The palace presided grandly in front of Leondrav, it's arches and spires hailing the vast marbled mansion that revered over them. Immaculate sculptures marked the gradual transition of the grassy courtyards to the stone walls, each an image of history's heroes, their glories exalted under the rose-tinted glasses of remembrance, their many flaws thrown under the shadows they cast. Among then was the statue of the late Imperius, Viktor Emmeryn, his cruel sneer given a more friendly tone in the rose tinted lenses of hindsight. He had died abruptly a decade ago, and while his riddance was joyous, the palace had slowly withdrawn from many external affairs thereafter.
Two bowing angels marked the entrance to the inner parts of the palace, the gilded walls relieved to finally have company after the years of silence the current Imperius had enforced. Many cold smiles greeted him, chilling the marble and metal of the palace till it seemed to cut through his skin. Most in the grand hall were from Edessar, their internal screams of venom nearly audible to his ears. He quickly cut into a more lonely hallway, happy to be free of the self-righteous nobles in the main hall.
He wandered aimlessly in the hallway, savouring the timeless seconds as they attempted to ease his gruelling giddiness. A tinge of darkness stained the edge of his vision, probably a punishment for the sleep he drearily disregarded for the past week.
Yet instead of slithering in the corners and crevices, the treacherous tendrils of dark only seemed to grow, etching their ebony claws across his vision, drowning the heavenly ambience of the palace in its abyssal ruination. A soft but firm hand slid itself over his mouth, an arm locking his in a tight grip. His anxiety faded, and as the hand covering his mouth loosened to instead let his neck feel the silencing edge of steel, and in his nervousness' place came another emotion, a close relative, one that enveloped him in its own peculiar darkness.
Fear.
…
Lynde quietly stalked Arnstein into the courtyard, her childish curiosity burning just as bright as her suspicions as she ducked into the bushes that lined courtyard. Hopefully here she would remain well-hidden, her petal-strewn dress Leo had bought for her easily mistaken as one of the many flowers blooming in the shrubbery. She had seen that ghastly gaze of Arnstein's, one she had green up to fear and hate, one she had vowed to vanquish before it scarred others like it did her.
Edna gently took Arnstein's hand in hers, her eyes soft and silky, her venerable voice now a vulnerable vibrato against the whispered chords of the wind. Arnstein stood impassively in front of her, his jet black eyes hiding any emotions he had… and yet, when Lynde peered out through the patchwork of branches, she could swear she saw that lecherous leer her childhood had acquaintanced her with.
"What's wrong, Art?" her voice quivered, the affection churning uncomfortably with the fear to give a bittersweet blend. Lynde had always idolised the exemplar Edna, but as the trauma came to terrify her again, she realised why.
A woman, her slick black hair running as long as Arnstein's coat, her bloodshot eyes hiding an ocean of agony under their thick, coagulated gaze. Her slender, bony fingers gripped a tiny hand tightly, as if to dig into their pale flesh.
Not now. Not the memories. She hated the memories. They always came eventually, but not now, when sh-
"M-mama," a trembling little girl with scarlet hair asked innocently, "what's wrong?"
The reply echoed in her mind, harsh and hostile against her ears.
"You, dear. The truth is you are what's wrong."
Except now it was the deep, hoarse voice of Arnstein saying those exact words, their twisted image twirling into one.
"I'm sorry, Art, but what did I do?" a meek voice shook, tender but tormented.
"I-I- I'm sorry, mama. What did I do? I'm sorry!"
The only reply worse than those cackling words emerged, a crass quietness, those piercing eyes striking speechlessly at her own. Lynde rolled up into a ball, muffling her cries so no-one could hear them, because it was unthinkable if someone were to. The vivid voices screamed vocally in her head, the insidious images intercepting her eyes as reality and nightmares merged.
"You've been growing so distant… Do you promise to never leave me, Edna?' Arnstein's voice said through the horde of shrieks in her head, opening the door for more uproar.
"You're going to leave me, aren't you? Don't leave me, daughter. Promise to not leave me!"
The words stuck themselves in her throat, and while the love she had tried to push them through, she couldn't. She couldn't. For she wanted nothing more than to leave, to be freed of the chains of fear and love that bound her there. Her desires and her feelings conflicted, and nothing but choked tears fell.
As Arnstein's grip tightened on Edna's shaking hand, Lynde felt a phantom hand grip hers, strong and bony, painfully twisting her hands in their grasp, awaiting an answer.
"Please tell me, Edna."
"Answer me, daughter."
The words came out kind and sweet, yet the grip kept tightening, and for a second Lynde was seven again, helpless and hurting as the nails dug into her smooth skin, the blood that spilt their polish. They tightened and tightened, and her throat, sore from the crying, too sore to scream, let out a soundless wail as her hand throbbed.
A burst of fire pulled Lynde from her haunted hallucination, and she saw through teary eyes - maybe it was Edna, maybe it was her - clutching a ravaged hand and trying to heal a broken heart.
And watching, always watching, was that black-clad figure, the parent of their pain. For a second anger took her and she felt the cold, steely rush run through her blood, readying an invisible blade, but then the thoughts and the fear took her again, and she collapsed, sobbing the agony out of her throbbing and scarred hand.
…
Father Cornelius rose his head from him scriptures as Castor stumbled into the warm ambience of his church. The Cardinal's grumbling gut feelings grew louder with his entry, bringing a certain coldness to the atmosphere. Worry seemed to conquer it's way onto Cornelius' wrinkled face, an emotion unsuited to its standard serenity.
"General Castor!" he exclaimed unnaturally, surprised to see the man here, "what would you be doing here?"
Green eyes flickered into his, a sort of uneasy conviction within them. He did not feel at comfort in these hallowed walls, yet it seemed he felt at more discomfort everywhere else.
"Peace," he said at last, bringing the words out of his uncertain mind, "I want peace. Clarity. Calmness."
"Close your eyes, child," Cornelius replied, seeking to do his divine duty and help all those who needed it, regardless of who they were.
Castor shifted uncomfortably, irritation briefly washing across his battle-scarred face, but complied, forcing his eyes shut.
"The Lord is merciful and benevolent, Castor, yet He cannot walk your path for you. If He is to help one person He is to slight another, and the Lord shall slight no man."
Castor raised his head in subtle defiance, close to spitting out blasphemy, yet he urged his mouth to stay closed. Cornelius parsed through the Bible even though he knew the verse by heart, his fingers trembling along the pages.
"Verse 318, Lines 24:27 - 'He who looketh for contentment in others shath slowly lose himself, yet he who searches for peace in himself shath find it for others.' Stop looking outside yourself, child. Look inside, look deep inside, and you shall find the source peace you crave. Keep following it, and you shall bring peace to the world."
The general's hands folded instinctively as he was thrust into a sea of thought, pondering the words he heard. A small breath of relief settled in the Cardinal, yet from where it blew he knew not.
"What is it that you love? What is it that inspires you to wake each passing day? It maybe hidden under the covers of or conformity and disparagement, yet it is there. Find it, follow it, and you shall find the answers to the questions of your life from it."
His stance straightened, and though the shift was surreptitious, it asserted a resolve no words in Cornelius' Holy Bible could match. He opened his eyes, bowing slightly towards the aged preacher.
"Thank you, your Holiness," he said, stern and authoritative, befitting his position, "perhaps there is more merit to this building than I thought."
Cornelius met the gratitude with his warm, kindly eyes delighted to have not only served his purpose and to have preached the words of God, but also for the gentle gale of calmness that seemed to emanate throughout the room.
"May the light grace you, my child. The doors of God are open to all those who choose to enter."
Castor marched out of the room, and Cornelius sat down, resting his tired bones, wondering if he had the energy after all these years to deal with the storm events the winds of the future would bring.
…
Nothing.
Scour, Vaida's shortened nickname of her identity Scourge, felt nothing. She had felt nothing for so long she was almost comfortable at feeling nothing, yet comfort was a luxury her numbness did not let her afford.
She analyzed her surroundings. Amidst the other soldiers, Valn gazed longingly into the distance. Sadness. If she could feel the sense of want, she would feel a desire for that emotion. Yet there was only the vast smothering layer of nothingness in her.
Vaida, seemingly upbeat. She followed the red haired girl for the naive woman treated her as human. Why, she did not understand, and she did not care she did not understand. Yet the first time it happened Scour had experienced a something electric. Her eyes had twitched suddenly, her pupils had dilated. It wasn't nice, yet it was nice. So she followed.
Yet that was a long time ago, in the slums of Lyrus, yet it changed her. Before, she was a blade, numb, cold, unfeeling, meant for killing. Now, she was a blade in a soldier's hands.
Numb, cold, unfeeling, meant for killing.
Some soldiers looked fearfully at her, terrified of the powers she possessed.
Fear. It was probably a feeling, since she didn't know it.
She knew her weaponry, and the endless abyss of nothingness inside.
Did she wish she could wish to want to know what it was like?
Nothing.
So much nothing, yet no matter how much nothing something had in it, it was still nothing.
It was hollow, empty.
She was hollow, empty.
Something rippled in her nothing, and the atmosphere around her changed, the soldiers lightening a bit.
She viewed it with distant dispassion.
To her, like everything, it was nothing.
...
The darkness receded, leaving Leondrav in a room a hair brighter. Torches tried the best of their shimmering ability to irradiate the elegant walls and the satin curtains, the viscous blackness curling around their fragile flames.
He saw a masked figure drown in the darkness' thick waters, sending gentle ripples around what he assumed was a her, the minute waves collapsing around the grand gilded gem-studded throne, intricate designs weaving themselves into a solid seat fit for a king.
As for for a king the throne was, Leondrav expected something more tyrannical to be sitting in that seat, an insidious image of malice that turned a deaf ear to Astore's painful pleas for protection. He expected the special kind of monster that it took to disregard starving children and their dying mothers, but instead he saw a frail, sickly boy, hardly more than seventeen, gaunt grey-black eyes looking blankly at their visitor, the grandeur of the jewel-encrusted Crown of Thorns nestled lopsidedly on his head. This was the reality of the despotic devil he sought to overthrow.
Imperius Sarcov Emmeryn met Leo's gaze, his eyes lightening and receiving a mild hue of sea blue.
"Your Majesty!" Leondrav quickly managed, bowing graciously.
"I suppose I am not what you expected, Lord Leondrav Layley of Astore?" the boy said, a half smile playing on his lips.
"Please, call me Leondrav," Leo tactly replied, putting on his performance regardless of the audience.
"Yes…" Sarcov trailed, looking at Leo bemusedly, "I suppose you're not one for formalities. Then why flatter me with them?"
Leo blinked in surprise, for once unsure of what to say. He had brought an army to win a debate, and found himself sorely unprepared.
"It is nice to finally meet you, Leondrav. Especially when I meet so very few."
"Well, Emmeryn," Leo stuttered, searching for words, " It is a pleasure to finally see you in flesh."
"Is it?" King Sarcov said in return, voicing Leo's thoughts, "I have ample reason to believe you do not particularly like me."
"You have not given me a good reason thus far, Emmeryn," Leo said, honesty leaking into his voice, "but that may always change."
"Maybe it shall," Sarcov agreed wistfully, his now blue eyes distant, "It isn't easy, managing these provinces in such a strenuous balance. I have disregarded Astore, Leondrav, maybe for the worse for now… but perhaps it is the key to change."
Leondrav found familiarity in Sarcov's speech, and tried to place where his words resonated. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, yet for once, it seemed he had little control over them.
"Do not think I am oblivious to all your plans, Leondrav. Yet… do you truly believe that change to centuries of this biased balance can come so quickly?"
Leondrav looked down, giving those doubtful words thought, letting them sow its seeds in his mind.
"I… I believe if my plans bear fruit, sweet power will their taste. I don't want anymore blood to be shed, by anyone," Leo explained, the truth suddenly feeling naturally on his twisted tongue. What was it about the King that made it so?
"If it were that simple, I would've thought of it. If only… but the wheels have been set in motion, have they not? If the cogs of destiny turn towards war, then I will be counting on you, Leondrav. I will count on you to concoct some clarity in the chaos, yet… mark my words, Leondrav. We are on the brink of uncertain times. While we maybe able to shape the uncertainty for a better tomorrow…" a bitter chuckle escaped the King, forlorn but fickle, "It won't make a very pretty today."
Leondrav's heart sunk, the butterflies usually fluttering under his grasp flying in a frenzy, making him nauseous. His racing mind hit the target why those words pulled him so - it was for they were akin to his own, their echoed eloquence impersonating his ideals. They moved him for he motivated himself, he respected them for he respected himself, but most of all… he feared them, as he feared himself.
A hollow calm drifted over the room, leaving the wild panic with an empty, unfeeling void, with not even apprehension for what was to come.
"It is time, Leondrav," Sarcov said, closing his eyes and leaning back, "Make your entry memorable, so those watching may have some solace if it is the last good thing they are to see."
...
Submitted September 11, 2019 at 07:35PM by cuzimclearlybetter https://ift.tt/2Lu3g5U
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