You Versus You [Part II]
You can read the interlude for “You Versus You” by clicking HERE.
Part I of “You Versus You” can be read by clicking HERE.
The following section takes place a few weeks after the events at the Dawnspire; the Sunguard defeated Doom Lord Baal and the Legion armies at his command, but at great cost.
Contains slight mention of characters played by @thanidiel, @jessipalooza, and @thenaaru.
It’s late in Murder Row.
Not late enough however.
Ithanar Islesun is tired, feels it in his bones, aching steps that carry him over the threshold over the Night’s Knife and into a once-crowded parlor.
No, that’s actually not exactly true.
The place is still crowded, but in a different way; a body here, a body there, arms and legs barely seen over and around the tops of chairs and corners of tables.
A murder scene.
Big.
Bad.
Boisterous.
But he isn’t exactly phased nor is Ithanar affected too much. He’s seen worse, been in the middle of a melee most foul. His thoughts return for a moment to a few weeks earlier, the dark corners of the club contrasting against mental images of light, of fire, a phoenix’s wings beating against the demon they called Baal.
“Ithanar.”
A voice brings him from his reverie, quiet but harsh, demanding but hushed.
His gaze turns on a swivel to the door. A slender woman stands there, dark auburn hair framing hawkish and sharp features. She’s so recognizable, even in the dim light, with her bow still strapped to her back… but even Ithanar knows it’s at the ready. His arms folded across his chest, lines of his crimson-and-black tunic creasing.
“Ildrielen,” he rasps in his gravelly tone, gesturing to the murder scene behind him with a wave of an unfurled hand.
“You look exhausted… and unhappy.” His sister quips, stepping into the parlor with a slow and cautious gait. Her gaze, fel-green, is like his: on a swivel, taking in the sights, the sounds, even the grisly and awful smells.
“Well, I just love being woken up in the middle of the fucking-” Ithanar begins to drawl.
“Ithanar…” Ildrielen interjects, shaking her head. Her steps have taken her around the room, looking over the bodies with a look that can best be called analytical. “No, just…”
“What?” The old elf asks, broad shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. He hasn’t moved and doesn’t plan to, at least for a few more beats, a few more moments.
“What did you expect? That they would come knocking for evening fucking tea?” Ildrielen asks, her tone incredulous but still quiet. She’s crouching over one of the many corpses in this front room now, looking it over.
Ithanar considers this.
He still wasn’t sure what to expect.
No, that’s a lie.
A few things came to mind.
He sighs and turns before pacing over to his sister, the same body she’s looking at coming into view: a man with beach blonde hair and broad features, perhaps not much older than a century or so. His chest has been crushed and pierced; flesh, blood, and bone torn, shredded, sundered. Grisly as it gets.
Such a sight might’ve bothered the Islesun twins once upon a time.
It doesn’t anymore, and Ithanar doesn’t know whether that’s good… or bad.
“Is it crazy to suggest that I might’ve?” He asks almost rhetorically after a few passing moments, standing and watching as the other elf continues her inspection.
“We just got to five-hundred and ninety, Ithanar. Don’t get senile yet.” She quips rather quickly, gaze shifting over her shoulder as she stands. Not once did she touch the corpse, and probably for her own good reasons.
“Not showing a lot of-” Ithanar begins to say, but stops short for he realizes his own folly in even going there.
“A lot of what? No, why don’t you go ahead and say it…” Ildrielen snaps, brows furrowing, lips quirking and curling into a snarl. She leans in to look at him, tone dangerous.
“Listen, this isn’t-” The old elf tries to backpedal on the road he’s gone down, but…
Old thoughts, old memories, old wounds.
“It’s MINE, Ithanar.”
“No… no, it isn’t”
“Then do not even bring that up here!” Ildrielen says, jabbing a finger right into his chest with force enough to actually make him stagger. “You don’t get to play the fucking sympathy card with me. I’m not Highdawn or Silverbrooke or Light-”
Self-inflicted.
Mistakes were made.
“Trust me. I know you’re not, so can we please move on?” Ithanar asks. His hands rise slowly up in caution, palms facing Ildrielen, who is seething.
Mistakes will be made.
“This won’t fix it… This won’t solve what you’ve lost.”
“Yes… yes, it will.”
It didn’t.
But now isn’t the time.
“Ahem!”
A cough, a voice from the other end of the parlor ends the standoff between the twins; their gazes travel to a pair of figures who step into dim lights. These newcomers wear formal robes in shades of red and gold, their hair cut short; if not for their differing faces - one broad, and the other narrow - they might even be twins.
“Ithanar and Ildrielen Islesun, yes?” The more narrow-faced man inquires in a stately tone.
Ithanar looks at Ildrielen again, and she returns his gaze with a steely one of her own. There’s a few beats of silence, tension thick, and then she stands down, shaking her head before letting it rest on the newcomer who had spoken earlier.
“Yes, that would be us,” she responds, arms folding under her chest again. “Conclave, right?”
“Indeed…” The more broad-faced inquisitor says with a curt nod. “We appreciate your cooperation in our investigation. Did you… want to see your brother?”
The twins look at each other again, giving each other the same look.
It’s not dread or fear, no, just… it’s hard to read.
“That would be why we’re here…” Ithanar says after a few beats, looking to the pair at the door. “So yes.”
The inquisitors both offer a nod at the same time, an eerie thing that makes the hairs on the old elf’s neck stand on their head, and then sweep the room before heading into a long hallway that leads to what can only be assumed to be someone’s private chambers.
“We’ll talk later.”
Ildrielen doesn’t even look at her brother as she follows them, her tone quiet and dangerous.
The old elf watches her go, letting silence descend for a few beats. His hands rest on his hips before he shakes his head and lets out a sigh.
This is where their relationship is now, even after the effort to save Inthius nearly a year ago.
Big.
Bad.
But not so boisterous.
The tension may soon boil over.
Or perhaps it will continue to simmer... until it fades.
The room where it happened is smaller than Ildrielen Islesun expects.
But it’s a perfect place for carnage on a micro scale.
Bodies are strewn about, torn, blood still scattered or pooled across not-so-clean floors. There’s all sorts, all shapes, all sizes, and all ages. It doesn’t matter who you are. There was no getting off a ride like this, a feeling the Farstrider knows all too well.
Her gaze ghosts over them, not much of a care coming to mind for those who don’t have the name Islesun, but their wounds, the structure of this siege, is still important. It might paint a picture or nothing at all, but the investigation is worth it.
Is it to Ithan-
No, probably not. He seems more annoyed with this over anything else, but…
No, put that out of mind.
Store it away.
Now isn’t the time.
Ildrielen lets out a snort, shaking her head before peering at the doorway through which they entered. The pair of inquisitors, eerie as can be, are out of sight and therefore out of mind. They apparently had not yet gone through a more thorough observation of the main room, which leaves the woman alone with her twin brother.
And her younger brother.
Ithaerin’s body is motionless, lifeless, near the middle of the room. His limbs are splayed theatrically, long off-white hair stretched, his-
“Weird.”
The word catches the auburn-haired elf, slamming into her and ending the trance of curiosity. Her gaze flickers to Ithanar, who now stands next to her; his eyes are on his brother, lips sundering into a small scowl.
“What?” She almost demands.
“He’s not… like the others,” Ithanar observes, getting into a crouch and then gesturing with a wave of his hand. “The bodies in this room, much like the ones in the parlor… run through, torn, shredded, ripped apart by… something.”
He’s right.
The woman gets in a crouch next to him and then leans over, hands tentatively reaching out to take stock of her younger brother’s limbs.
Chest.
Not caved in.
Hands.
Not bloody.
Feet.
Seemingly fine.
It’s a few moments of investigation, of searching, of hands seeking folds and creases; perhaps their- well, it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, especially not with Ithaerin.
“No wounds…” Ildrielen breathes, eyes still transfixed on her brother. “What the fuck were these inquisitors-”
“Did they even look?” Her brother suggests with a shrug of his shoulders, arms resting on his knees. He’s still crouching, lips softening from a scowl into a slight frown.
A moment.
Two.
Three.
“Wait…”
She reaches up for Ithaerin’s face, moving his hair with a tender touch, to reveal his ears.
Long, defined, almost royal and-
A keen green-eyed gaze catches a revelation.
“He never wears an earring on his left ear.”
Is that humor in Ithanar’s tone?
For the first time, Ildrielen doesn’t chide him for it. He has a point for there is an earring dangling from his left ear, which is something her younger brother would indeed never do. She lets her gaze hang for a few beats, and then it floats to Ithanar.
“Not him?” He half-inquires, but also half-knows the answer.
“Not him,” she confirms with a little nod. “Body double?”
More searching, a flurry of four hands which find it.
A small disk of gold inlaid with enchanted jewels, purples and greens, which glow but not so brightly. When touched, the thing makes a small sound… and then the “body” of Ithaerin disappears entirely, fading beneath the outstretched fingers of the Islesun twins.
A body double indeed.
Questions float through Ildrielen’s mind, a flurry of them, as she looks over the small relic… but there’s relief too. She looks at Ithanar, whose face matches her: curious, full of questions, but… full of relief too. More than she ever would’ve thought.
Not now.
Does he...
Not here.
I…
It isn’t the time.
But for a moment, she feels slightly bad for her earlier outburst. That same sympathy she wouldn’t even give a moment? The feeling springs with Ildrielen’s chest, and then fades. Nonetheless she looks away for a few moments, not daring to look at her brother.
Again, it isn’t the time.
“So… he’s not dead,” Ithanar breathes, relief still resting on his tongue. “I… shit.”
“Fucking foiled the inquisitors again, it seems…” Ildrielen says quietly, still looking away. “And whatever was hunting-”
Feelings of relief fade in a flash.
Something grips at her from the shadows, and her head turns to face them. Where is- there! In the corner. Ildrielen stands slowly but surely and begins to pace, hands outstretched, caught in a trance that she knows exactly what it is.
But Ithanar doesn’t. No, he just watches her go; his features scrunch up in confusion.
“Ildrielen.”
Once.
Voices from the deep.
“Ildrielen… what are you-”
Voices from below your feet.
Twice.
Creep.
“ILDRIELEN!”
Creep.
“ILDRIELEN!”
CREEP.
It’s gone.
She stops, feeling something tugging on her wrist, and turns to see Ithanar’s hand on her wrist, fingers tight. The woman looks down and then up, jerking her arm away from him, and snarling, shaking her head. Bangs of auburn turn and twist with the motion.
“Are… you…” He begins to ask.
“I don’t think… these people were killed by... other people…” Ildrielen breathes, looking around. She massages her right wrist with her left hand. “No, this was…”
“The Legion?” Ithanar suggests, looking around in an attempt to follow his sister’s gaze.
“No.. no…” She disagrees, eyes wide, attention almost unfocused. “This…”
No demon gives this feeling.
Would ever give this feeling.
“Ildrielen?”
“Ithanar. We don’t have time.”
“What the fuck-?”
“I need… can you find Ithaerin?”
It’s a simple question...
“I-”
But there’s complications abound.
“Ithanar. Don’t.”
A pause.
“Fine. I’ll check his safehouses.”
Relief.
“Thank you.”
“And what did those voices tell you?”
“I…”
“Ildrielen.”
“They…”
“Spit it out, child. You test my patience.”
“Grab.”
“...”
“Pull.”
“...”
“Release.”
“...”
“What does it mean?”
“We need to go.”
“To…?”
“To find my fool of a son, child.”
“Wait-”
“We do not have the time… they have unleashed their beast.”