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[Addai]

Just what the title says!  Some odds and ends that don't fit in with my main Mahariel story.

I'll start with a couple that I wrote for Esra Surana, my Andrastian elven mage.

Empty Eyes
ffnet link/ T rating for disturbing theme

"We should move on, sire."

"I came to watch and listen, Alun. I can't do that if we hurry past."

Nevertheless the guardsman had grounds to be anxious. They had only just left Denerim's market district and it was not long past dusk, yet the streets were noticeably darker as well as in ill repair. No doubt it was because the buildings huddled so closely together that they blocked out the light. Some of the second stories reached even across the narrow alleys to lean on each other for support. The buildings were so decrepit that it was support that was desperately needed. Still, the most threatening thing they had passed were brazen rats the size of mabari whelps. It was suppertime and many elves were in their homes, though the ones on the street cast suspicious glances at the two human men that passed by, one of them with hood drawn.

At a confluence of alleys, the men paused. From inside the tenements they could hear the rattle of cookware, a hum of conversation, and what sounded like a marital argument. A woman leaned out of a window and called down an insult to youths loitering in the street, which was promptly returned to her tenfold. Across from them, two men were working in a sooty basement workshop, banging out pots in almost pitch darkness but for the light from their forge's flame. Maric watched them for a moment, then turned his head to look up one of the alleyways where some children were shouting in the middle of a game. Apart from them, in a pool of lamplight, a young child perched on a wooden block. She made such a solitary figure that Maric turned to walk towards her, curious.

As they approached, Maric saw that the child had another block set up next displaying ornaments woven from straw. They were pretty in a crude way: Two-dimensional stars, doll figures and animals.  The child herself sat with head bowed, arms wrapped around her knees.  She wore a filthy shift that once might have been yellow. As the two men stood directly over her, she lifted her eyes to look at them.

"Buy," she said in the uncouth dialect of the alienage, gesturing with a grubby hand towards the ornaments.

As the child looked up at him, Maric's throat caught. Her dark hair was greasy and unkempt, and her face was streaked with dirt, but the small dark eyes struck a chord in him so deep that he was instantly in another place and other time. That had also been a cheerless, dank place. He accompanied several Grey Wardens on a dangerous mission in the Deep Roads. The threat that hung over him in that place was far greater than anything that stalked Denerim's alienage, but he had volunteered for the mission in part because his life as king of Ferelden and widower had grown empty beyond endurance. The mission had been a mixed success, nevertheless Maric came out of it with a new sense of hope, largely because of the elven Warden who accompanied them. More than companion, she had become his lover, eventually the mother of his youngest son.

He had returned to the kingship with a new sense of purpose, but lost Fiona and lost their son. There was no place for Fiona outside her order and he could offer her nothing in the palace but indignity. Their son they had sent away to be raised without knowledge of his parentage. Yet Maric never forgot her, and it was because of her that he sought to walk the alienage, after dark and in the guise of a commoner. Is life as an elf really that terrible? he had asked her, and everything about her told him that yes, it could be that terrible.

For Fiona's sake, Maric wanted to understand. More than that, he wanted reason to believe that the choice they had made for their son- to not know his parents and to believe himself the son of a human woman- had been the right one. Of late he had started to question himself and wonder if he should not recognize Alistair. Then it would become known that he was son of an elven woman. There was more than one noble bastard in the alienage, Maric knew. Even if he brought Alistair to the palace, he would only suffer from the comparisons to Cailan. It might be futile, but Maric had come out to the alienage to seek some kind of guidance. If life as an elf was as bad as Fiona said it was, then maybe he could convince himself they had done the right thing.

Their baby had favored him more than his mother, resembling his older son Cailan, but the little girl gazing up at him from her perch on the street looked so much like Fiona that for a moment he could imagine she was theirs. She was so underfed that it was hard to tell her age, but Maric guessed that she was no older than six or seven. Alistair was now eight years old, almost the same age. He made sure never to see the boy, though he had caught a glimpse of him from a distance at Eamon's Denerim estate.  It was hard to tell from a distance, but Maric was at least certain that Alistair had it better than this little girl. He trusted Eamon and never interfered, not even so much as to ask after the boy.

"Buy."  The girl had waited patiently while Maric stared at her, but finally took one of her straw ornaments, a dog, and held it out towards him.  "Buy it," she insisted.

Maric crouched down closer to eye level. The child gazed back at him. Though she had Fiona's coloring, she was
pitifully thin and filthy, and there was one other respect in which she did not resemble his beloved at all. Fiona's eyes had been bright and lively, at first snapping at him with hostility, later on softening, but brimming with a vitality that had awoken in him longing he had thought dead and buried with his wife. In contrast, the little girl's eyes were empty. She looked at him with neither interest nor anxiety. In fact, she did not seem to really see him at all. Pretty as her eyes were, blue like a midnight sky and faintly shimmering in the elven way, it was as if there was nothing at all behind them.

She was, however, very clear on what she wanted from him. "Buy," she repeated again in the same flat, featureless tone. Maric smiled at her, but his surprise at being reminded of Fiona was turning to dismay. The child was too small to have made these trinkets herself so she must be planted at that spot at an adult's behest, and told to remain there, unlike the other children in the alley. If he bought one of her trinkets, he would only encourage that adult in forcing a young child into servitude. Yet perhaps if she did get some money for her wares, the child might end up with a meal in her belly.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 04:43 .

[Addai]

An idea struck him. "How much for your pretty trinkets, little one?" he asked gently. In reply, the child held up her stubby hands, showing ten fingers. "Ten coppers apiece?"

"Silver," the girl corrected.

"Ten silver!" Maric laughed in spite of himself. It was a ridiculous sum, but the girl must have been instructed to charge high if the customer was a well-dressed human as he was. He hesitated, then glanced up at the guardsman and said, "Alun, give our friend here her fifty silver." The guardsman sputtered, but eventually obeyed, counting out the coins onto the girl's table. Maric waited until the transaction was done, then gestured at the coins. "Now, I've paid for all your trinkets. You don't need to sell any more tonight. Why don't you go play with those children?" The girl glanced up the street at the other children, then back at Maric, giving no answer. In fact she gave no sign that she had even understood what he said. Leaning forward, the king spoke earnestly. "Go play. You can go play now. Do you understand? I've bought all that you have. You can give your parents the silver later, but for now you can play. Or if you don't want to play, go find some food."

The girl tucked her arms around her knees and regarded him dully, saying nothing. Maric sighed in frustration. He was sure that the amount of silver he had given her was more than she normally took in for a whole week, yet rather than registering any happiness or relief, the child looked as though it would be all the same to her if the ground opened up and swallowed them on the spot.

"Sire, best leave her. There's nothing more we can do here."

"Just a minute, Alun."  Maric looked at the girl, desperate for some way to get through to her. Finally he reached inside his tunic and pulled at the chain around his neck. In a moment he had the chain loosed and held the amulet on it out towards the elven child. It was a cast tin amulet of Andraste's symbol, a blazing sun. He had sent his own amulet of Andraste, passed down to him from his mother the Rebel Queen, with Fiona's son, instructing Eamon to tell the child that it had belonged to his "human mother." Maric had wanted Alistair to have something of himself, of his family, and the story would keep anyone from asking questions. The tin cast that Maric now wore instead had been pressed into his hand by a well-wisher in a crowd. He had taken to wearing it as a reminder of his people, of where they found hope, and of how they invested hope and love in him as their sovereign. The amulet would be valuable in the alienage, but he hoped it would not be so valuable that the little girl might actually keep it for herself rather than sell it. "Here, take this, little one. It is Andraste's holy symbol. Do you know Andraste? She was a woman and a slave, but she became a great leader, the hope of millions of people. She prays to the Maker for us."

The little girl stared at the amulet. At first Maric didn't think she would accept it, but after a moment a grubby hand reached out and took it from him. The child was looking down at it when a shadow fell over her. Maric raised his head. A boy had approached them, a few years older than the girl but close enough in appearance that the king guessed he was a sibling. Out of the corner of his eye, Maric noticed that the little girl quickly slipped the amulet in a
pocket of her dress. That made him smile a little.

"Evenin' sers," the boy greeted them warily, sizing the two men up. His eyes fell on the fifty silver and he gasped, bending down to scoop it up. Maric watched to see if the girl would protest, but she said nothing and her expression never changed, not even when the boy finished collecting the silver and cuffed her on the ear. "You was going to keep it for yourself, wasn't you, you little chit?"

Maric reached for the boy, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. His momentary anger abated, however, and he released him almost as soon as he had done so. When he spoke, his voice was calm. "That is not the way we treat a young lady, is it?" The king tried for a smile.

The elven boy looked shocked as Maric grabbed him, then confused by his words. He paused, weighing them.  Finally he leaned in and asked, "You like Esra, ser? You want her special? I can see you got the coin. For... one sovereign you can have her here, quick. If you want to take her home, maybe... ten sovereigns."

Maric's face colored, first with disbelief and then with anger as he comprehended what the boy was offering. The girl's brother, and himself a boy no older than ten! For his part, the boy realized that he was not closing the sale and interjected quickly, "Five sovereigns. But ten is a good price! She's... a lady, ser. Like you said!"

Maric stood up, his head swimming. For a moment he was tempted to beat the boy senseless, however, that impulse passed. A boy of ten was no more responsible for this morass than the little girl. He could demand to see her parents, but what would he do to them if he found them?  Lock them up? They would no doubt feign innocence, claim that the boy had come up with the idea himself, that they hadn't known their small daughter was being offered for sale like a piece of veal on a butcher's cart. The girl did not just look like Fiona. She was Fiona all over again, and
here in his own kingdom.

After a long while, he spoke quietly.  "Yes, I would like to take her away from here. But not tonight. I'll pay you two sovereigns now, and another five tomorrow morning when I come to collect her. You'll be here, both of you? I want her unharmed and untouched or you get nothing."

The boy looked stunned and pleased.  He, at least, was capable of showing emotion. "Yes, ser! Seven sovereigns it is. She'll be here in the morning." He held out his hand to take the promised deposit. Maric gestured at Alun and turned away, head still swimming and his stomach churning. He glanced back once and saw his guardsman depositing coins on the boy's palm. The little girl sat at their feet, vacant eyes looking straight ahead at nothing.

The following morning, it was not Maric who returned to the alienage, but a small contingent of palace guard and templars, guided by the royal guardsman Alun. Despite their fearsome appearance, the boy still protested when he learned that his sister was going to be taken away without the promised five sovereigns. The guard informed him that she was now ward of the crown and would be taken to the Chantry to be raised by the sisters there. Esra, the little girl, went along with the soldiers without fear and without a look back. In her hand she clutched her only possession, a tin cast amulet bearing Andraste's symbol.


-End.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 04:51 .

[Addai]

Out of the Blue
ffnet link/ K+ rating
Sequel to Empty Eyes, based on Esra Surana.

They propped the old man in a chair in the garden and forgot about him, but at least he had the wind on his face. It eased the blue dreams, eased the pain in his joints. At some point he slept, then woke to voices. The sisters were coming to take him in again. Some of them were kind and some got angry, though often he didn't understand why and never knew which he would get.

Today the sister sounded gentle."…visitor… a great honor, Ser Galen…" There was a woman in fine clothing next to
the sister. An elf, he saw, as she pulled up a chair next to him and leaned in. He looked at her through bleary eyes. She was saying something. So soft a voice, so pretty. He tried to smile. He was never sure if that worked, either, but it must have because she smiled back.

When they came later to take him inside, the elf woman was still there.  She spent the whole day in his room, and in the afternoon when the blue dreams eased, she read to him. Towards evening the sisters came with his meal and to wash him. The elf woman watched them feed him, but turned away to the window when they changed his wraps. Lucid enough at that point to feel shame, he was glad for this. He thought he must know her from somewhere and did not like her to see him so helpless. When the sisters were done washing him, they gave him his blue. Lyrium, that was its name - he was pleased to remember the name. When he had taken the blue, the pain wracking him eased a little and he didn't know anything for sure any longer.

Two days the elven woman stayed, coming in after breakfast, reading to him, holding his hand. In the afternoons
when the blue lost its grip a little, he realized she was reading from the Chant, and then something about dragons which was even better.  Some time later he realized she was talking to him. Her eyes seemed so familiar.

"...brought me. Do you remember, Ser Galen? The Chantry in Denerim? Sometime after that…"

Denerim.  He remembered Denerim, of course. He had been there many years and the memories were mostly good ones. He had been a young man, but not so young that he struggled with his vows much, and he had a comfortable post guarding the dormitories.

A memory stirred in him then, clearer than most. He was chosen to accompany some palace guard to the elven alienage to retrieve a child someone had attempted to sell for unsavory purposes. The old man remembered being shocked at the frankness of the order, and angry as he saw the little girl in question. As he and the others led her away, her small legs could not keep up. Galen scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way, though the others warned him he could catch vermin.  That didn't matter. Looking at her, one of the Maker's children who needed his protection, reminded him of what he liked best about being a templar. It wasn't hunting apostates or guarding the Chantry, as important as those things were. Sometimes, not very often, he found he could help the weak. It made not having a wife or children of his own bearable.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 04:58 .

[Addai]

The little girl got a rough start at the dormitory. Her matted, filthy dark hair was shorn from her head. She would not say a word to anyone and had to be tied to her bed at night to prevent wandering. One of the sisters said that she had likely never kept regular hours. Nor had the elf child been taught the necessaries, as became apparent when
she voided herself wherever the urge hit. If Galen saw these messes first, he would quietly clean them up. The sisters were right that she needed to be taught discipline, but one beating a day was just as good for that purpose as two or three.

Some days after her arrival, a crisis presented itself. The elf girl had found a cubbyhole in between two heavy bookcases in the library, crawled in, and would not come out.  She was so small that she was the only one in the building who could fit into the space. When the sisters gave up trying to coax her out, they asked Galen to try.

He sat down on the floor, leaned back against the books, and after a moment began to just talk as if they were having a pleasant chat. She was frightened, that much was certain, so he began telling her about the various people who lived there, from the cook to the orphans to the sisters, so that she might know them a little.  Occasionally he would pause. Not a word came from the cubbyhole, though he could hear her raspy breathing and the occasional cough from the sickness she had brought with her.  An hour passed and then another, Galen talking in between long silences.

Lunchtime passed and the templar's own stomach was growling. "Bridie is making milk pudding, can you smell it?" The scent of cinnamon and butter in the air was tantalizing and Galen was sure it would lure her out. Nothing. He had to admire the tenacity of a child who had known hunger but turned down a meal freely given.

So he kept talking. He began to tell her about the farm where he grew up, his brothers and sisters and his pets. It was something he had spoken of to no one in years. "Do you know what you remind me of? Once I had a kitten which would crawl into little spaces and not come out. That was about a year before my father had to… before I went to the monastery. I was a little older than you are now. Nine years old I was." Galen had been the tenth of twelve children, too young to work but old enough to be sent away when the farm fell on hard times. He knew what it was to feel defenseless and alone. "It was a sweet kitten, black and white patches with white paws like socks. But she liked to hide. It was alright for her to hide, I didn't get angry.  It's just that my kitten didn't know that she didn't have anything to fear."

A minute passed, then he heard a scrape of small shoes against the wood floor. The elven child crawled out and sat back on her haunches, midnight blue eyes regarding him with an even stare. The others had said there was something wrong with her eyes. Galen didn't think so. They had the odd shimmer deep within that marked her as elven, but he guessed that they had just seen too much and had found a way of not seeing.

The girl's voice was so small that he almost didn't hear her, though his heart did a small flip-flop when he realized she was speaking. Just one word. "Kitten?"

Nodding, he smiled at her. "Yes, kitten. Let's go get something to eat now."

They had been friends of a sort, the old man remembered. Then she was gone.  To the Circle Tower, it was- to the magi. He had visited her there once or twice and she wrote letters. Later on, when he got sick and had to go back to the monastery, the letters stopped. He thought perhaps she had died, taken by a demon and slain by one of his fellows, or maybe her letters only went astray. By then the blue was taking him and he did not know much any longer.

He did know this, now. In the twilight where his pain fought with the blue, the old man remembered it all as though it had been yesterday and not years ago before he became useless to everyone. He began to cry. The sisters sometimes got angry if he cried, but he knew that she wouldn't.

"Kitten," he said between his tears.

The elf woman leaned in and took his hand. She was crying, too. "Yes, Ser Galen. It's Kitten. I'm here."


Some weeks later when the old man began to fail, the Revered Mother wrote to notify the palace as she had been instructed. The elven woman was beside him when he died. The following day, the old man was carried from the monastery to his funeral pyre by a full complement of royal guard.  Behind them walked the Warden King, Alistair Theirin; his new bride, Emreth of Nevarra; and the elven woman, the king's chancellor Esra Surana, Grey Warden, former mage of the Circle, former ward of the Denerim Chantry.

-End.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 05:04 .

[Addai]

The Last Sacrifice
ffnet link/ T rating for character death
Alistair- f!Cousland, not a happy tale- please be warned.


When Eren Cousland looked up in the gallery and saw Eamon's face, she knew that she and Alistair were as good as dead.

The Landsmeet chamber had erupted into gasps and chatter as Loghain ordered the two Wardens to be taken out into the courtyard and executed. They had been but one vote short in the final roll, even with Anora's support, and Loghain was wasting no time. He had then begun to say, "And Eamon, you..." His daughter had stepped to his side quickly and the two were now conferring in harsh whispers.

Anora spoke next, hushing the chamber and saying, "Eamon, you are granted clemency in view of the unfortunate events in your arling, for which the crown takes no responsibility but looks on with mercy. If you swear fealty to me as your queen and to my father as your general, we can put this bad blood behind us." It was smart. Eamon was a powerful and popular man. It was better to have him alive with his neck bent under, speaking in support of Anora and her father, than to try to kill him.

Eamon's head was bowed, but Eren could see the calculation in him. She couldn't really blame him. There were Connor and Isolde to consider, even though these two were alive only because of the Wardens. As Loghain had reminded him in the Landsmeet session, the arl had learned in conflicts past that you sometimes had to cut good people loose for the sake of all. His gamble to put Alistair on the throne had failed and thus even though he may have some fondness for him, there was no future for the bastard prince in Ferelden, nor for a disgraced Cousland. If their blood must be the price for ending the civil war, so be it. Eren saw all of these thoughts in Eamon's face as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud.

He lifted his eyes and gave her and Alistair one brief, sad glance before replying, "I accept, and do so swear."

The chamber erupted again, some with cheering and clapping. People were relieved that it was over, or soon would be. The murmuring turned more uncertain when Loghain bellowed, "Take the Wardens!" After that, everything happened so quickly that neither Eren nor the nobles in the chamber could fully follow it.

As Loghain's soldiers moved in on them, she locked eyes with Alistair and wordlessly asked the question: Do we fight?  They had been prepared to go down fighting no matter what, but that was when they thought they would have backing in the chamber. With just the two of them, what could they do? There would only be more bloodshed and the outcome would still be the same. In these few moments of recognizing defeat, it was already too late. Loghain's soldiers were on them and stripping them of arms, and then Eren found herself bustled roughly in a press of clanking armor towards the courtyard doors.

Before they reached them, however, panic and survival instinct kicked in and Eren resisted, turning back and shouting into the chamber, "Cousland and Theirin! We are the last! This could be any one of you!" The soldiers  tried to shove her towards the door to silence her, but Eren was determined now, all the more as she heard the murmurs dying down. The nobles were listening. "Men, women, children, murdered in their beds, and now Loghain is finishing what Howe started! You could all meet the same fate! If the Couslands can be killed, what house is safe from Loghain?"

Nearby she heard people repeating her family name.  "Cousland" had always been a powerful symbol. Loghain had almost managed to make the people in the chamber forget who Eren was. The reminder of precisely who was being bundled off to execution at that moment- not some faceless Warden, but one of their own- sat sourly on the nobles.  They still sometimes whispered "commoner" when Loghain's or Anora's names came up.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 06:35 .

[Addai]

It was too late, however. Loghain shouted an order and the courtyard doors opened, the press of soldiers surging out with their prisoners in tow. Eren stumbled into the yard and blinked at the sudden onrush of sunlight. A clear, cold day, blue sky, perfect for the apple tarts and mulled wine that would be sold in the market later. The inner courts were in something of a festival mood, as well. Here some of the Landsmeet delegates' families had gathered to wait the outcome of the meeting. Finely dressed noblewomen and their children fell back in startlement at the abrupt intrusion of the armed men. Eren's eyes fell on a little girl about ten years old, red hair pulled back in an Orlesian-style braid, blue velvet dress crushed and wrinkled from play.  The girl was holding on to her mother and staring at Eren with wide eyes.

Get her out of here, Eren pleaded, though she realized her throat was dry and no words came out. A memory came back to her from her own childhood, of her father Bryce and King Maric walking in the courtyard and discovering her up a tree, her own fine new Landsmeet dress torn from the branches. "That's my pup, alright," Bryce had admitted, more proud than embarrassed. Her heart ached with the memory. Father.... She had failed him, and this was the end, there would be no more second chances.

All was in confusion. No one had prepared an execution, but Loghain was directing them. Eren heard Riordan's voice. Turning to look behind, she saw that the senior Warden had also been seized, no doubt as an Orlesian spy. He was shouting for Loghain to hear him, but the regent would have none of it. She felt an overwhelming sadness as she realized they were the last. Their failure meant more than just their own end. The Blight would be on all these finely-dressed people, and all the smallfolk of the great city outside these courts, like a plague of locusts on a field.

There were tears in Eren's eyes as she looked at Alistair.  They had paused while soldiers tried to clear an area in the center of the courtyard. Both Wardens mouthed words to each other.

"I'm sorry," Eren said, the tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

"I love you." Alistair's square jaw was set, his eyes feverish.

"And I you, Alistair. I love you very much."

"We tried. We gave it our best shot."

Eren nodded, the knowledge of just how hard they had tried a dim comfort but a comfort nonetheless. She had been prepared to give everything, not just for the Blight but to secure the country's leadership as well. She wondered if Anora had gotten wind of her plan to assert herself as Alistair's consort- a Cousland and a Theirin, as powerful counterweight to Loghain's popularity- and if the queen had thus secretly arranged for them to lose the vote. It didn't really matter now. She remembered her mother's words to her father as Howe's soldiers closed in, the last words she had heard Eleanor Cousland say before Duncan dragged Eren away: "We had a good life, and did all we could. It's up to our children now." I'm so sorry, mum. I'm so sorry.

Rough hands grabbed at them, stripping their armor down to doublet and hose. Some captain or other who had been drafted as executioner stood waiting with his greatsword gleaming in the winter sunlight. He looked none too happy
with his appointment. As the soldiers began to push her forward Eren cried out, a visceral sound, and broke free of those holding her.  Running the few steps to Alistair, she reached up to kiss him.  Alistair's guards pitied them enough to let his arms free so that they could embrace. The two Wardens' tears mingled in their mouths and they clutched at each other, every second now a precious lifetime.

Shards of memory flitted across Eren's sight, from their first meeting at Ostagar when she had thought Alistair a bit of a buffoon, to the gradual turn of her heart and their stolen moments of tenderness and pleasure amidst so much death and mayhem. He became a steadying force, her conscience, and the only reason she had to smile. Letting herself love him had brought her out of the pit of bitterness from her family's death and her conscription. Even knowing how difficult their road would be, Eren had allowed herself to hope that they might actually survive the Blight and have a good life by each other's side, making the home that Alistair had always wanted and that she had always taken for granted.  The bottom of her stomach fell out as she realized that she might be about to see Alistair die before her. She could face her own death, but not his, not like this.

Releasing him, she turned, searching for Loghain in the crowd. She couldn't see him but called out anyway,  "Loghain! He is Maric's son! Maric's son! Let him go, take me, but let him go. Look at him, Loghain! Look at him!"  Alistair hissed "no" at her, but Eren ignored it and continued shouting for Loghain to look at who he was about to kill. It was pure desperation, but she thought that if Loghain let himself see Alistair, really see him, but one time, he would recognize his old friend in him. Maybe there was something of that friendship still alive in him, even after Ostagar, perhaps even because of regret over Cailan. Maybe there was still something of the old Loghain in him. All such hope was dashed when she heard the Hero of River Dane's voice behind her, shouting for his men to finish it.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 06:34 .

[Addai]

The soldiers complied, shoving the two Wardens toward the cleared space. Their hands were bound and then someone pushed Eren to her knees.  "Oh Maker," she cried out, all other thoughts pushed back but the simple, primal fear of what was about to happen. She had faced death countless times in the last year, but always with a sword in her hand and the frenzy of battle lust in her, not on her knees in a leering crowd with Alistair about to die beside her. As though hearing Eren's prayer, the Grand Cleric pushed herself through the crowd of soldiers and held up her hand, saying, "Allow me to administer the rites to these doomed souls." The soldiers stepped back just as surely as if a general had ordered them.

Eren's eyes were pressed closed and she was shaking with fear, barely hearing the priestess' words. Gradually they reached through to her, however, and became a steadying hand. Eren opened her eyes again and looked up at the revered mother. It was not the Grand Cleric's face she saw but Mother Mallol's, kind and unruffled as always, both comforting Eren and chiding for lack of faith as Mallol had done countless times before.

The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
She shall know true peace.

"I repent, Mother," Eren whispered.  Maker knew that there was enough blood on her own hands, whether shed justly or unjustly.

Many are those who wander in sin,
Despairing that they are lost forever,
But the one who repents, who has faith
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
And boasts not, nor gloats
Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight
In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know
The peace of the Maker's benediction.
The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.


For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

"I'm not afraid," Eren whispered in reply. She found that it was true.  Turning to look at Alistair, she saw that his head was bowed and his mouth moving in quiet whispers of his own. "I'm not afraid." She repeated it more loudly this time, so he could hear her.

Alistair lifted his head and met her gaze. There were still tears on both their cheeks, but the two lovers smiled at one another. "Nor I, either.  If I couldn't live with you, I would not want to go on anyway. I will meet you at the Maker's side, my love."

"I love you."  Eren saw the shadow of the headsman looming over Alistair and turned her gaze away quickly.  Eyes pressed closed, she was whispering something else she remembered of the Chant and barely heard the strike of the sword or the wet thud of her beloved's head falling to the pavement or the gasps of the onlookers.

Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.

Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts.
Let mine be the last sacrifice.


-End.

Modifié par Addai67, 30 août 2010 - 06:38 .