RP:Penumbra

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

Summary: Death marches on Lithrydel. Esche bids Lionel good fortune in the wars to come.

Cenril

It was half past four in the morning -- the proverbial ‘Hour of the Wolf’ -- and Lionel O’Connor felt restless.

The sea rolled up to the Cenrili shores with a slow, methodical whoosh. Each wave broke into the next so that there was never a silent moment, but the breaking waves were quiet enough to be as white noise like the tapping of Lionel’s foot to the pinewood floor. Together the waves and the foot made for a harmonious thing, and as the minutes passed in the inky blackness of the tavern’s top-floor guest room, the only telling of time was through the bright flame of the candle positioned atop a modest oaken bureau. Its flicker cast shadows against one sparse beige wall and did nothing to slice through the darkness throughout the rest of the room. Lionel could have moved the candle for better light if he wished it. He preferred the solitude that came with shadows.

Beads of soft light popped into the air behind Lionel and manifested into white snakelike streaks. The streaks coalesced and came together in a gradually humanoid form. The form took on textures, like an emerald robe and distinctively pointy ears, and then gentle eyes appeared and the rest followed. The elf took a casual perch at the edge of the bed opposite Lionel’s and placed his staff on the floor between them.

“You know, Esche, doors exist for a reason,” Lionel said dryly.

“Of that I am certain.” Esche tilted his head toward the candle and stood up just as quickly as he’d sat down. Using the warm glow as his guide, he found the brass tea kettle he’d set down earlier and poured its remaining contents into two porcelain cups. He offered one to Lionel, who hesitated before accepting.

The men drank from their tea cups quietly for a time. Only the breaking waves and Lionel’s tapping foot could be heard. It was Esche who spoke first. “You do not seem as pleased as I’d anticipated.”

Lionel shrugged. “I told you before I left: it’s complicated.”

“Was it not her, then? Some trick?”

“It’s her. It’s Khitti.” He sighed. “But she can’t remember a thing. What’s more, Brand chose to fabricate a story better-suited to an amnesiac than the truth. What’s worse, I lapped it all up and went along with it with such enthusiasm that I’m rather sure it took on a life of its own thanks to my aid.”

“I see,” Esche said slowly. “Why did the two of you decide to do such a thing?”

The candle burned lower now, and the shadows that it cast were duller. “We didn’t exactly plan it that way. It just happened. Well, I guess he planned it; she was well and truly convinced of the things he was saying by the time I showed up.” The tea was chamomile. It tasted of delicate spices from distant lands. It was refreshing, but it did little to remove Lionel’s self-doubt.

Some time passed before Esche spoke again, as if he had made sure to choose his words quite carefully. “Perhaps you shared an unspoken bond, being that you are both Catalian.”

Lionel squinted through the growing darkness of the room and turned to face Esche as best as he could see him. “In all the time you’ve been in my employ, you’ve never said a thing about Catal.”

“Is it truly so surprising? You’ve clearly wished to be alone with such thoughts -- a decision I can respect utterly. Between your dwarven companions and the numerous tomes I’ve procured, I have learned a great deal about your homeland without direct inquiry.” Esche sipped his tea with such straight-backed dignity and poise that Lionel couldn’t bring himself to argue the issue. Further moments passed and the candle now flickered its light only as far as the edge of the bureau. “What did your lie entail?”

The question was so abrupt that Lionel almost dropped his porcelain cup. “She’s from the Warrior’s Guild. We sent her on a mission and she lost her memory thanks to seaborn intervention.”

“Interesting. So, you decided that merfolk were a more suitable cause than her own demons.” It wasn’t a question so much as a thoughtful analysis. “Demons which would rip her apart at the seams, possibly. You did this for her greater good. I see no reason this deception should bring you trouble.”

Irritated, Lionel placed his emptied cup beside his bed while there was still a hint of light left to do so. “It’s not that simple. Damn it, this is what I meant. It’s complicated. We’re denying her the chance to learn the truth. If someone did that to me? And I found out? I’d be pissed off. I’d demand an explanation.”

“And you would have one, it seems, because you’ve done this to another person.”

Lionel took a deep breath and exhaled. As he breathed in, his ally’s statement had vexed him. By the time he let it out, however, he was composed. “That’s a hell of a thing you do. You open your mouth and tick people off, but you’re always right. But that doesn’t make this right. It just gives it meaning. If Khitti ever finds out, I’ll have an answer for her as to why. Whether or not it satisfies either of us would remain to be seen.”

Just as the candle died down to a whimper, Esche stood up and placed a small metallic orb on the opposite edge of the bureau. He waved his open palm over it and willed serene blue elven magics to emanate from its surface, casting a cool, crisp glow throughout the room. In that light, Esche appeared almost spectral to Lionel. Outside, the gentle waves grew gentler still, as if the water were becalmed by the orb’s aura. “Lionel, you have learned to survive on the fields of harshest battle. You have learned to endure bitter loss. And yet I fear you have never learned to accept what has been given, and find happiness in it.”

“What is this, all of a sudden? Some kind of therapy session?”

“This is truth. Understanding is a three-edged sword, you once said: your side, their side, and the truth. A Catalian proverb, I believe you claimed, and yet I found it in a letter written to you by your late wife.” Lionel winced at that, grinded his teeth, but remained silent. “Even in using such a robust bit of language, you twisted the truth and misattributed it. I suspect you did so because the reality of its origin was too much to bear for you.” Lionel balled his left hand into a fist, his azure eyes suddenly stinging. Esche raised a hand peacefully. “I am not judging, nor would I be in my proper place to do so. My point is merely that truth is transient. It’s the somewhere-between.” As if to accentuate this, he waved both hands over his orb slowly, and thin blue strands briefly materialized before fading away. “We cannot always see it, but it’s there. And it’s usually not quite what we believe, not quite what others believe. But rather, a compromise.”

“You’re rambling again.” Lionel got up and stretched. At some point during Esche’s monologue his fist had relaxed.

“As I see it, it was not exactly right to lie to Khitti. Nor would it be better to harm her by revealing the reality of her plight. The truth, of course, is written in stone, but it is understandable that you did what you did. And it is also true that she would have suffered to know the things she’d previously suffered.”

Lionel put a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple to alleviate the migraine Esche had always been so adept at creating. “Alexia was quite the aspiring politician, saying things like that. I’m not sure how I feel about her speechcraft lingering so heavily through you.”

“If you didn’t wish these wisdoms imparted, you might have avoided uttering them anew.”

“I don’t see how ticking me off has anything to do with finding hippie happiness or whatever.”

“The most eminent of truths is that you should be glad Khitti von Schreier is alive. Happiness is fleeting. It doesn’t last long.” Esche fixed Lionel with a serious gaze. “‘To their blades, we fell. To their sorrow, they fell.’ -That- is an old Catalian proverb. It was written centuries before you were born, and it foretold the future perfectly. It also foretold the past. Death comes for us all, and before it does there are a thousand thousand pains and anguishes to act as prelude. You know this better than most. You must find joy, however minute, when it is offered. You must embrace it now.” He paused, and then Esche said the most surprising, uncharacteristic word he had ever uttered in Lionel’s presence: “Please.”

Elsewhere

In the Shadow Plane, the familiar became the hauntingly reminiscent. Trees became like grossly misshapen vines, yet still they climbed toward a color-shifting sky that never quite knew how to paint itself the pale blue that it ought to be. The snow that crunched beneath the army’s black metal boots was similarly odd; it was layered flake upon flake like snow should be, but each and every individual flake was visible and distinguishable, as if an artist wanted to showcase them all.

The foul goblins and orcs and drow thought nothing of it as they marched, nor did the humans, fouler still. They moved at a war’s pace, and they slaughtered whatever they found. Fresh hares were slung to the backs of slaves, who were whipped when they failed to keep pace. Pace was hard to keep for the slaves, whose feet were bare and halfway to frostbite. If the beatings did not suffice, there were other options; the corpses of men and women, cut into manageable pieces, also hung from the backs of slaves.

The Shadow Plane was vast and Kahran knew it well. For almost a year he’d stalked it, made its uncharted reaches his, kept wayward of the sages and spirits which would rise with any real capability to thwart him. He led his stock from place to place, testing them with orders to kill. Occasionally, he sent them forth to Lithrydel, where he let them taste the blood it offered. In Frostmaw he’d struck twice: first against a burgeoning battalion of raw recruits, and then again at the center of the city where heinous substances such as red dirt and ice spice were tossed into the population to great effect.

Kahran’s army was not a large one, nor did it need to be. It was everything he had in mind to exact his terrible purpose. Every time he’d ordered it to strike, it had struck with alacrity and resolve. It was always victorious. Through these portals his wondrous artifact had unearthed, how could it not be? It could appear without warning and vanish in an instant. It could go anywhere it needed to be, journeying not through Lithrydel but through here instead. Truly, it was a perfect realization of his fallen masters’ will. A will he would carry out to the letter.

Up ahead behind a strange and spiraling tree, a woman clutched her coat around her chest desperately, but the orcs could smell the baby she had failed to conceal. Her shrieks were joined by his, and it was a small feast that followed. They were the last prey from this most recent of hunts. They’d been captured and then released here from the other side, to serve as cattle in what had been yet another nigh-flawless exercise.

Blood soaked into the snowflakes, each drop as visible as the flakes themselves. A mess of a maze of red and white dots sprawled across the forest from one end to the other, and impossible trees zigzagged up toward the lime-green sky as if to escape. Cracked bones were everywhere, their marrow sucked dry.

“We are as gods,” Kahran said.

Cenril

“I didn’t think ‘please’ was in your vocabulary,” Lionel retorted. But before he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Fine. I hear you. You’re not exactly the most comforting shrink I’ve had, but you’re an astute one. Happiness is fleeting, so grab it like a butterfly whenever it buzzes past. I get you.”

A small smile tugged at Esche’s lips. “Lionel, butterflies do not buzz.” He continued before his companion could respond, which is just as well because Lionel was dumbstruck to have been called-out on it. “When I arrived here in Lithrydel some fourteen months and one week ago, I was not sure what I would find.”

“Are you going to count the days, too?”

“Let me continue. I was not sure what I would find. I am quite glad to have found you, where service has been virtuous and much has been accomplished. Against a tyrant dragon, we fought. Against saurians, we fought. Against Larketians, we fought. Against cursed ectognatha, we fought.” Lionel opened his mouth to interrupt but Esche clarified. “The bugs.” Lionel nodded, glancing around awkwardly as he pretended to know that. “Now I must tell you another truth. Another… understanding.” The elf seemed to struggle for words for a moment, which was not often in his nature to do.

“Esche, if this is going to end with a marriage proposal, I advise you to pull out whatever tomes you dug dirt on me through and study my late wife some more. She was one-of-a-kind; I’ll never be in the market again.” In the cool blue glow of elven light, Lionel’s smirk looked weirder than he’d have liked.

Esche sighed but remained undeterred. “In the time I have served you, you have spoken on numerous occasions of a coming storm. A gathering darkness. You have confided this belief in Queen Hildegarde, as you have confided it in Krice. You have confided it in Khitti, though she will not remember it now. And you have confided it in me.” For a fleeting instant Esche looked old. His posture was bad, his hand clutched the bureau for support, and he closed his eyes mournfully. Lionel did not notice it. Then it was gone, and Esche looked every bit the proud elf, regal and rigid and fully capable. “I believe we are very near to a flashpoint which shall prove you more than correct. Come what may, I will fight through this darkness alongside you for as long as I am able. I only ask that you heed my advice in what few moments remain until then, embracing whatever happiness you find along the way.”

A long time passed before Lionel replied. He was rigid, too, but not with pride. Lionel was rigid with fear. It washed over him like bitter memory; he remembered the slaughter of his recruit battalion, and the incident in Frostmaw with the red dirt and the ice spice. He remembered other things, too -- grave battles he and his allies had fought in the time since his return to this realm -- and yet somehow, none of them seemed as pressing. Through it all, Esche stood vigilant, and the only sound was the breaking of waves upon the shore. They were louder now and more tumultuous.

“On what grounds do you say this?” Lionel’s voice was cracked and parched and meek.

“Too many uncertainties now linger in the shadows alongside your path.” Esche waved his hand above his orb and it dimmed almost completely, leaving just traces of blue light. The light cast a ghostly silhouette. “Too many enemies lurk. Too many questions go unanswered.”

Lionel stepped over toward the window. He could see the waves as they broke, smacking the sand with their surge. The sky was violet with the first hints of dawn. He did not immediately respond. Rather, he waited, although he could not say what he was waiting for. Then, when the violet sky’s eastern reaches went fuchsia and pink with the rising sun, and the shadows Esche’s orb had cast faded into brightness, he spoke three simple words which did not grant Esche the promise of joy that he sought. They spoke instead of resolve.

“We’ll be ready.”