15 Summer, 513 AV
Half between the fifteenth and sixteenth bell, the only ring he kept on his hand grew as dull and inert as any other. He'd been near the docks then, watching a man talk without speaking to a boatman near the corner. Although the nature of their conversation remained muddled, he was sure it had to do with the shipment of...something.
And then the ring on his finger shuddered, and became still.
Nothing in the world mattered more than that moment, how his eyes drifted from two men conspiring to his right hand. How he had laid a finger on the dull iron band as if simply willing it and touching it would remind it of its function.
Wren. Is that...?
But Wrenmae did not answer his familiar. He simply stared at his hand in dumb fascination, somewhere between surprise and horror.
Philomena was dead.
When he'd left her, she was struggling with a blood infection. She had clasped that ring he'd given her and taken the sister upon his own hand. So long as the two bearers wore the ring and lived, it would pulse, pull slightly in the direction of the other.
But her heartbeat had stilled. It never occurred to him that she would remove it of her own volition.
And perhaps it was because he had half expected it, that after seasons of denying any meaningful connection with anyone, after a lifetime of losing those close to him, he had somehow known that she would be taken as well...
Perhaps he had lost her before he'd even known it.
Hot, bitter tears clouded his vision...the first he'd shed without pain since he'd left Zeltiva. Muscles pulsed and bunched, compressing his fingers into fists and sending his whole body into a living rigor mortis. He contained his sorrow, that horrible cry of loss that built in his chest but never escaped his mouth. He imprisoned it there, swallowed it, tried to destroy it.
He only succeeded in steeping his blood with it, so much so that as his nails bit into the flesh of his hands, he thought the blood would be black.
That he would have lost even the humanity of that.
Wrenmae may have knelt there for bells or chimes, time had a different weight to it, an endless quality that was both present in its passage and yet soft, nor forcing him to take note of it.
He found himself, without fully realizing it, in a tavern. The name was pointless, as was the patronage. All that mattered was the mug in front of him and the ring he'd set on the table. Beside it he'd lain other coins, gold rimmed mizas.
One for his father, dead in the Mountains. It may not have been his fault, but he felt responsible. The second was for his half sister, Elena, dead by his own deal in the Unforgiving. The third was for his brother, Dalk, who may have survived had Wren not given him the curse of Blight. The fourth was for the Balnag, the creature he'd released on the sea...blindly hoping that not all weapons were without redemption. The fifth for Weylin, who had been far from home, loved briefly, passionately, and then died by his own blade. The sixth for Valo, whose only crime was trying to warn Weylin that Wrenmae, the murderer had come. The Seventh was for Kip Drawlins, the Waveguard he'd killed to start his reign of terror in Zeltiva. The eighth was for his mother, who he had never known. The ninth was for Tessik and Lana, the elderly couple that had taken him in out of pity when he was young, shivering, and dangerous. They met their end through sickness. The tenth was for Trente, whose life he'd ruined to cover his tracks.
He hesitated before putting the eleventh down, for Imass who he betrayed, and ruined before letting him be claimed by Rhysol.
Eleven gold rimmed accusations gleamed back at him.
He could empty his gold on the table and not reach the amount of faceless he'd left dead in his wake. Families, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. How many lives he'd torn asunder simply by existing.
Once, perhaps, he could have been considered a good man. But even good men would lay down to die when faced with the weight of their presence on the world. Wren selfishly clung to life, even did well by the standards of those dark deities he'd turned to. Every chance he had to show compassion, he took advantage.
A shadow loomed over him, snatching the glitter from the coins he'd laid on the table. He could smell sour hops, the lingering scent of body odor and thick, meaty, porridge. No doubt the inkeeper had come to see why a customer was laying so many coins out on the table.
Wrenmae pushed the coins to the side of the table.
"Whatever this buys in drink, bring it to me."
"Hard day, boyo?"
Wrenmae said nothing, only looking at the dull iron ring still inert on the wooden table. After a few moments, the bartender sighed and scooped the coin into a sweaty palm, leaving Wren to tend to the bar. Whenever his mug went for lack of mead, it was filled.
He wasn't even counting anymore.
Come on, buddy, She could have just had it taken off...or stolen!
You saw her, Zan. She was dying. Her hand...gods, I did that to her.
Vayt did it to her. Why am I the only one who thinks that this whole 'everyone who breathes gets sick' is a raw deal for your Vayt-ites?
I could have avoided her. I could have avoided Zeltiva
Yes. Probably. No...definitely. But that's not the point anymore. Unless you have the ability to travel back in time hidden somewhere in that scheming head of yours...or that body cavity filled with those gooshy things I can only assume are fleshbag attempts at water retention, you can't change anything.
....
But that's not the point, is it? You lived your entire life...practically, the important part anyways...and the important part being the part that I was present for, with this curse...or blessing, or whatever. You flip-flop. Anyways, your life isn't about how many people you've killed, it's how you choose to spend the time you still have. Sure, I'm all for going on adventures and messing with the right folks, but you have this weight on your shoulder. I think the guilt proves you're still an ok guy...somewhere. And that's probably all any of those coin-tribute-people would want...or most of them. The rest probably still want to be alive.
You're only kind of helping.
Mourn for tonight, Wren. Seriously. The fact you can mourn at all means you still have something in you that hates all this. Now, I can't stay that you'll find happiness...in fact, I think the odds are pretty damn stacked against you. But you have to make a decision on who you are...the way I see it, you've never decided that. You're suited to be an egotistical, maniacal, monster...but you have all these squishy feeling bits that are more suited to someone not so...maliciously inclined.
You have a point. But what do I do?
Think? Ponder? Ask random strangers? Hey. I'm just a sarawanki with an opinion, I never said I had all the answers.
And then Zan was quiet, leaving the mage to stare into his mug...remembering the way the light glittered off the edges of the coins he'd lain as tribute.
What was he? Who was he?
He took another drink and held his mug out to no one.
"To Wrenmae," he said gloomily, "Happy Birthday."
Half between the fifteenth and sixteenth bell, the only ring he kept on his hand grew as dull and inert as any other. He'd been near the docks then, watching a man talk without speaking to a boatman near the corner. Although the nature of their conversation remained muddled, he was sure it had to do with the shipment of...something.
And then the ring on his finger shuddered, and became still.
Nothing in the world mattered more than that moment, how his eyes drifted from two men conspiring to his right hand. How he had laid a finger on the dull iron band as if simply willing it and touching it would remind it of its function.
Wren. Is that...?
But Wrenmae did not answer his familiar. He simply stared at his hand in dumb fascination, somewhere between surprise and horror.
Philomena was dead.
When he'd left her, she was struggling with a blood infection. She had clasped that ring he'd given her and taken the sister upon his own hand. So long as the two bearers wore the ring and lived, it would pulse, pull slightly in the direction of the other.
But her heartbeat had stilled. It never occurred to him that she would remove it of her own volition.
And perhaps it was because he had half expected it, that after seasons of denying any meaningful connection with anyone, after a lifetime of losing those close to him, he had somehow known that she would be taken as well...
Perhaps he had lost her before he'd even known it.
Hot, bitter tears clouded his vision...the first he'd shed without pain since he'd left Zeltiva. Muscles pulsed and bunched, compressing his fingers into fists and sending his whole body into a living rigor mortis. He contained his sorrow, that horrible cry of loss that built in his chest but never escaped his mouth. He imprisoned it there, swallowed it, tried to destroy it.
He only succeeded in steeping his blood with it, so much so that as his nails bit into the flesh of his hands, he thought the blood would be black.
That he would have lost even the humanity of that.
Wrenmae may have knelt there for bells or chimes, time had a different weight to it, an endless quality that was both present in its passage and yet soft, nor forcing him to take note of it.
He found himself, without fully realizing it, in a tavern. The name was pointless, as was the patronage. All that mattered was the mug in front of him and the ring he'd set on the table. Beside it he'd lain other coins, gold rimmed mizas.
One for his father, dead in the Mountains. It may not have been his fault, but he felt responsible. The second was for his half sister, Elena, dead by his own deal in the Unforgiving. The third was for his brother, Dalk, who may have survived had Wren not given him the curse of Blight. The fourth was for the Balnag, the creature he'd released on the sea...blindly hoping that not all weapons were without redemption. The fifth for Weylin, who had been far from home, loved briefly, passionately, and then died by his own blade. The sixth for Valo, whose only crime was trying to warn Weylin that Wrenmae, the murderer had come. The Seventh was for Kip Drawlins, the Waveguard he'd killed to start his reign of terror in Zeltiva. The eighth was for his mother, who he had never known. The ninth was for Tessik and Lana, the elderly couple that had taken him in out of pity when he was young, shivering, and dangerous. They met their end through sickness. The tenth was for Trente, whose life he'd ruined to cover his tracks.
He hesitated before putting the eleventh down, for Imass who he betrayed, and ruined before letting him be claimed by Rhysol.
Eleven gold rimmed accusations gleamed back at him.
He could empty his gold on the table and not reach the amount of faceless he'd left dead in his wake. Families, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. How many lives he'd torn asunder simply by existing.
Once, perhaps, he could have been considered a good man. But even good men would lay down to die when faced with the weight of their presence on the world. Wren selfishly clung to life, even did well by the standards of those dark deities he'd turned to. Every chance he had to show compassion, he took advantage.
A shadow loomed over him, snatching the glitter from the coins he'd laid on the table. He could smell sour hops, the lingering scent of body odor and thick, meaty, porridge. No doubt the inkeeper had come to see why a customer was laying so many coins out on the table.
Wrenmae pushed the coins to the side of the table.
"Whatever this buys in drink, bring it to me."
"Hard day, boyo?"
Wrenmae said nothing, only looking at the dull iron ring still inert on the wooden table. After a few moments, the bartender sighed and scooped the coin into a sweaty palm, leaving Wren to tend to the bar. Whenever his mug went for lack of mead, it was filled.
He wasn't even counting anymore.
Come on, buddy, She could have just had it taken off...or stolen!
You saw her, Zan. She was dying. Her hand...gods, I did that to her.
Vayt did it to her. Why am I the only one who thinks that this whole 'everyone who breathes gets sick' is a raw deal for your Vayt-ites?
I could have avoided her. I could have avoided Zeltiva
Yes. Probably. No...definitely. But that's not the point anymore. Unless you have the ability to travel back in time hidden somewhere in that scheming head of yours...or that body cavity filled with those gooshy things I can only assume are fleshbag attempts at water retention, you can't change anything.
....
But that's not the point, is it? You lived your entire life...practically, the important part anyways...and the important part being the part that I was present for, with this curse...or blessing, or whatever. You flip-flop. Anyways, your life isn't about how many people you've killed, it's how you choose to spend the time you still have. Sure, I'm all for going on adventures and messing with the right folks, but you have this weight on your shoulder. I think the guilt proves you're still an ok guy...somewhere. And that's probably all any of those coin-tribute-people would want...or most of them. The rest probably still want to be alive.
You're only kind of helping.
Mourn for tonight, Wren. Seriously. The fact you can mourn at all means you still have something in you that hates all this. Now, I can't stay that you'll find happiness...in fact, I think the odds are pretty damn stacked against you. But you have to make a decision on who you are...the way I see it, you've never decided that. You're suited to be an egotistical, maniacal, monster...but you have all these squishy feeling bits that are more suited to someone not so...maliciously inclined.
You have a point. But what do I do?
Think? Ponder? Ask random strangers? Hey. I'm just a sarawanki with an opinion, I never said I had all the answers.
And then Zan was quiet, leaving the mage to stare into his mug...remembering the way the light glittered off the edges of the coins he'd lain as tribute.
What was he? Who was he?
He took another drink and held his mug out to no one.
"To Wrenmae," he said gloomily, "Happy Birthday."
