RP:The Road Not Taken
Summary: Lionel revisits old memories at the Memorial for those who lost their lives in the Second Immortal War. Alvina's Pegasus, Mercedes, drops her at the base of the tree in a prima donna fit, spraining the bard's ankle and causing the pair to have a semi-conversation. The Knight Commander takes her to the nearest traveled road to hail a carriage, and the two parts ways again without incident.
The Restored Trembling Tree
Lionel has not been here in some time. As he paddles down the moat in his simple wooden canoe, the trembling tree comes into sight, and with it, the monument to the 13,571 lives lost in the final battle of the Second Immortal War. Such bittersweet victory might demand a great castle in honor to some, but to Lionel O’Connor and Donovan Keane and Kalid El-Aurian, an opal slab of stone with etched words and a single hand print is all that needs be said. The tree, restored by an Ascendi in the years following the end of the war, is in brilliant bloom despite frigid conditions. It’s a patchwork of blues and greens and fuchsias, vibrant as it was two millennia ago and more in the age of Sven and the earlier ambitions of Khasad and Elazul. Today, it yet stands, but the Dark Immortals are done and dusted, and the heroes’ monument remembers the fallen. Lionel, dressed in his easy black silks, hops from the canoe and approaches the stone. He brings his hand to the imprint. It still fits. It’s still his hand, after all; the imprint was his own. He leans in, bracing on the opal, and closes azure eyes in remembrance. The flowers in his hand are a medley. He’s never known which ones to bring. He drops them, by the stone, and breathes deeply.
Alvina left her home on the edge of the Sage a short while ago. Time now finds her atop Mercedes, Hudson’s latest extravagant and well received gift offered as a ‘push present’ aka thanks for having those kids. She’s a pristine white Pegasus, prissy and posed. A grey circle cut by three spokes is the only irregularity in her pattern, the emblem itself found on the pony’s forehead. The aim was to make her way to Frostmaw to check on Pilar’s leg, see if there were any jobs around the fort that needed her tending and head back home. It seemed that Mercedes had other plans. The bard wasn’t sure where the pegasus came from or what she’d experienced in her lifetime but just now Alvina is struggling with the reigns and getting nowhere - well, technically everywhere is somewhere...but Alvina is getting somewhere she’s unfamiliar with too fast for her liking. It felt as if Mercedes had completely discarded her instructions and gone in the complete opposite direction. Go North, the horse must have thought, I think you mean South. It’s this struggle of power that brings Mercedes to the highest branches of the Trembling tree, to perch stubbornly, and threaten to shake Alvina loose. “Spoiled brat!” The bard is shrieking, wrapping the leather straps around her wrists so as not to be tossed free. “Put me down this instant or I’ll make sure Hudson takes you to be turned into glue at the next opportunity!” Their figures are obscured by the brilliant blooms on the tree, even in this chilled air.
Lionel is deep in the banks of memory. In his mind, he’s reliving that hellhole that was the Battle for Dawn. On the shores of Cenril, he runs, and dozens more run with him, and in the rain and cloudy night, Hellfire’s flames act as beacon -- and herald to the destruction the alliance would soon spread upon Khasad’s empire. They run across those beaches buffeted by hail as arrows come down by the hundreds. Men and women scream until they’re silenced, one after the other, almost like dominoes all around him as Lionel keeps on running. “On your left,” someone cries, as her brother is slain two steps away. “Remember Vailkrin,” a rallying roar from nearby, and the survivors of this chaos call back, and they begin their climb from the shore to the rocky crags and up into the heart of darkness. “Spoiled brat,” a woman shrieks, and the voice is familiar but it doesn’t suit this recollection one iota. Lionel turns, narrowly evading another storm of arrows, and Alvina’s lips are pursed in wanton frustration, and time stands still and the rain freezes mid-frame and the arrows all hang in the sky and Lionel blinks, pulls his hand from the memory stone and falls to the icy ground. He looks up into the bloomage, jaw agape and his eyes adjusting to the sudden disconnect. “The heck…?”
Mercedes does not appreciate all this lip. Not one bit. She snorts in irritation, her head held much too high to be anything but irritated. Why couldn’t she still be back in the stable, warm under her blankets in the stall next to Cleo?? Eating only the finest apples and oats? Instead, this idiot human dared to drag her out in the freezing cold and demand she fly somewhere colder still!? The nerve!! Mercedes, in wicked reply to Alvina’s demands, hovers off the large branch she’d been perched upon and bolts to the base of the tree, her hooves centimeters above the earth, to shake and dismount her rider (if she can even be called that at this point) onto the hard, frozen earth. Alvina is in shock, and tumbles off with no grace or forewarning. Her limbs are all tangled in her normal Dark Blue Cloak, ribbons, and high cut dress. The golden tone of her metal arm and the snowy white contrast of her boats are the only differentiate cut in the navy blob deposited onto the ground so abruptly. “You have to be joking….” comes Alvina’s muffled disbelief as Mercedes whiny's a high noted victory cry and takes back off like a shot into the sky, heading back towards Cenril and Hudson’s mother’s house to rejoin Cleo in the warmth of their shared stable. Alvina untangles herself and is brushing stray blossoms from the hem of her dress, when she spots Lionel, not ten paces away, staring at her with undisguised bewilderment. The length of her crimson hair has been pulled up and braided tightly across the crown of her head by onyx hair pins with opal tips. On her face the bard wears a disheveled pair of goggles, which she removes to dangle around her neck with the matching navy gloves on both of her hands (for symmetry's sake). Her piercing emerald gaze catching Lionel’s with surprise and then, bitter understanding. As soon as it registered who he is, she turns away and tries to start her march back to the nearest place to catch a carriage...which would be miles and miles by now...only to realize her ankle had been sprained in the dismount. She fell face first into the body of water that held Lionel’s canoe with an impractical splash.
Lionel has just borne witness to an unruly Pegasus, an as-yet unidentified navy-colored blob, an unruly pegasus departing, the revelation that the aforementioned navy blob is in fact encasing a woman, the further revelation that the aforementioned woman is indeed Alvina, and the unceremonious waterfall of Alvina herself into the moat. Having been mentally transported, aggressively, back out of his memory stone and into this strange new reality, Lionel is more than a bit dizzy. He clenches both his fists and swings at the air to maintain his balance, even as he walks haphazardly to the fallen female. “I don’t know what the heck just happened,” he opens, “but you can ride with your back turned to me the whole way downstream for all it matters -- I’m getting you home safe.” The Knight-Commander leans down, extending his hands in an effort to pull Alvina up gently, but first, he’ll say a bit more: “Please, let me help you into the canoe. I won’t say another word without your permission. I promise.” And he means it, too. When Lionel’s lips close, and he reaches out to her, guiding her into the boat if she’ll allow it and raising his arms up in a show of civility if not, he will not speak again either way.
Alvina manages to roll herself over in the freezing moat water. Her hair is now partially undone from the impact and clinging to her face like a frightened squid. It takes a rough couple of tries to push the hair back out of her line of sight to see the Knight Commander offering his help. “I don’t need your help.” She said, turning her face away from him, even while he insisted that she in fact did. Why is he here? This is not Frostmaw? The bard takes a quick look around and does not see any company with him. The strange stone with the hand print is noted. From this distance, she can’t read any inscriptions. Lionel’s extended hand hangs in the air while her own arms are crossed firmly against her chest while she shivers uncontrollably. In a moat, in winter, soaked. “No.” She says, that’s all she can say. If only she’d said a bit more, like...I can’t stand up because of my ankle. Or I don’t want to ride in a canoe with you, I’d rather die of hypothermia. But she never actually says any of those things, just a simple and defiant ‘No’. If Lionel doesn’t lift her out of the water, she’ll just remain there until he walks away and try to scoop herself out in a lopsided show of graceless and fruitless endeavors.
Lionel is not blind to Alvina’s inability to rise. In his estimation, she’d have done so by now if she could have, given her considerable unease around him -- plus, his keen warrior’s sense has detected incorrect posturing, specifically on one side, in that brief moment with which she’d been walking. It seems to him she cannot move, and even if he’s mistaken, her house is doubtless a considerable distance from Enchantment. He’s sworn an oath of silence, though. He will not speak around her until she wills it. A decision must be made, and fast. Gritting his teeth, shutting his eyes, and taking a deep, nervous breath, the Catalian hoists her up and deposits her in the canoe. Just like that. His strength is put to good use; lean as he is, he’s still rather toned, and it’s enough to complete this task. Alvina is deposited gingerly, with great care toward her legs. He’ll give her a glance of utter empathy all-the-while. In that moment, whatever shock or wrath or even hate she might portray, she’ll see in him an innocent and excruciatingly concerned countenance. She’ll see someone who appears almost hurt, wounded, that he’d need to resort to this sort of behavior to ensure her safety. Swallowing hard and doing what he can to willfully keep his eyes off of her, he’ll row. He cannot ask where to go, not without her direct command. But surely, it’s further upstream, wherever it may be.
Alvina is feeling a mix of things in this moment. First, is her survival instinct to get the heck out of this water. A close second would be the numbing embarrassment of being discarded by Mercedes practically into Lionel’s arms, where she now is...further injuring her pride. “Don’t-” She started to say, before realizing she really couldn’t tell him want to do. She couldn’t stay in the water, she couldn’t walk home. The truth of the matter was, without him here, she’d be a long way from home and a long way from help. She should be grateful, but all she is now is horribly irritated and beyond embarrassed. “T-that way…” A chill shook her violently, after she’s set down in the boat. He’s so careful with her, like she’s an injured bird. It both breaks and fills her heart with light. All the while he’s rowing, she explains where she lives in small, need to know tidbits, never giving him full permission to reply. He’s dutiful, does not utter a word but continues on thinking gods know what about this imperfect situation. Likely that Alvina is a fool. That she’s reckless and headstrong. Too proud to ask for help. Her emerald gaze drifts to their reflections in the water. That’s not who she is at all….she wants to defend herself, say she really is a proper lady but...Lionel’s gaze when he’d set her down in the boat, made her feel weaker somehow. Like his innocent concern was wounded by her refusal to even treat him like a human being, more like a subservient individual. He could have left her, could have bolted and pretended not to see her. She’d never have known the difference. “Thank you…” She said, at length. The only other sound between them was the rippling of water as they cut through in the wooden canoe. “Thank you and…” A sigh. “I’m sorry...You can talk, I don’t mean to appear ungrateful I just…” She held her tongue. What could she say to the man after he saved her? I can’t accept your feelings? Real or...otherwise? Please understand? The scenery continues to change, taking them back from Enchantment, to Kelay and the Sage. The moat cuts into two larger branches near a well trodden path that’s use to heavier traffic. Alvina gestures to it, as a way for their paths to diverge once more.
Lionel does not speak. He smiles when she tells him he can, and nods, and opens his mouth to talk… but no words come out. Rather, he rows, and follows her guidance, and keeps them on course toward the destination she’s described. This is how the evening passes, as it grows colder and colder still, yet there is a renewed warmth between them nevertheless. It isn’t until near the very end of their strange, unexpected sojourn that he finds it within himself to say a thing. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he tells her, but not plainly. There is a driving passion in his voice, as if he’d said something deeper, stronger, bolder. But he didn’t. Will he ever find it within himself to say anything bold toward this woman again? After telling her he loves her, and then saying that she’s beautiful? Right now, as his heart seems to clench, he cannot fathom so. But at least he’s said -something.- He doesn’t smile, but inwardly, he smiles, thankful that she survived the quake, thankful that he’s survived her presence. And when their paths diverge, Lionel knows not whether he will see her again, nor if he should even ponder idly such dangerous tides, but he knows that he must see her, and he must ponder, and dream of her coming before him again and again and again, and it is this precise paradox which pulses as she leaves.