#heliokrantor

( 陰の太陽 ) —

The sound of purposeful footsteps announced his coming. It couldn’t be helped. He had yet to settle in to the carefully laced shoes, proper, that had been forced onto his feet since the start of that week. They were, at least, once size too large. But, he would grow, of course. He should have been grateful. At least, that was what he heard. He had yet to decide if he believed it.

His sister, naturally, was easy to find. She was attended to at all times and no one refused him answers when he asked. Whether their kindness was out of shock or respect, he did not know. He did not care. His attention was on her. 

He was supposed to be elsewhere--- out of sight, out of mind--- but he had, somehow, managed to quite literally fade away in front of that afternoon’s tutor. The walk to his sister’s rooms was not far. He knew the way well. He went to her often these days.

It felt far, though. Today especially--- Those damned shoes would have to go. He’d had enough of this dressing up. It made no sense. He never saw anyone anyway. Fools.

He did not knock when he found her parlor. He had yet to think of a reason to need to do so. And so, the large door swung open slowly, carefully. He entered without pause. Then, before he addressed her--- or anyone else in the room--- he carefully shifted, wavered in his awkward footing, and closed the door behind him. The click was so slight it might as well have not sounded at all.

He turned around, at that, an uncomfortable blend of satisfaction and discomfort playing in his face. Neither were particularly subtle. His eyes found her immediately.

  Takes a while for Zulf to start talkin’ again. Ha - who can blame him? Ain’t just his pride that’s still recovering from the Terminals. He’s been lyin’ there for days, and I start to think maybe he's just waiting to die. When he gets up, joins us at the fire, Zia looks ready to burst. She’s not sure if she wants to punch him or hug him. Before she can say anything, he says there’s something he wants to do, before anything else.

  He heads into the shrine like his boots are made of lead. Kid’s already in there, and he watches Zulf without saying a word. There’s offerings on three of those stone pedestals. Kid’s left some shard pieces by the statue of old Pyth. Force of habit. Then there’s Zia’s basket of apples, set on the shrine of Garmuth. Zulf and I lay a couple of old gold pieces down for Micia. Makes sense for Zulf; gold got him through life, Tazal to the City. Me? Weeell, what does it matter?   The Ura take the gods seriously; if Mother is Zulf’s favourite now, she probably has been since the day he was born. But the Kid watches as Zulf stands there in front of Micia, like he’s waiting for her to speak. Then he gives her a bow, like the proper gentleman he is, takes up his gold pieces, and carries ‘em across the crowded room, where he lays them down at the feet of a different goddess. Acobi. The chains that bound the Chastened Maid were of her own making; make a promise, and she’ll keep you to it. Kid knew why he did it, but that didn’t make it easier to watch. He thought he should leave, give Zulf a moment of peace; but before he could, Zulf stopped him, looking the Kid in the eye for the first time since Tazal. What happened back there, he says, Won’t ever happen again. You don’t have to take my word for it, if my word means nothin’. Take Acobi’s. 

As ever, M-Dawg, you are a ray of sunshine. There’s a small list in my head of people whose approval I Need or else I’m Doing It Wrong, regardless of the muse or subject, and you’re on that list. 

//HOW DID YOU KNOW IT WAS MEEEEeeeee

  The word “regret” causes a catalogue of images to flash one after another through his mind, and almost every one of them has to do with blood, or money, or both. 

  There’s an incident that stands out in his mind, though. She -- the Lone Wanderer of myth -- had happened across a place... a single street, not fit to be called a settlement. Only two families lived on it. An old man met them on the road and told them to leave, but she was tired and he was worried for her wellbeing. They traded a few caps for a space to sleep in for the night. She had gone out for some air in the early hours and seen the man of the Smith house sneaking out of a shed out back. She was curious; she was always curious. Seeing that he had left the door unlocked, she slipped inside and found the reason for old man Harris’ hysterical warnings. Corpses cut like brahmin, on hooks and on tables. A refrigerator full of meat.

  If he hadn’t followed her out, they would both have died that night. The Wilsons and the Smiths had noted her trespass and flanked the shed doors, armed well for such a simple, homely little group. They didn’t seem surprised by her discovery. It was almost as if they were planning to kill her all along.

  The children of the two families fled and hid with the old man, and the Smith and Wilson couples closed in. She got off a couple of good shots and hit both the Smiths, but was snatched by the Wilson husband and held by her hair on the dead grass, her knees in the dirt, a cheap pistol to her head. Charon shot him in the back as he emerged from the house, hit the wife across the back of the head with the stock of his gun and put his boot on her arm before she could scramble up and run. His employer clawed her way backwards from the scattered mess of Mr Wilson’s corpse, panting in the darkness. Charon leaned down and picked up Mrs Wilson by her collar. As he did, she dared look up and meet his eye. Her expression turned to one of shock, and she seemed to be trying to say something -- but with a glance over his shoulder at his employer with her hair plastered to her face and her clothes splattered with someone else’s blood, he threw Mrs Wilson back onto the ground and shot her twice in the chest. 

  After a moments’ breathing space, he shouldered his gun and offered a hand to the Wanderer. Shivering in the cold and from the shock, she took it and got to her feet. It seemed to take her a second or two to truly understand what had just happened, and when she did, she threw her arms around him and stood there, possibly crying, but mostly just shaking. 

  Charon stiffened almost imperceptibly at the sound of Caesar’s voice; his words only worsened Charon’s apprehension. Luckily, as he stood to one side of the Legionary, his discomfort was not made obvious. 

// your side notes are killing me c-diamond I have to work I can’t afford to die

// I've missed your drabbles, too, ah... This was... and that FORMATTING... Normally I try to find something useful to say, but this so /visceral/ - and amazingly well-written, too, but I think visceral is precisely the word to use...

ooc; Ah, thank you! I don’t think that she would’ve been particularly logical at a time like this. For all the times she’s acted as if she’s in control or has been in control of her emotions, this was one of the few very times that she couldn’t be. I’m glad that came across.