Empty Things
Dec. 29th, 2019 03:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lionofthelightAn empty box. A waste of wood, of gold, of effort. An empty box to fill a grave in which no body would ever rest. His mother and his sister could fill it with imagination and find closure in it, but not Zandros. Zandros knew exactly where his father’s bones would rest. And, Light, he hoped they were resting. That was a lie he could tell himself, at least. Resting — though not beneath sweet roses. Resting elsewhere, he could imagine, half buried in the mud. Resting, he hoped. Merely resting.
A golden medallion. Another worthless trinket. A gesture from the King to those who had braved the war and, against all odds, returned. A ceremony of a thousand men and women, and between them all half as many limbs as there ought to have been. The heavy pin on his chest would never be enough to balance the weight of a missing hand. It belonged in a drawer, he determined at once. Piled away beneath forgotten things. Buried.
He would never fight again. Even if his heart, his mind, his soul had wanted to — and, oh, how they desperately did not — his wound would always hold him back. Without his father, the burden of the family business would fall on him. All the better that he might occupy himself with something so quiet, he had thought, until he held a quill in his left hand and failed to write his own name.
And even his family name would fade. He was promised to a woman from a far-off place where he would surely be sent for the remainder of his days. Payment for their connection. And what of his old life would remain for him, then? What of the Alters? In a matter of years would they all be Durants? Consumed by a greater power, would they fade into obscurity?
A week passed by before Zandros could bring himself to return to his new family. After all, how could he face them as the wretch he had become? Would they comment on the way he wheezed? Would they stare at his stump? They would, certainly. They would focus on what had changed. They would ask after what was missing. And how could he tell them the worst of it? That the person they wanted to return — the one they would spare a thought for — had died to save him? Harrowheart had killed a dozen or a hundred good men that day only to save the one that he should have left to die.
When Zandros finally returns to the Nexus it isn’t in his typical finery. That morning when he’d bundled himself against the cold he found himself content in country beige and brown. It felt right, he noted as he made his way to Viatorus’ apartment, that no one should spare him a second thought. It was a sensation he’d never truly understood until he trudged through the snow with his shorn hair under a tweed cap and his stump arm hidden beneath the buttons of his jacket: Humility.
And he would need it in spades today.
In the late hours of the morning he knocks against the door of Viatorus’ apartment. It was the place he’d been when he’d last seen them. Where they’d last seen Harrowheart, he assumed. Remembering their last encounter with the death knight in the Nexus brought a chill into his soul. The glee that had warmed him as he’d heard him fighting the Durants now freezes his stomach. The memory of his joy turns to shame in his heart. What a demon he had been. What a loathsome man. All for a future he was no longer certain he wanted. Not certain he had ever wanted, really.
He knocks once more and hopes they might surprise him with their faces. He hadn’t warned them of his coming, he realized. Light, they might not even be home. If they didn’t show, would he have to face the Weatherhills instead? Would he have to be the one to tell them? He wasn’t sure he could bear that.
“Viatorus?” he calls. “Runa? I-... Isidor?” It's difficult to raise his voice, but he takes in a ragged breath and tries again, louder. “Is anybody home?”
A golden medallion. Another worthless trinket. A gesture from the King to those who had braved the war and, against all odds, returned. A ceremony of a thousand men and women, and between them all half as many limbs as there ought to have been. The heavy pin on his chest would never be enough to balance the weight of a missing hand. It belonged in a drawer, he determined at once. Piled away beneath forgotten things. Buried.
He would never fight again. Even if his heart, his mind, his soul had wanted to — and, oh, how they desperately did not — his wound would always hold him back. Without his father, the burden of the family business would fall on him. All the better that he might occupy himself with something so quiet, he had thought, until he held a quill in his left hand and failed to write his own name.
And even his family name would fade. He was promised to a woman from a far-off place where he would surely be sent for the remainder of his days. Payment for their connection. And what of his old life would remain for him, then? What of the Alters? In a matter of years would they all be Durants? Consumed by a greater power, would they fade into obscurity?
A week passed by before Zandros could bring himself to return to his new family. After all, how could he face them as the wretch he had become? Would they comment on the way he wheezed? Would they stare at his stump? They would, certainly. They would focus on what had changed. They would ask after what was missing. And how could he tell them the worst of it? That the person they wanted to return — the one they would spare a thought for — had died to save him? Harrowheart had killed a dozen or a hundred good men that day only to save the one that he should have left to die.
When Zandros finally returns to the Nexus it isn’t in his typical finery. That morning when he’d bundled himself against the cold he found himself content in country beige and brown. It felt right, he noted as he made his way to Viatorus’ apartment, that no one should spare him a second thought. It was a sensation he’d never truly understood until he trudged through the snow with his shorn hair under a tweed cap and his stump arm hidden beneath the buttons of his jacket: Humility.
And he would need it in spades today.
In the late hours of the morning he knocks against the door of Viatorus’ apartment. It was the place he’d been when he’d last seen them. Where they’d last seen Harrowheart, he assumed. Remembering their last encounter with the death knight in the Nexus brought a chill into his soul. The glee that had warmed him as he’d heard him fighting the Durants now freezes his stomach. The memory of his joy turns to shame in his heart. What a demon he had been. What a loathsome man. All for a future he was no longer certain he wanted. Not certain he had ever wanted, really.
He knocks once more and hopes they might surprise him with their faces. He hadn’t warned them of his coming, he realized. Light, they might not even be home. If they didn’t show, would he have to face the Weatherhills instead? Would he have to be the one to tell them? He wasn’t sure he could bear that.
“Viatorus?” he calls. “Runa? I-... Isidor?” It's difficult to raise his voice, but he takes in a ragged breath and tries again, louder. “Is anybody home?”
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Date: 2020-01-02 11:14 am (UTC)Runa dutifully prayed to Odin every night, as though her gods might reach into another world and guard her friends. Or at least greet them at the halls of Valhalla. Viatorus spent countless hours thinking about them when he should have been sleeping. Wondering about last words shared, about where they might be now... And Isidor... Isidor worked. She continued on with half a blade hanging over her, ready to drop, held up by magic and glass.
The knocking is a little unexpected. There weren't as many people coming here anymore. So many people had resigned themselves to their nightmares, and friends seemed to be vanishing. It startles Runa out of her spot on the couch where she'd curled up with a book and hot chocolate. For once she's foregone her delicate blouses and pretty skirts for a woollen jumper-dress, thick leggings and comfortable slipper boots. Comfort is the name of the game, since she has no one to host.
When she opens the door she has to take the sight of the stranger before her. This is a completely different man to the one who left them what seemed an age ago, and it takes her too long to put his name to his face.
"Zandros?" she breathes and then, without another thought, she steps up to hug him tightly. "Thank Odin! I'm so glad to see you! I'm so glad you're alive!"
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Date: 2020-01-02 01:35 pm (UTC)That’s when he really feels what’s missing. What does he do with his other arm? What’s left of it, anyway. There’s not much left of his forearm but a folded, clipped up sleeve. At a loss for what to do, he simply raises his arm out of the way and tries to avoid touching her with it.
In a quiet voice he says, “Thank Odin, indeed. And my gratitude to whomever else you might have asked to intercede on my behalf. I am certain I would not have made it home if not for the guidance of higher powers. And your protective charm, as well. I feel I would not be here without that great kindness on your part. I only wish I could have brought it home.”
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Date: 2020-01-06 06:03 pm (UTC)When she pulls back and sees his missing arm she audibly gasps. She looks up at him in surprise, as if he might not have noticed his missing limb, and then back at his folded sleeve again. Once she gathers herself, she takes his hat from him and puts her hand in his, clasping it tightly as she leads him into the apartment.
"Sit down and I'll get you something to drink. Would you like tea, or wine? Scotch?" Swooping into her home she sets his hat down, closes the door behind them and starts towards the kitchen. "Have you eaten?"
Catching herself on the doorframe of the kitchen, she looks back at him. "Does Isidor know you're back?"
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Date: 2020-01-07 01:56 am (UTC)To be gasped at.
Zandros' face blanches and he averts his eyes. He expects to be trapped in that awkward limbo for quite some time, but soon enough Runa has him by the hand. And how strange it feels to be led by his left. Still, he follows without protest, glad to be accepted and to be out of the hall. There's something comforting about the privacy of a home at a time like this.
He takes a seat, as she suggested, and he does so with only minor inconvenience. He's almost used to lowering himself into chairs with just one arm at this point. The tougher thing is figuring out what to do with what's left below his elbow after. It doesn't rest well on the arm of the chair, but it doesn't feel right to hang in front of him, either. He fidgets and fusses as he tries to find the perfect angle for himself.
"Hmm? Oh, Light. I am greatly inclined to ask for a Scotch, but I have been avoiding all manner of spirits since my accident. I fear it may do me no good to become accustomed to such habits." He laughs halfheartedly, then coughs. "A tea, if you would, would warm my body and my spirit."
He leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. She isn't far, but the thought of raising his voice so that she might hear him already has his lungs aching.
"I've eaten nothing today. I find it has become a frustrating endeavour. In the past weeks I have eaten a great deal of soup, and, if I can admit it, spilled twice as much on myself." He stops for a breather, then finally sighs. "The kitchen staff were gracious enough to cut my food for me, but I had to request they stop. I felt like a child or--" An invalid. Well. He supposes he is. But he won't be saying that out loud.
"I would be grateful for a piece of bread?"
Light, so many words. With his lungs so sore, he's going to have to rid himself of the habit of speaking so much.
"You are the only one who knows I have returned. I've yet to see Isidor. I... I'm not sure I..."
He scrubs his hand down his face. His cheeks feel hot. He hasn't even had to say the words and already he's not sure he can. He wouldn't mind if she didn't hear his next, quiet words.
"I may not be brave enough."
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Date: 2020-01-08 10:40 am (UTC)She pauses in the doorway until she hears his answer and then slips away into the kitchen. How can she possibly understand what he's feeling? Who knows what he saw? What he experienced...
Arranging a neat little spread for Zandros gives her time to think. Right now she needs to make sure he's alright. Isidor can find out later. Just... Not too much later.
When she returns it's with tea and a small medley of food for Zandros. There's a plate with a cinnamon roll beside a few slices of bread (brown and cracker bread) with thin toppings kept in place by a generous amount of roe. It's all small and neat, perfect for one hand. In case none of that appeals, there's a bowl of muesli and fruit with yoghurt instead of milk. It's how she prefers it, but it might also stay on the spoon a bit better.
After all of that, she sits down and clasps her hands in her lap.
"You are more than brave enough. But I understand if you're tired. I won't tell her until you want me to. You can rest now. I'll make sure you're taken care of."
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Date: 2020-01-08 02:36 pm (UTC)Now he only has to determine to be hungry enough to eat more than a few bites. The thought of what he wants to say — and, more complexly, needs to say — grips his stomach. Still, he chooses a piece of cracker bread to sample. He takes a bite and starts to chew, then quickly sets it down.
He needs that hand to wipe at his eyes.
“It’s lovely,” he repeats for lack of words.
He tries to turn away, as if Runa won’t see him rubbing at his nose and scrubbing away his tears. And what an indignity, to do so without a handkerchief.
In a moment he calms his breathing and collects himself, and, red-cheeked and redder-eyed, he turns back to face her as if nothing at all were wrong. Still, he needs a moment before he’s able to speak.
“You are a very kind woman, Runa. You remind me of Catherine. The woman I once loved. I... I feel my heart would be well-suited to a woman cut from cloth as soft as yours. But.”
But.
“I fought with everything I had to win the hand, if not the heart, of a woman forged from steel, and now I must learn to content myself with hard stares and cold touches. I wished for so long that the man she truly loved would be gone and leave her to me, but now and for all time I see that I shall be faced with a reflection of my own heartlessness. A lifetime of her rejection will be my righteous punishment.”
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Date: 2020-01-10 06:46 pm (UTC)"It's alright," she assures him in a soft coo. "You're safe now. You don't have to hide from me."
Being a comfort has always been her role, really. From comforting her parents, to her sisters, her friends, and to be the comfort Viatorus can't quite express. And yet his comparison to Isidor comes as a bit of a surprise. As surprising as the pang of guilt and the question of whether she has been too comforting.
"Zandros..." For a minute she's lost for words and she stumbles to find what she should say. "You deserve to be happy. Especially after all you've been through."
She hesitates again and when she speaks it's just shy of a whisper. "Do you... love Isidor?"
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Date: 2020-01-10 07:53 pm (UTC)“How am I meant to answer that? After all this time, after everything that has transpired — everything that I have done — how could I ever...”
His green eyes search Runa’s face. Only he can choose what he says next, but, Light, wouldn’t it be a relief if he didn’t have to speak a word? He suspects he doesn’t, really. She wouldn’t have asked without already knowing the answer.
“For a time I was certain that I would. Then I merely thought perhaps I could. Briefly, I thought she could, too. But even if we do not or cannot, what good could come of publicizing our misery? The consequences of cancelling our arrangement now are too steep — for the both of us. Our fates are bound.”
His lips press tightly together. Once more he finds himself searching Runa’s face.
“What Harrowheart said... About your marriage... Was he wrong?”
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Date: 2020-01-11 04:22 pm (UTC)"Viatorus doesn't know what love is. Not real love. It's not an easy thing to teach, as it turns out, but... Given time I'm sure he'll come to love me. I'm sure my love for him will grow."
Taking a moment, she pours Zandros' tea for him. "It's like a tree. While our love is young it's tender and uncertain, but with good soil, plenty of light and water... It will turn into a tall, strong oak."
Carefully setting down the pot, she turns to him again. "I think you should follow your heart, Zandros. I think you should find happiness, not misery. If you can be happy with Isidor, I'm glad for you, but I don't think you're as trapped as you feel you are."
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Date: 2020-01-11 05:15 pm (UTC)"You're a wise young woman. Volva, indeed," he says softly, and finds that, despite it all, it's easier now to smile -- if only just.
He reaches for his tea, takes a small taste, and nods his approval.
For a while, then, he's content to be silent. To eat the food, drink the tea, and feel secure.
But eventually his thoughts creep back in, and he can't fight the nervousness that's sprouting in him.
"Did he return to say goodbye? Harrowheart, I mean. Did he make things right before he left?"
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Date: 2020-01-19 12:22 am (UTC)Zandros goes and mentions Harrowheart and Runa ducks her head, suddenly intensely focused on flattening out her skirt. "No... No, he didn't."
Her hands stop in their tracks, palms pressing into her knees. "Have you seen him?"
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Date: 2020-01-25 01:30 pm (UTC)"I-- I did see him," he admits with slow uncertainty. "Before the battle, I tried to speak with him. I tried to... Apologize for... For the unkindnesses I had subjected him to in my jealousy. I suppose it was too little, too late."
He squeezes his palm between his knees.
"Perhaps," he begins, then pauses for a long while as he finds his words. Eventually he looks Runa in the face. "We ought to call for your husband, and for Isidor. I suspect I have one telling of the rest in me, and they deserve to hear it."
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Date: 2020-01-26 04:42 pm (UTC)"We can wait, if you like. You can rest before you talk to them. We have a spare bed if you want to sleep a little."
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Date: 2020-01-28 02:08 am (UTC)"I-I suppose I could," he mutters. Yes. He nods. "I need it more than I would like to admit. Lead the way, Runa. I shall sleep awhile -- or close my eyes, at the very least. You may call the Durants. When they arrive, do not hesitate, but wake me at once. I shall be relieved to finally have the burden of my story lifted from my shoulders."
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Date: 2020-02-01 04:30 pm (UTC)Cleaning up is a nice distraction, and she uses the excuse of not waking Zandros to slow herself down to an excruciating pace. Despite his request, she takes her sweet time in contacting the Durant siblings. She messages Viatorus first and waits for his delayed response before finally, slowly, messaging Isidor.
The patron is there within minutes.
"Where is he?" She demands, breaking the silence with something between fear and fury.
Runa, rushing out of the kitchen, shushes her as swiftly as she can. "He's sleeping!" Isidor's eyes jump towards the guest bedroom, but Runa puts a hand on her arm. "We'll wait for Viatorus."
Who arrives a moment later, having prepared himself as well as he possibly could. At least this time he has a shield to protect against the wave of emotions around him. Something he's grateful for the second he's in the same room as Isidor. Her jaw might be tightly shut, but her emotions are running wild.
"Right then." She turns to Runa. "Let's wake him up."
The völva gives her a stern look. "Be kind to him, Isidor."
That... actually chastens Isidor a little, the patron glancing downward with a light frown. They wait in silence while Runa knocks gently on the guest bedroom door. "Zandros," she calls softly, and then stronger, "Zandros? I wanted you to know that Isidor and Viatorus are here. Take your time to rest. Don't rush."
Don't rush. Isidor scowls at that, before folding her arms and trying to distract herself for what seems like an inevitable wait.
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Date: 2020-02-01 05:16 pm (UTC)But the sound of Isidor's commanding voice seizes him. If he didn't want to leave the room before, he's certain he doesn't now. But Runa's soft voice is calling him, and what comes next is a duty he must fulfill.
Still, he doesn't arrive immediately. He doesn't have to be an empath like Viatorus to know the emotional minefield he's about to enter.
When he finally leaves the room there's no hiding what's become of him. Without a coat to hide the shape of his arm it's plain to see where his limb abruptly ends in a knot of scars, seared by fire and forged of the malformed flesh from an intense and hasty healing spell. His hair is cut short, not unlike Harrowheart's, but uneven and wild.
His eyes fall on Runa first, and he finds it difficult to look away from the one person he knows will understand and support him. Next he looks to Viatorus, who, he expects, will at least not blame him for what he has to say. The hardest to confront is Isidor. He steals a glance at her, but hardly a second passes before his gaze falls from her face.
Unsure of what comes next, he says in a small voice, "Thank you all for coming. I suspect you all have questions..."
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Date: 2020-02-01 05:32 pm (UTC)After the silence that follows Zandros' prompt, Viatorus nervously asks, "How are you?"
"What a stupid question," Isidor says, looking to her brother as if offended on Zandros' behalf.
Eager to put kinder words into the air, Runa swiftly turns to Zandros before Isidor has a chancer to ask any question of her own. "Our questions can wait. What do you want to share?"
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Date: 2020-02-01 06:05 pm (UTC)“We did not win the battle. We could not defeat the Forsaken, and we will never hold Lordaeron. It was...”
He presses his lips together and knots his brow. It’s anger that he feels now. Frustration and betrayal at the thought of it all.
“It was a pointless massacre, void of all honor and accomplishing nothing.”
With a ragged breath he raises his head and, determined in this moment to no longer be afraid, he looks between the three Durants.
“I have been maimed for nothing. My father died for nothing, and I can only pray that his body will rot rather than be twisted into some ravenous ghoul by Forsaken necromancy. And your friend, Harrowheart, whom despite it all I believe each of you loved, has been unmade... For nothing.”
The pain in his lungs is all that keeps his breathing steady. His cheeks red, his chest trembling, he sits in near-silence broken only by the rattle in his chest and the rawness in his throat.
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Date: 2020-03-08 03:13 pm (UTC)Runa breaks the stillness first, stepping up to him and wrapping her arms around him tightly. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."
Viatorus rocks on the spot, pale and nauseous, until finally he guides himself to a seat. His head is filled with water, with too many feelings and thoughts to process them all at once. So instead he sits quietly, hoping they wash over him.
With Runa embracing Zandros, and Viatorus staring at the floor, only the paladin can still see Isidor. Her head is still held high, stuck in its proud and determined position, but the pain in her eyes and her twisted features are unmistakable.
He's wrong. He must be wrong. This must be a trick, she thinks to herself. Is Harrowheart hiding, so that they can be together in peace? He can't be dead. He's already dead. She told him to return. He wouldn't go away and die. He wouldn't dare. Zandros must be wrong. He's lying. You're lying, she wants to scream at him, but no sound comes out. Her throat is petrified, unable to make a sound. Unable to plead, Please tell me you're lying.
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Date: 2020-03-09 05:32 pm (UTC)He looks up from the hug, then, and Isidor’s chilling gaze strikes him like a lash. He struggles against the sense of self-preservation that tells him to look away. In the end he maintains and finds the dignity to keep his eyes on hers. After all, to look away would be to admit guilt in a death he didn’t cause — but one which he nonetheless failed to prevent.
So perhaps he isn’t guilty, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t shame. Shame and disappointment, and, for once, empathy. A mutual pain in loss. His brows tilt and his lips press thin, but he doesn’t break his stare. She deserves to see it in his face.
It’s true.
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Date: 2020-03-12 09:23 pm (UTC)When Runa steps away from Zandros she's made a damp spot on her shoulder, and quietly wipes at her eyes with soft sniffles, Isidor returns and hands Runa a glass. Then Isidor presses another glass into Zandros' hand and meets his gaze. It's stony, but... not quite cold. If this is true, if it's really true, then she's glad he told her, rather than leaving her wondering and waiting. And when she steps away to get the drinks for herself and her brother she preoccupies herself with thoughts of how she might check. Will she need to scour the battlefield herself? Would she be able to scry for him...?
Those thoughts keep her steady. Ostensibly steadier than Viatorus who seems completely vacant until she forces the drink into his hands. At first he jolts slightly, shaken from his inner thoughts, and then murmurs a thank you and stares into the amber liquid.
After a minute of not drinking it he asks, "Do death knights get funerals?"
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Date: 2020-03-14 03:35 am (UTC)Maybe he will have that drink after all.
He fills the silence that follows with three increasingly long sips, and with that the glass is empty. Just as he sets it on the table, Viatorus speaks.
And what a question.
No, he wants to say. He isn't sure that's always true, but he's sure he's never heard of it. No, he stops himself from telling Viatorus. They find the spent bodies and grind them up for spare parts.
He catches himself staring, jaw clenched. His eyes dart to Isidor, but his gaze doesn't linger. He knows the answer he ought to give.
"I think the real question is... Does he?"
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Date: 2020-03-14 03:34 pm (UTC)"He deserves one," Viatorus says glumly.
"We'll do something for him," Runa agrees as she tries her best to get herself together. "Not tonight, but we'll arrange something."
In the midst of all this grief, Isidor's fierce glaring could be taken as a more soft-hearted expression of pain, and Runa is certainly taking is as such. It's not, though, and Viatorus would know that if he could raise his eyes from the ground. The patron has to catch herself from squeezing her glass too tightly, lest it shatter. So instead she drains it and sets it down.
"I have work to do," she declares. It's the first thing that comes to mind to get her out of this hellishly restrained atmosphere.
Runa turns to Zandros. "You should stay with Isidor." And then to her sister-in-law. "He shouldn't be alone, and neither should you."
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Date: 2020-03-14 04:03 pm (UTC)"Work would be a relief," he mutters.
He looks to his fiance and nods once more, confident now with a new direction. "Whatever you need now, I shall endeavor to provide."
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Date: 2020-03-14 04:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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