Re: The Game: Chapter 12
In reply to Lyriel Vesper (msg # 9):
Lacking any better options, the P.A.R.T.Y. makes camp as best they can, sets watch, passes the night without incident.
[Private to Lyriel Vesper:
Lyriel's dreams dredge up a memory of time long past...
A little over two years ago
Lyriel looks down in concentration at the glyph before her. Lines of saltpeter swirled and curved together on the tabletop to form the alchemical runes for Creation. She wrinkles her brow, and compares the rune to the illustration in her tome. Making a slight correction to a line with her ring finger, she nods in satisfaction.
Holding a single white feather above the rune, she closes her eyes and focuses inward. Opening her other senses, in her mind's eye Lyriel beholds the web of energy that permeates all existence. Focusing on the nexus before her, she utters a single word of power. "Prakarana!" she intones clearly. The glowing nexus resonates, as if a chord has been struck in the fiber of reality. She opens her eyes, and beholds a white dove in her cupped palm.
Letting out a cry of delight, Lyriel looks up to show her instructor. She arches a sculpted eyebrow in confusion as she notices Professor Annalíena absent from her usual position at the lecturing podium. Looking over to the entranceway of the instruction hall, she sees the professor deep in conversation with one of the Academy aides, usually responsible for running messages between Academy council members and professors. Professor Annaliéna and the aide were discussing something in urgent whispers, both of them shooting glances over at Lyriel.
Annalíena beckons Lyriel over with a wave. Confused, Lyriel gets up and walks over, dove still cooing in her open palm. "Well done," she says absently, indicating the dove. The professor brushes a lock of hair - black shot with silver - from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear before addressing her student. Her normally businesslike demeanor was colored with concern.
"Lyriel, the aide here has brought a message for you. Your father is waiting in the reception hall, and bids you attend him immediately," she says. A look of confusion comes across Lyriel's face, and she makes to return to her desk to gather her things.
Professor Annalíena notices her hesitation, and gently interrupts. "Don't worry about your workstation dear, I will tidy it up. You had best hurry along," she says, her voice infused with a kindness very unlike her normal succinct lecturing cadence. It was that tone, along with the indecipherable look in the older woman's eyes, that turned Lyriel's confusion to concern.
But Father isn't due back from Tris for another two fortnights... The aide holds the door open for her before letting it slam shut with a dull boom. What is this about? Lyriel asks the messenger pointedly.
"With respect milady, I know nothing more than I was bade tell Professor Siléndril. Lord Tolliver Vesper awaits you in the High Council chambers, and asks you to attend him with all due haste. I'm sorry, that's all I know." To emphasize the point, the messenger picks up the pace to a speed Lyriel would have found quite rude had she not more on her mind. She follows without further comment.
The day is unseasonably cold for spring, as if winter was making one last bid for dominance before surrendering to spring's thawing warmth. Her footfalls echo distantly through the stone hallways as she follows the aide to the center of the Twilight Order complex. The young apprentice's mind begin to churn as she walked. There were only a few reasons why her father might require her presence and interrupt her studies in such an uncustomary manner. None of them were good. The one she feared most was the one which cold reason told her was the most likely, and with each step, her sense of dread grew.
Entirely forgotten, the dove vanishes into a pile of dust in Lyriel's palm.
***
Before Lyriel quite realizes what has happened, the aide is opening the door to the High Council antechamber. He gave her a respectful bow as she entered, and then closed the door behind him. Of all the buildings at that Twilight Academy, the High Council building was by far the most opulent. It was built in the traditional Hae'driel Imperial style, with marble columns supporting a frescoed ceiling. In departure from the traditional Hae'driellian subject matter, the ceiling was a map of all the planes in the multiverse, inscribed by arcane runes of translocation. The runes were inert, of course, but they still looked rather impressive. The few times in the past Lyriel had occasion to visit the building, she was always entranced by the ceiling. She would trace out a route among the cosmos, starting in the center and marking a magnificent journey to some plane where ships sailed the skies like oceans, or cities of living crystal rose from seas of glass. Today, however, she hardly even noticed where she was.
Despite the grandeur of the room, Lyriel saw only its sole occupant. Upon her entrance, Lord Tolliver Vesper struggles to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. It seemed every time Lyriel saw her father, he was bearing more and more weight on his shoulders. He greets his daughter with a strained smile that doesn't even begin to conceal the weariness in his eyes.
"I apologize for the sudden summons, dear one, but..." Tolliver Vesper's voice breaks, and he trails off. "We - I - need to talk. Let us return at once to the estate."
Her father's dark expression caused her stomach to knot, and her mouth became dry as cotton. No, Father. Whatever ill tidings brought you here personally to find me, I would know now. I'll not sit in dread the whole carriage ride home. Tell me. What is so urgent?
To her credit, Lyriel manages to keep her voice from quavering, though her heart is racing madly, and the bitter taste of acid fills her mouth. Her father simply looks at her with an exhausted expression, eyes filled with unfathomable sadness. He speaks, and his words confirm Lyriel's darkest fears. With six words, Lyriel's entire world is shattered.
"Your brother has fallen in battle."
Though she had feared the worst, nothing prepared her father confirming it in truth, making all her nightmares for the past month real. Her entire body goes numb, and she sinks into the chair her father had formerly occupied. Distantly she notes that she is shaking uncontrollably, but she cannot actually feel it. She sees her father's lips move, but she cannot hear his words. Her entire body contorts into great, wracking sobs, and the world becomes a smear of light and color through her tears.
***
Her memories of the week that followed are disjointed. Snarled, fragmented, and incomplete. Images of her family, shattered and grief stricken. Her time was spent either mourning in her room, or at other times frantically pacing the rest of the manor, when it seemed as if Eldric was just in the other room, and if she could only get to him he would come back, alive and well. The lines between reality and her fevered nightmares blurred, and she could no longer tell which was which.
Her mother, red eyed and, for the first time in Lyriel's life, unkempt - hair awry, her makeup forgotten black smears on her face. The high-pitched wails of little Alara. Her father, stooped on his cane like an old man with the weight of ten thousand lifetimes on his shoulders, crushing him, grinding him into defeat.
A vision of Eldric, the day he and his force were deployed. Where to, he could not say, but the grim look in his eyes spoke volumes. Lyriel had a horrible feeling that chilled her to her marrow. As he sat mounted at the city gates, ready to ride forth, she had begged him on the brink of tears not to go, to ask for some other assignment. He had simply looked at her sadly. We all serve as we must, sister, he had replied distantly. No matter the cost. Honor demands it. Our family knows that better than any other. Then, leaning over in his saddle, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Be well, Lyr. You have your first semester at the Academy to keep you busy. I'll be back before you hardly even realize I've left.
She had smiled through her tears and nodded, but they both knew neither of them believed it.
Every clanging of the manor doorbell brought fresh condolences from the rest of society. Too many 'sorry for your losses,' 'Tassada has a plan for us all,' and 'he died a heroes' death' to count. Lyriel didn't wan't sympathy. She didn't want pity. And she didn't want memories of a hero. She wanted her brother back.
One night found her prowling the manor well past the stroke of midnight. With all the tapestries replaced with gauzy black curtains, the house seemed darker than the Abyss. She pads silently from room to room in a daze of grief and restlessness.
Voices from the sitting room draw her attention, and she floated over the hardwood floors as the voices became distinct. With dull surprise she registered her mother and father speaking in hushed tones. Drawn more by a need to breakup the monotony of her own thoughts than any desire to eavesdrop, she drifts closer, silent as a specter.
How could they do this? Our only son, lost to some fool mission! her mother said in a quavering voice. To send him to - Lady Vesper's voice is cut off by a curt shushing from her father. "Not even here, Regina. The official story must stand. They can't know you know the details."
From Lyriel's position in the shadows, she can see where here parents stand silhouetted against the dying embers of the fireplace. Her mother sets her jaw, but doesn't say anything further. A long moment passes before her father speaks again. "I am assured that the Tyrant is arranging for the bodies of the fallen to be returned for a proper burial. It seems he is allowing us that much."
Lady Vesper makes a sound in her throat like a strangled cough. Then, Tolliver...why must he remain dead? If we're getting the body, surely the priestesses will restore him life? It hasn't been that long, there's still time! We've served faithfully, surely they won't deny our request! Surely! Her mother's voice becomes hurried, desperate, and she clings onto this last hope with an intensity that frightened Lyriel.
Her father looked as if somebody was twisting a knife in his gut. "Regina...that's not how it works. Even if they could restore the spirit to his body - and it's an iffy proposition at best - there are...other considerations. It's not an option," he concludes dully.
No! I refuse to believe that! I won't! Lady Vesper hisses. I know damn well that the magic isn't flawless. By all the hells, you're a constant reminder of that! she says, pointing sharply at his leg. But to not even try?! If you're too much of a coward to demand his resurrection, then I'll do it myself. If there is even the slightest possiblity, I WILL have my son back!
"NO." Lord Vesper punctuates his flat imperative with the crack of his cane on the floor. "You will do no such thing. I absolutely forbid it. You know not what you ask, woman." Lord Tolliver Vesper stands upright, shoulders unbowed, icy blue eyes glinting with determination in the flickering firelight. For the first time, Lyriel saw her father as the mighty warrior she was told he once was. And for the first time, she believed it.
Lord stares at his Lady for a long moment, and then he continues in a softer voice. "Regina, do you really think I want him back any less than you? And if that there was any way we could have him restored to us, that I would not do anything in my power to do so?" Though he remains unbowed and unbroken, tears now stream freely down her father's face. "Please, my dear, for once in our marriage, trust me on this. You can't make a scene. There's much more going on than you realize. Our family's blood debt.."
Lady Vesper takes an involuntary step back, shocked by her husband's sudden stand. Her lower lip quivers, and then her mask breaks entirely. She rushes to her husband and buries her head in his shoulder sobbing. I'm...su...sorry. she chokes in between sobs. I shouldn't have...I just...he was to be everything for this family. He could have been Grand Marshall, given time. My sweet, dear boy. Now we'll never know. He'll never get married, never have children of his own. Never has a brighter future been extinguished so prematurely. But most of all, I never... A fresh sob chokes out of her mother's throat. I never truly told him how proud I was of him. Of all that he was. And now...I never can. With those words, her mother loses her composure entirely, and dissolves into tears on her husband's shoulder.
Tolliver, for his part, seems just as shocked by his wife's sudden affection as she was by his determination. He lets his cane fall clattering to the floor as he wraps his wife in his arms. He says nothing, but tenderly strokes her back as she cries herself out onto him, tears continuing to stream down his own cheeks.
After a while, Lady Vesper regains her composure somewhat. Her husband wipes away a tear from her cheek. "Either Alara or Lyriel will have to take Eldric's place, you know. On that there can be no compromise. One must always serve the Church."
After a moment, her mother responds Lyriel. Have Lyriel do it. She is already out of the house, and with you at Tris, Alara is all I have left. Please...don't take her away from me too. I couldn't...bear it. Lyriel can serve.
Lord Vesper considers a moment, and nods. "Yes, I suppose that makes the most sense. She isn't too far along in her studies at the Academy yet, it shouldn't be too painful for her to transition to her duties. Though, she was so excited to enroll, I hate to take that from her." He heaves a sigh. "We all serve as we must."
Regina Vesper folds herself in closer to her husband. "That transition might not be all bad for her, you know. As a Priestess she'll be a much more suitable match for marriage. And that becomes even more important now, with...now we have no male heir."
Tolliver Vesper simply nods. "That's a mess that will need to be sorted later. I believe our family name passes to our first male grandchild, but I'll have to consult with the solicitor to be sure. It will matter, for future generations of the blood oath...that's one inheritance that cannot be neglected."
He falls silent, and for a long while the two simply hold each other as the embers fade. "You know...this isn't what I wanted for you, Regina," Tolliver says wearily. "You deserved so much more. More than a crippled old diplomat." He lets out a quiet self-deprecating chuckle. "I know you always blamed me for that," he says, holding up a finger before she can interrupt. "Sssh. I'm not saying this to chastise. I just wanted you to know that I would have done anything to be the man you wanted. So blame me and my failings if you must, but just know that I wished better for you."
This elicits a fresh wave of tears from the Lady Vesper. "Come, let us go to bed," her father says softly. Her mother nods mutely, and together the two leave the sitting room, walking right by Lyriel without noticing her presence. Lord Tolliver's cane remained on the floor before the dying fire, forgotten. He leans instead on his wife as they retire to their chambers.
Lyriel stands there for a while yet, stunned. Too many emotions whirled through her, and the intensity of the moment makes her wish she was somewhere, anywhere else. She fades back into the darkness of the house and returns to her room, where sleep claims her. For once, it is blessedly free of dreams.
The next day, when her father came to tell her that she would be expected to serve Tassada in Eldric's place following his funeral, she didn't argue.
She simply nods. We all serve as we must, she whispers hoarsely.
***
Eight days after receiving word of her Eldric's death came the day of his funeral.
Lyriel stands in cemetery, dressed in black. She shivers in the cold air. A blanket of freshly fallen snow covered the grounds. Snowflakes continue to fall lightly from the leaden skies, stirred by the chill wind into playful flurries. Winter, it seemed, was quite unwilling to relinquish its grasp on the land. Under different circumstances, she would have called the scene beautiful. In the moment, the beauty was entirely lost to Lyriel and her grief.
She stood with her family, likewise arrayed in mourning clothes, all facing the coffin. A older priestess of the faith read the usual rites. Her sonorous voice was the only sound breaking the crisp, snow-muffled silence. The words washed over Lyriel, entirely devoid of meaning. How could mere words express the loss she felt?
Lyriel looked around at the assembled. In the forefront stood the honor guard of six Knights of the Flame, arrayed in their finest dress armor. Comrades of Eldric, she supposed. At least, comrades who hadn't accompanied him on his final mission. Those comrades were to a man all being buried in other plots around Hae'driel.
The rest of the guests were comprised of the usual mix of family friends, and then family acquaintances. People who Lyriel didn't count as close, but who would have felt slighted had they not received invitations to attend the services. A good portion of the aristocracy was in attendance. Eldric was well-liked, and it served many to be seen at his funeral. There were a few faces she did not recognize in the very back of the service. Tall men with cowled robes watching the proceedings with blank faces. Idly she wondered who they were. Some other church officials, she supposed.
Lyriel was jarred back to reality as the monotonous rites drew to what Lyriel knew to be near the end, but before they came to the traditional conclusion, the priestess began a section of the rites she did not recognize. These, it seemed, were reserved for those soldiers of the faith who had fallen in righteous combat. The virtue of the fallen was praised, his heroism held as an example to all the true faithful to emulate. "A life laid down in service of the Goddess is never laid down in vain, and is the most glorious end to which a believer can aspire," the priestess intones.
Those in attendance nod almost as one, and there were many whispers of "En Taro Tassada" in response.
Lyriel felt sick. She didn't want a hero, she wanted her brother. And she didn't want his death cheapened to be some recruitment drive for the Church. Lyriel grits her teeth as the bile rises in her throat as she looks at the happily nodding congregation. For a brief moment, she hated them all.
The honor guard in particular look particularly smug, and if possible they hold their chins even higher, basking in the knowledge that they were the closest to such grace as described by the priestess. Or rather, all except one.
One of the six knights stands at perfect attention like the rest, but tears stream openly and unashamedly down his face. Lyriel studies him, wondering who he was, but in their dress armor it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. His eyes, though, are a curious shade of amber, and for a brief moment, they meet Lyriel's. A distant shock of memory runs through her, hauntingly familiar, though she could not place it. They look at each other for but a few seconds, acknowledgment flickering through their gaze of their shared grief. Whoever he was, he also felt the loss of Eldric keenly.
The moment was broken as the priestess comes to the true conclusion of the rites. As one, the honor guard steps forward, three on each side of the grave. They salute the coffin, and the one bearing the rank Lieutenant-Commander produces a flame from his palm, which he uses to light the ceremonial wreath placed on the coffin. Though the Vesper family had chosen burial over cremation, all of Tassada's funeral rites featured fire to some extent.
Then, as the wreath caught, the six knights grasp the ropes that lowered the coffin into the earth's waiting embrace. With a dull thud, her brother came to his final rest. The grave was dug into the rich red dirt of the Hae'driellian countryside. It gaped like an open wound - a black pit marring the otherwise pristine white landscape. Then, each attendee in turn steps forward to pitch a handful of dirt into the grave. One by one they come, slowly sealing her brother in his rest. The last four handfuls were reserved for the immediate family. Lyriel places hers last, completing the mound of red dirt.
The wound has become a scar.
The funeral party slowly filters away, back towards the light and warmth of the city, but Lyriel remains. At last, it is just her and her father. He squeezes her shoulder comfortingly before he too turns and heads for the city, limping through the snow with his cane.
How long she stands there, she doesn't know. The wind tugs at the hem of her dress and at her veil, bringing a swirl of snowflakes eddying around her, but she hardly notices. Her tears have long since frozen tracks down her cheeks. As the day's last light fades, she says her final farewell. Goodbye, brother. May you find some peace and comfort in the hereafter. If any I knew deserved paradise...it was you. A low sob escapes her. It was you.
At long last she turns her numb feet towards the lights of Hae'driel, glowing warmly in the distance, and towards whatever new future was in store for her as a servant of the Church.
She begins the long walk home.
We all serve as we must.]
The morning dawns, cold and dreary, with darkening clouds making good on their promise of additional snow.
