, and might I say, they are simply lovely! Such wonderful souls, all! They certainly know how to welcome a man.”
Harrowheart opens his mouth, but Anna fills the silence. “Who are you, and what are you here for?” She readjusts her grip on her rifle and Zandros – swaying slightly with each movement – notes it with an uncomfortable, overly-loud laugh.
“Zandros Alter! A friend of your...” His eyes shift to Harrow, then back. “Brother? Oh, but yes! A friend of your brother indeed. Matthew and I have become fast friends! I am the one who healed his wounds, and I returned tonight to make good on my promise to introduce him to the Light!”
Again Harrow tries to speak, and again Anna’s words come faster. “Don’t.” She knits her brow and squares her shoulders. “We all think it’s stupid, that obsession he’s got. Stupid and obnoxious. Don’t put ideas in his head.”
Strained laughter is Zandros’ first line of defense. The drink makes it harder to mind his tone. “It is not in the mind but in the heart and soul in which the Light resides, Miss...?”
Anna’s eyes drag slowly up and down the nobleman, and for a silent moment she simply watches him. Then she reaches for the door, and without an answer disappears inside.
Alone in the street now Zandros turns his wounded chuckling to Harrowheart. “Such a resemblance.”
The lighting shifts as Harrowheart rolls his glowing eyes, then sighs. Already tired of this he drones, “The hell’re you here for, Zandros?”
In wrapping his cloak a little tighter around himself, Zandros finds a softer and more genuine smile. “To find you, Harrowheart. We have much to discuss, but not here. Somewhere private, if you will. In the back of the store there is a cellar. Did you notice? I suspect we would be left well enough alone should we –”
Harrowheart's focus wanes fast. Zandros rambles on for far too long and his thoughts begin to drift. Where will they get more shells for the rifle? Where was Lawrence? He was sure he didn't see him in the group. Tamminy either. What bottle did they open up and drink to toast Zandros? Was Isidor working right now, or was she sleeping? Sleeping in that double bed with fuckin'--
Zandros. Right. He's currently opening up the door to the cellar, and Harrow feels the itch of the Light in the other man's hand. He grumbles in protest, but being a man of no better judgement he follows Zandros into the basement below.
Crates of alcohol clutter the walls of the dusty cellar, leaving particular paths for the shop owner to access their goods. Zandros spins around in search of a place to sit but finds nothing suitable. With a sigh Harrowheart obliges, pulling down two crates to use as seats.
Zandros laughs humbly and mutters, “You always know how to solve a problem.”
Each takes their seat across from the other, and for a moment they sit in silence. Zandros’ Light, held close to his heart, illuminates them both and casts a warm glow on the nearest crates. Shafts of light escape the gaps in his loose fist and dust motes rise, floating through them.
“Harrowheart,” Zandros begins, his voice so quiet in this private space. He's somber as he's ever been, and it takes a great deal of effort to keep his eyes on the other man's face.
“I want to begin this conversation by saying… It is with great shame that I admit that in recent days I have come to realize that I have not treated you with the respect which was due to you.”
No response comes from Harrowheart, whose blue eyes watch unblinkingly as Zandros, eyes downcast, clears his throat and continues.
“At Viatorus’ wedding I acted in a manner most cruel and unrefined. I shamed and disrespected you to assuage my own bruised ego. I acted with greatest impropriety and, though it pains me to admit, bold malice. I allowed myself to push away the morality of the Light and be blinded by my enviousness. And so it is that I would like to begin our conversation… with an apology.”
Slowly, worriedly, he drags his eyes back up to see that Harrowheart is simply watching. His face is inscrutable, his lidded eyes staring blindly. He doesn't breathe or move or even blink the way a living man might, but sits like a mannequin with its face painted on, and merely stares.
Zandros looks down again almost immediately. The Light in his hand dims, and with it the cellar. It's nearly dark now. Dark enough that Harrowheart's eyes cast an equal light that colors Zandros’ furs the palest blue.
“With that confessed… It is my duty to begin by turning from my sins and treating you as I ought to have from the very start. Harrowheart… You are the object of Isidor's affection. I know this much, and, indeed, have known this much for quite a while. It has caused in me a war of emotions. I feel with equal intensity the defensiveness of jealousy, the longing of envy, and… Something more.”
Zandros waits for a response that doesn't come. He pulls his crate forward, just a little closer to Harrowheart, until their knees are touching. Finally the lights of the dead man's eyes move down. They linger there until Zandros’ voice calls them up again.
“An appreciation of you. A certain and wholly unexpected type of endearment. Harrowheart, I look back on all you've done for me and gladness and gratefulness swell my heart. You have supported me despite the fact that I once posed a threat to your love. You brought me to Isidor and invited me to share in your lives. You explained this place to me, guided me through it, and protected me when I made a fool of myself time and again. You held me when I was hurting, shared the joy of drink with me, laughed with me in my own home. And now… I cannot begin to express the gratitude I felt when Isidor told me that you would accept my offer. That you would lay down your proverbial weapons and accept one who was once an enemy as a friend. You would fight the resentment that grips dead hearts and allow life and love to grow between Isidor and myself. To grow, perhaps…”
The Light in his hand dims further, hushed like a whisper until with a final weak flare it goes out. The silhouette of Zandros’ perfectly-sculpted cheeks, his strong nose, his golden hair are all awash in the faint blue light of Harrowheart's eyes.
“Between us all?”
Darkness overtakes them as Harrowheart closes his eyes.
In the quiet blindness Harrow feels the delicate press of lips against his own.
Zandros leans in, shivering, when the tips of cold fingers gently graze his neck…
And squeeze.
He flails and gags in the grip, but the hand has him by the throat so tightly that he can't find the air to beg for freedom. The Light can't answer words he can't pray, so he beats his fists against the unrelenting armor of the monster.
Suddenly he's rising until his feet have no purchase. Beneath him, a pair of icy eyes stare soullessly up.
“Zandros,” his haunted voice echoes.
His head feels tight, his face swollen. He can't see where they're going but feels the death knight carrying him. Behind metal pauldrons the eyes of the runeblade light like mocking laughter, and Zandros’ vision swims.
They're walking up the stairs now, slow and even. Metal boots against concrete. A new light from above.
He's gone blind.
His lungs ache.
He hasn't got it in him to kick, to pound against the armor any longer.
And then a voice, emotionless and even.
“You don't love me. I don't love you. This relationship ain't between us. Let's not go pretendin’ otherwise.”
The death grip on his throat releases and Zandros falls to his knees coughing. He scrambles back and whispers for the Light, but Harrowheart doesn't follow.
“Now go on home and cry to Isidor,” he drones. “She'll give you all the love you deserve.”
Anna will be a good shot someday, Harrowheart is sure of it. But how soon will that day come? Soon enough to save her?
She stops him and nudges his arm, and only then does he realize they’re already in front of the family’s shelter. Boisterous voices and laughter escape the boarded window with a sliver of candle light. Confused, Anna and Harrowheart share a look.
“How fucked is our family if we’re worried that they’re laughin’?” he asks, and she accidentally lets out a giggle that she stifles before he has a chance to smile.
He holds his hand out for his blade and it glides into his grip. Anna adjusts her hold on the rifle. With the tip of his sword Harrowheart pushes open the door and both are startled by the loudness of his family’s laughter that comes springing forth.
Harrow is the first to poke his head in. The bell above the door rings and the smiling faces of a dozen people turn toward him.
Make that a dozen and one.
“Zandros,” Harrow rumbles.
Across the small store stands Zandros Alter, impeccably dressed as ever and draped in those expensive furs. At his feet the Weatherhills have crowded around for a story which he, red-cheeked from his smiling, must have been all too eager to tell. There’s a faint smell of alcohol in the air, but Harrow can’t see the bottle.
Behind him Anna nudges his waist with her gun. ”Who?”
Harrow turns and begins to close the door when he’s stopped by his mother’s voice. “Honey, come inside! We’ve just met your friend, Mister Alter!”
“He’s got the best orc stories!” his sister Robin says, beaming. She leans until she can see the glow of her brother’s eye through the crack in the door, then with a friendly wave beckons him in.
Harrowheart shuts the door.
He turns to Anna in a hurry, but there’s no time to explain. They can only share unspoken looks – her confusion, his guilt, his worry, her scrutiny. She reaches out to touch his hand when the door handle twists and pushes it away. Both of them hurry to make room as red-faced Zandros shoves his way out into the cold.
“Harrowheart! Just the man I came to see! Oh, but it’s your family I met instead, and might I say, they are simply lovely! Such wonderful souls, all! They certainly know how to welcome a man.”
Harrowheart opens his mouth, but Anna fills the silence. “Who are you, and what are you here for?” She readjusts her grip on her rifle and Zandros – swaying slightly with each movement – notes it with an uncomfortable, overly-loud laugh.
“Zandros Alter! A friend of your...” His eyes shift to Harrow, then back. “Brother? Oh, but yes! A friend of your brother indeed. Matthew and I have become fast friends! I am the one who healed his wounds, and I returned tonight to make good on my promise to introduce him to the Light!”
Again Harrow tries to speak, and again Anna’s words come faster. “Don’t.” She knits her brow and squares her shoulders. “We all think it’s stupid, that obsession he’s got. Stupid and obnoxious. Don’t put ideas in his head.”
Strained laughter is Zandros’ first line of defense. The drink makes it harder to mind his tone. “It is not in the mind but in the heart and soul in which the Light resides, Miss...?”
Anna’s eyes drag slowly up and down the nobleman, and for a silent moment she simply watches him. Then she reaches for the door, and without an answer disappears inside.
Alone in the street now Zandros turns his wounded chuckling to Harrowheart. “Such a resemblance.”
The lighting shifts as Harrowheart rolls his glowing eyes, then sighs. Already tired of this he drones, “The hell’re you here for, Zandros?”
In wrapping his cloak a little tighter around himself, Zandros finds a softer and more genuine smile. “To find you, Harrowheart. We have much to discuss, but not here. Somewhere private, if you will. In the back of the store there is a cellar. Did you notice? I suspect we would be left well enough alone should we –”
Harrowheart's focus wanes fast. Zandros rambles on for far too long and his thoughts begin to drift. Where will they get more shells for the rifle? Where was Lawrence? He was sure he didn't see him in the group. Tamminy either. What bottle did they open up and drink to toast Zandros? Was Isidor working right now, or was she sleeping? Sleeping in that double bed with fuckin'--
Zandros. Right. He's currently opening up the door to the cellar, and Harrow feels the itch of the Light in the other man's hand. He grumbles in protest, but being a man of no better judgement he follows Zandros into the basement below.
Crates of alcohol clutter the walls of the dusty cellar, leaving particular paths for the shop owner to access their goods. Zandros spins around in search of a place to sit but finds nothing suitable. With a sigh Harrowheart obliges, pulling down two crates to use as seats.
Zandros laughs humbly and mutters, “You always know how to solve a problem.”
Each takes their seat across from the other, and for a moment they sit in silence. Zandros’ Light, held close to his heart, illuminates them both and casts a warm glow on the nearest crates. Shafts of light escape the gaps in his loose fist and dust motes rise, floating through them.
“Harrowheart,” Zandros begins, his voice so quiet in this private space. He's somber as he's ever been, and it takes a great deal of effort to keep his eyes on the other man's face.
“I want to begin this conversation by saying… It is with great shame that I admit that in recent days I have come to realize that I have not treated you with the respect which was due to you.”
No response comes from Harrowheart, whose blue eyes watch unblinkingly as Zandros, eyes downcast, clears his throat and continues.
“At Viatorus’ wedding I acted in a manner most cruel and unrefined. I shamed and disrespected you to assuage my own bruised ego. I acted with greatest impropriety and, though it pains me to admit, bold malice. I allowed myself to push away the morality of the Light and be blinded by my enviousness. And so it is that I would like to begin our conversation… with an apology.”
Slowly, worriedly, he drags his eyes back up to see that Harrowheart is simply watching. His face is inscrutable, his lidded eyes staring blindly. He doesn't breathe or move or even blink the way a living man might, but sits like a mannequin with its face painted on, and merely stares.
Zandros looks down again almost immediately. The Light in his hand dims, and with it the cellar. It's nearly dark now. Dark enough that Harrowheart's eyes cast an equal light that colors Zandros’ furs the palest blue.
“With that confessed… It is my duty to begin by turning from my sins and treating you as I ought to have from the very start. Harrowheart… You are the object of Isidor's affection. I know this much, and, indeed, have known this much for quite a while. It has caused in me a war of emotions. I feel with equal intensity the defensiveness of jealousy, the longing of envy, and… Something more.”
Zandros waits for a response that doesn't come. He pulls his crate forward, just a little closer to Harrowheart, until their knees are touching. Finally the lights of the dead man's eyes move down. They linger there until Zandros’ voice calls them up again.
“An appreciation of you. A certain and wholly unexpected type of endearment. Harrowheart, I look back on all you've done for me and gladness and gratefulness swell my heart. You have supported me despite the fact that I once posed a threat to your love. You brought me to Isidor and invited me to share in your lives. You explained this place to me, guided me through it, and protected me when I made a fool of myself time and again. You held me when I was hurting, shared the joy of drink with me, laughed with me in my own home. And now… I cannot begin to express the gratitude I felt when Isidor told me that you would accept my offer. That you would lay down your proverbial weapons and accept one who was once an enemy as a friend. You would fight the resentment that grips dead hearts and allow life and love to grow between Isidor and myself. To grow, perhaps…”
The Light in his hand dims further, hushed like a whisper until with a final weak flare it goes out. The silhouette of Zandros’ perfectly-sculpted cheeks, his strong nose, his golden hair are all awash in the faint blue light of Harrowheart's eyes.
“Between us all?”
Darkness overtakes them as Harrowheart closes his eyes.
In the quiet blindness Harrow feels the delicate press of lips against his own.
Zandros leans in, shivering, when the tips of cold fingers gently graze his neck…
And squeeze.
He flails and gags in the grip, but the hand has him by the throat so tightly that he can't find the air to beg for freedom. The Light can't answer words he can't pray, so he beats his fists against the unrelenting armor of the monster.
Suddenly he's rising until his feet have no purchase. Beneath him, a pair of icy eyes stare soullessly up.
“Zandros,” his haunted voice echoes.
His head feels tight, his face swollen. He can't see where they're going but feels the death knight carrying him. Behind metal pauldrons the eyes of the runeblade light like mocking laughter, and Zandros’ vision swims.
They're walking up the stairs now, slow and even. Metal boots against concrete. A new light from above.
He's gone blind.
His lungs ache.
He hasn't got it in him to kick, to pound against the armor any longer.
And then a voice, emotionless and even.
“You don't love me. I don't love you. This relationship ain't between us. Let's not go pretendin’ otherwise.”
The death grip on his throat releases and Zandros falls to his knees coughing. He scrambles back and whispers for the Light, but Harrowheart doesn't follow.
“Now go on home and cry to Isidor,” he drones. “She'll give you all the love you deserve.”