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?”
no subject
Date: 2020-04-25 01:18 pm (UTC)Isidor's introduction to the dead man is bold, confident. Still, it stirs no response. Reticent corpse, indeed. He doesn't blink, doesn't twitch, doesn't even shift his gaze in her direction. She may as well not exist. He remains rigidly staring out the open window, undisturbed by attempts at conversation by the fiancee of Zandros Alter.
At the table across the room, Zandros is attempting to cut a scone in half using only his left hand. With every near-slip Marsha's hands rush forward, then just as quickly she presses them to her knees. Zandros' cheeks are turning red as he fails to stand the scone on its side time after time. In the absence of any words from Ademar the room is filled only by the flopping of the scone, the tinking of a knife, and the almost-imperceptible huffs of Marsha, who may or may not be in physical pain watching it all.
no subject
Date: 2020-04-26 09:51 pm (UTC)She presses forward, trying to be less annoyed than she is. The dead may have all the time in the world, but she does not, so she proceeds with her usual forwardness. "I want to ask you a few questions about being a death knight, if you'd be so kind to answer... Do you know Harrowheart? Harrowheart the Converter?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 04:14 am (UTC)"You ask about being a death knight." His words are tinny with the haunt of his second voice, so much more prominent than Harrowheart's. "And in the same breath, Harrowheart. The Converter."
His eyes drift down her frame, lingering a while on her upper arms before sliding up to her face once more.
"I suppose there is potential in your frame. He would gladly, I think, make you one of us. He might even be convinced to do it bloodlessly, for a..." Another long consideration, this one never leaving her face. "Mmh. A vain and well-bred woman fearing the blemish of age and death alike. If you do not mind, of course, being strangled."
Another bout of silence passes, but a tenseness lingers in Ademar's features. There's more he'd like to say, and many thoughts he forces to remain unsaid. In the end his urges get the best of him, and he says what he'd like -- or a shade of it, at least.
"If you would like an introduction made, begin by asking your fiance. He knows him well. I am sure he would be happy to connect you with his favorite novelty. His little party favor."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 02:32 pm (UTC)Somehow she manages to resist touching her neck, but she does lift her chin and clear her throat from an imagined obstruction while she lets him finish. Now is not the time to imagine getting strangled. Getting strangled by Harrowheart.
Hearing how Zandros treated Harrowheart drops her spirits like a lead weight and her expression hardens. Part of her wants to ask him to elaborate, but she can make a fair guess. Zandros is as close to her world as her parents could get. That's why they chose him, after all. Did Harrowheart even know what was happening? She can see his face on some poor fool in some hazy memory of hers being poked and prodded like an animal being tricked into dancing.
Arms fold in front of her in an attempt to hide the way her hands have balled into fists. "My fiancé is under the impression that Harrowheart died at the fight for Lordaeron. Battles are chaotic, so I'd like to confirm things for myself. Would you be able to help me with that?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 03:39 pm (UTC)"I have known Harrowheart from the day he earned his magic. He and I, we are practitioners of the same art. I fuse battered bodies into constructs. He creates more of our kind, allowing our order to continue. His innate talent is too important to lose. It ensures our people a future. If he was killed, and if any scrap of his body remains, I am certain the other knights would have gathered him up and taken him to Acherus. The necromancers there would reinvigorate his corpse. If they were to do so, I would suggest you put out of your mind the thought of retrieving any debts from him. He would likely lose any recollection of his former existence."
Unable to resist the inextricable pull of the window, Ademar once again turns his attention to the world outside the manor.
"None of his parts have come to me for recycling. Though... Mmh." His eyes narrow and he turns with an uncharacteristic swiftness to face his blinking zweihander. He stares at it with a tilted head, as if to listen closely.
"I see," he finally whispers, then looks to Isidor once more.
"Half of his blade was sent to the forgemasters for repurposing. The other half appears to be missing. A troublesome fate, to be isolated from itself. Starving by now, I am sure."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-29 01:05 pm (UTC)It's easier thought than done.
"Does..." She swallows her concern down and raises her chin again. "Does that mean he's dead or they haven't found his body yet?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-29 04:22 pm (UTC)"Twenty? Twenty eggs this season?" she balks.
A humble laugh from Zandros. "Yes, well. Never count your gryphons before they hatch."
Ademar speaks, and they fade once more into the background.
"A remarkable level of interest not lost on me, Miss Durant. Know, then, that I take no pleasure in telling you that it is not a matter of 'yet.' If his body has not already been recovered, it will not be. Not in a mortal lifetime. For you to ask, I must assume that your bloviating fiance no doubt neglected to inform you of the conclusion of the battle?" He shakes his head.
"The entirety of the city and the battlefield at large have been blighted beyond even the deads' capacity to survive. If his body has not been returned to Acherus, then his bones will rest in Tirisfal until long after your final days."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-30 05:50 pm (UTC)The serious expression is really only because all her attention is on her knees and her diaphragm. One wants to buckle, the other wants to heave when she's told, yet again, that Harrowheart is dead. It's the cold, dead certainty that does it. The uncompromising reiteration of what everyone is telling her.
And then the storm twists and her blood runs hot even as her stomach is sick with sorrow. She has to swallow and take a deep breath to speak, but she does, and she takes her time with it.
"You don't know me, Ademar," she says, trying very hard to remain casual, non-confrontational. Factual in the way of the Archon. "But when I find an answer to what I'm seeking, I expect it to be certain beyond a shadow of a doubt. I cannot accept your word as truth until I hold his bones in my own two hands."
"So. In your opinion, what would be the best way to go about that?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-30 11:43 pm (UTC)"Such a resilient spirit. Potential indeed."
He turns his attention one last time to the window, and finally he nods.
"In this moment, I see two options. The Battle for Lordaeron was not the first time the Forsaken deployed their chemical plague. The same was done at the Wrathgate. That land would still be toxic had the red dragonflight not intervened. Lord Alter holds sway over the red drake Mymrahstrazsa. If you could convince the beast to take you to Tirisfal, its fire may be able to clear the field -- for a short time. You could search the ruins for a sign of him. The missing half of his runeblade, perhaps, if nothing more. Or..."
His lips press tightly together and his brow furrows. What he's about to say next requires some thought.
"If you are as careful as you are steadfast, you could enter Acherus in search of his body. You may even be able to recover his weapon before it is reforged. But know that this decision should not be made lightly. The living are forbidden in the necropolis for their own good as well as ours. To enter and remain unnoticed would require an exceptional illusion, an iron will, and a strong stomach. Should your true nature be discovered you would be executed.
"Consider your course, Miss Durant. Should you wish to enter Acherus, return to me this evening. I can secure your passage and escape through my own deathgate. However, if you are captured, or if you are pursued beyond the necropolis, I must warn you... I will disavow you, and I cannot advocate on your behalf."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 01:50 pm (UTC)Isidor is quiet as she considers her options, though she knows her decision before Ademar finishes his warning.
"I would expect nothing less," she assures him. This isn't the first time she's asked someone to put themselves on the line for her, and it's only good business not to throw them under the bus out of spite. That's how you ruin a reputation.
She levels her gaze at him, looking him in the eye as directly as she can when staring into glowing lights. "I'll take you up on your offer, and do my best not to put you in a precarious position. If it helps ease your concerns, this wouldn't be the first time I've waded through living corpses to get what I needed."
Straightening again, she folds her hands in front of her. "Is there anything I should bring with me? Or wear? Or do to prepare?"
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 02:51 pm (UTC)"A woman of business," he muses, and though his tone has hardly changed there is approval in it.
"Bring a weapon," he's quick to suggest. "Bladed and runeless. Say you intend to make it your new blade. This may help you secure entrance to the forge. Wear a suit of armor. And hide your living scent. When you return to me this evening, if your guise is sufficient, I will furnish you with a tabard of the Ebon Blade."
Then, slowly, he shifts in his seat until Zandros, facing away from the two of them, is squarely in his gaze. Across the room, Zandros is overcome with a shiver. He laughs uncomfortably and takes a hurried bite of buttered scone. Marsha, who sees this, looks to her husband. Her eyes sparkle with fondness and she fights away a smile. Isidor gets a polite wave, and then she's back to conversing with Zandros.
"Take that thing with you," Ademar drones. "If nothing else, he will make an effective sacrifice in a hasty escape."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 03:22 pm (UTC)"Why Ademar, how could you suggest such a thing? He is my fiancé," she drawls back. It's reflexive. Drily making the most meagre of protests is both for amusement and social protection. An age old method of truthfully being able to say she voiced offence at the suggestion.
"A blade I can do, and armour." Turning back to the corpse, she wonders what constitutes a 'living scent'. Perhaps delving into ancient oils used for embalming would help. Frankincense instead of 'bright bouquet' or 'shower fresh'. "He uses the Light. They won't be able to sense that in Acherus, will they? It doesn't cling to the skin or anything, does it?"
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 04:36 pm (UTC)Joking aside, he needs a moment to stew on the questions that follow.
"We do sense the Light's irksome itch. As for a solution... My suggestion would be to smear him in his own blood. The Light-infused blood of the living is a powerful thing. Its scent will attract attention, but a paladin's blood on a dead man is its own explanation and excuse. Now, good luck getting that brave lion of the Light to bleed..."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-06 12:04 pm (UTC)Turning, she goes to rescue Zandros, the odd almost-sweet smile returning for Marsha's sake. "Zandros, we have a few errands to run." For their host she does her best to appear earnest. "I'm sorry we couldn't stay longer. Thank you so much for having us."
It takes a few more pleasantries but eventually they extract themselves from the house. Once they're back in Isidor's apartment the mage breathes a sigh of relief. She pauses, considering Zandros gently for a moment, then says, "Thank you. For keeping her preoccupied. Speaking with Ademar helped immensely."
Then with a deep inhale, she sets her hands on her hips. "We're going to Acherus." Before he can protest, she presses forward. "Tonight. Ademar is going to help us. I have an idea for your disguise, but I have to prepare to make myself more convincing. Do you have any preparations you want to make? Bearing in mind you won't be going in slinging Light around there."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-06 03:05 pm (UTC)In Isidor's apartment, Zandros, dramatist that he is, audibly gasps.
"Isidor, you must be..." He scrunches his eyes closed, clenches his fist, and presses his lips into a thin, white line. He's trying very hard not to doubt her, and even harder not to talk back, but this...
Finally he takes a slow, measured breath. Grounded once more, he very delicately tries, "You must be aware of the danger?"
It's fruitless, isn't it? He sighs, runs his hand through his short-cropped hair.
"My will is already penned. I cannot imagine a more fitting preparation. All I ask is that you not leave me with them. Alive or dead."