The Meaning of Honor [Belgar]

[Hadrian]

Not wanting to excite the Kelvic further, and gathering from his aura that he spoke the truth, even if he was dancing on a knife's edge with violence on either side, Hadrian climbed down, his limbs surer for the Fluxed strength and flexibility. He held the energy in his muscles and bones, blood and nerves, just in case the volatile bear turned on him again. "Your Queen restrains dread Ivak," he reminded the bear quietly. But Hadrian had been defending the ethics of magic since he had begun to study it years ago. It was not an argument he was ever going to win completely. "Thank you," he continued, keeping his tones gentle and low, the faintest hum of a hypnotic suggestion contained in each syllable, his aura delicately siphoning off the rage from Belgar's. "Thank you for allowing me this much trust. Should we return to Avanthal, then? You can take me to your superiors if you feel that I should be questioned." He could only hope that would not mar his reputation among the clannish Vantha. If the holds closed their doors to him, it would be a long, cold winter.

[Belgar]

It was easy enough to let go of rage. Hindsight had crept up on him and tainted it with chagrin, wallowing as a nagging afterthought atop deeper-set passions. Beneath Hadrian’s guidance, the Kelvic’s aura softened like tossed shavings from a sculpture of hard ice. On the coattails of rage, violence fled. Enmity, distrust, anger... each was a sentiment Belgar had only recently unearthed from where he had buried it in youth, each of which had been carefully stripped from him in turn.

What was left was sadness.

That false sobriety, that civility, which he had fought to maintain for over a decade, began to shatter in the memory of the dead woman who had put it there and the magic that had ended her. An ugly sob racked through his nose and shoulders; fresh tears poured like hot daggers over his face. His hand flew up to hide his misery, but a peculiar trust compelled him to stay where he was. “No,” he replied as soon as he was able, “That will not be... needed.”

He pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, as if he could push back the tears. If he were a bear, he would not have had that problem. If he were a bear, we would have been content to rip to pieces all things unfamiliar. “The law does not...” He began to explain, but it was hard to admit that he was wrong. He did not know what was right, but he knew in his heart that he was wrong. The law would protect Hadrian, and rightfully. The law would have punished the man that had killed Seisswyn, if he had not already killed himself. His people had spoken dearly of her, had called her story a tragedy. She had been a warrior, an artist, a mentor and a friend. But they had not known her. They could not care, like he did. “Your people,” he clarified finally, realizing how he must seem a fool for not having done so earlier. His hand lowered. He turned away. “They killed her, because they could not... restrain... I cannot...”

If he had a bear’s throat, Belgar might have emitted a rumbling groan, but his human voice could not fathom such a pitch, so he only sighed. He turned his attention towards the distant, unseen city of Avanthal. His breath was coming short again, over and over again, until it was labored and clouding the air with a white steam. “I will—take you,—if you require. I may—need—a moment—”

[Hadrian]

Hadrian was stupefied. Ethan could be flighty, but Jaiun had seemed so stable. Of course it was lazy thinking to assume that all Icewatch bears would be the same, but this Belgar was acting so strangely in the context of Hadrian's limited experience. Rage flash flooding into tears. He sensed strange knots and tangles in the flows of the Kelvic's aura, ragged ends and snags where whatever had just happened had upset things. Something was not right. Kendall and Sondra were the Azenth; Hadrian was unused to his actions pulling strong emotions out of people. He half reached out to rest a hand on the shaking shoulder, but hesitated, not wanting to lose that hand for attempted compassion. "I am sorry for your loss," he said finally, hand dropping to his side. "I can find my way back if you prefer, but... would you like to talk about it?"

[Belgar]

Belgar wanted to say no, to keep his anguish to himself and hide it beneath the thick cloak of composure. Restraint, control: he needed it, but he could not manage it. His lungs and nose worked on their own to make a fool of him. He could not tell whether true concern or necessary pity had lifted and dropped the human’s thin, soft hand; as his gaze rose from that hand, he decided it was the former. He looked up, for once, to meet Hadrian’s eyes. He had to explain himself. He needed the words. She had taught him that they were important, and they were all that was left of her.

“I... Why...” He choked on the question. He tried a few times to drop his hand and straighten his face, but when those efforts proved futile, he pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes and continued, “She said it is dishonor to kill Vantha. She said...” The words, the words, what were the words? “Who is dishonor... is the enemy.” Hadrian had said that word, and Belgar said it hesitantly as he tried to infer its meaning. “You are not, you... but your people...” A shuddering inhale interrupted him. “I must protect Avanthal.”

His attention had wandered to the city again, so he pulled it back to the unsettling blue eyes beside him. “But... she said we must be civil, and I have not been... I should apologize. I should... I apologize.”

[Hadrian]

There was something wrong about all of this, something he could sense but not quite articulate. Belgar's reactions were so strong, his rage, his grief, and even his embarrassment. There were knots and tangles in the flow of his aura, but they would take time for Hadrian to comprehend rather than just locate and identify. "You needn't apologize," he assured the bear-man. "No harm was done. But if you must, then all is forgiven." He sucked in a breath. "It would be a dishonor to kill anyone, Vantha or otherwise, without due cause. The knights of my homeland worship Tyveth, god of honor, justice... truth, valor, chivalry. But even they debate the finer points. Only the god Himself knows honor in its entirety. "My people are Sylirans. If you speak of those who wield magic, well, there are good and bad people among them. I do not know if I am bad or good, but I wish no harm to your or to Avanthal. Come." He collected what little he had laid out, stowed things in his satchel, and turned toward where he thought the city lay. Though he had done his share of traveling, he was spoiled to have a lammergeier to ply the skies above and let him know when he was traveling in the right direction. "Let us return home. We can speak on the way if you wish, or walk in companionable silence."

[Belgar]

Belgar nodded. “Home is far. Farther for cold human feet. You need only ask, and I will take you there.”

Tugging at the uppermost clasp of his coat, the Kelvic gave to Hadrian the suggestion that most Icewatch guards understood: I would shift. With or without that request, he gathered the rest of his clothes, careful layers that had grown heavy with damp, and tucked them (if only temporarily) under one arm. The first steps, he took in human form. The path he chose might seem arbitrarily torturous at first; many eyes could not see that where the snow grew airy and light, as if hoarding the whitest sunlight, it disguised low ground that would sent a man of their height wading above his knees. Belgar was confident in that intuition, enough so that following it did not distract him from his wretchedness.

“Others must die,” he argued, “Others who choose to harm the Vantha and Queen Morwen. It is not dishonor... a dishonor, to kill a man who is not a Vantha. A Vantha harms his brother, and he will be taken to trial. Others must die.”

Luckily, this bear had not encountered many others to kill, at least none that had accidentally offended him and his late bondmate’s remembered words. Belgar spoke them as fact, because they were her words, the most important of them all. Even feeling them on his tongue brought her back to him, and with her came some semblance of poise. Without some extra coaxing, so might other stifled sentiments return...

If only wishing no harm would do no harm, he wanted to say, but could not fathom the peculiar structure of hard, solid Common. Instead, he simply echoed, “Good or bad. Those who wield magic cannot trust their power.” His hands were loose at his sides, his red eyes honest in ignorance. Despite his clumsy words, Belgar trusted this man whose power he could not—at least, Hadrian was not dead.

[Hadrian]

Hadrian blinked. "You mean you'd carry me?" That was a quick shift from wanting to kill him. Suffering him to live while they walked back to Avanthal was one thing, but carrying him on his back was quite another. Perhaps it was the Kelvic desire to be helpful to humans, especially magi. Their creator had been a human and a magus, after all. He glanced at Belgar as the bear-man continued mumbling what sounded like rote-learned dogma, sensing the blockages in his aura and wondering if he dared breach those dams. The built up pressure might release violently, but such blockages caused illness given enough time. In a sense, he would be doing Belgar a favor. Reaching out with the hypnotic power of his aura, he tried to ease the tension, loosen Belgar up, keep him talking, and nudge him toward more and more trust. Kelvics were generally much younger than they looked, and physical maturity did not always agree with mental and emotional maturity. Someone had built this obsession against practitioners of magic within him. "It is true," he agreed, "many become addicted to the power, but I maintain that power is power. A swordsman may become cruel when his skill gives him power over others. In the end, everyone must do the best with what they are given. But the Valterrian left many scars, many... illnesses in the land. Magic might be the only cure."

[Belgar]

If Belgar were more brazen, he might have laughed. But his utter dissention in Hadrian’s words manifested in only a hard glare forward, the faint tilt of a frown. The bear was not educated as the nomadic Syliran was; he could not see the logic in his claims. “Healing magic is not the matter,” he replied. Belgar remembered with a heavy sniff the wheezing body of a charred woman, her blackened skin reeking of res. Bitterness leaked onto his tongue and stiffened his jaw. “And even it cannot heal some wounds.”

But it was covered soon enough by the blanket of hypnotism, a false contentment breathed on a calming exhale. He began to think he should not have said anything,that he should have insisted to shift and help this man home. Any other circumstance might have choked Belgar with embarrassment, but he expected that this man would not judge his decisions harshly, trusted that he could empathize with his plight.

“She was... what I was given. She could know... She would have...” He gulped as the language stuck on his tongue. “She told me what is dishonor, and what is right. If magic killed her, how can it be right?” The question felt more lucid than he thought he could ever fathom; he was deaf to the folly that would be plain to any other ear.

[Hadrian]

"I do not claim to know the depth of Rak'keli's power and capabilities," he said quietly. Instead he listened to the words that flowed out of Belgar, noting the obvious logical fallacies, but not commenting upon them. He tried to maintain the hypnotic suggestion to be at ease and talk, hoping that Morwen would not smell some trace of it upon her Icewatch bear and take umbrage with his actions since they were well intentioned. After a period of silence, he just asked, "Does Queen Morwen give audience to Her Icewatch?" he asked, a seeming change of direction. "It seems to me that She has the moral authority and wisdom to unravel this knot for us. Perhaps you can go to Her, lay your questions at Her feet, and let Her explain the matter to you. You are a Kelvic, created by magic. There was magic at your conception and at your birth. The mark of your Queen grants you more magic. But magic also killed your friend. "This is a conundrum. Surely She would help you see the wise path through the confusion?"

[Belgar]

Belgar stopped a moment, his mind as well as his feet. He frowned at the ground, considering the question. And when he stepped forward and began to lead the way again, he spoke immediately. It was unlike him, to let his thoughts become words before he thoroughly considered their meaning, but there it was. “The truth is... I have not visited the temple, since she di— was killed.” He paused, holding his breath, trying not to understand the implications of what Hadrian suggested for fear of what could be concluded. “I should have.”

But he could not help but think, and the troubled animal of his mind tossed the dark bruise of guilt on his aura. What would the Queen say? Belgar did not consider that she would think him foolish, that she would excuse the long-dead pirate and his uncontrolled reimancy. He thought only of his own role in Seisswyn’s death, and what Morwen would think of it.

“There were still flames...” he explained. Sadness choked in his throat and on his voice, but he had found other emotions to cling to and other thoughts to dry the tears before they came: guilt and fear and a hint of returning shame. “I hoped I could... remove them. If I were not magic... If I were not a Dire, so heavy... what if I—” crushed her? If he knew the words, he could not say them. He looked away from Hadrian, as if he had not already seen the stoic old bear’s tears.

“I will go to Morwen,” he mentioned suddenly, just as the clear air showed them the sight of Her city. “I will accept my punishment.”