#lordlastborn

[priestess-of-kynareth]

Letters from the Grave

She woke to the sound of fluttering wings.  Pell never did anything with subtlety,  and the jackdaw hopped from her bedpost to her pillow little little to no thought of who might be resting upon them.  He puffed out his chest and dropped a crudely folded crane onto his pet’s head, and a single jab with his sharp beak brought her fully awake.

It was still dark when, startled, Diana opened her eyes.  She could hear crickets down by the the water, but everything else was quiet.  Everything but the folded crane on her lap, oddly chill to the touch.  She swore she could hear it whispering, though she couldn’t make out the words.  Pell nestled himself on her bare shoulder, crowded against her neck.  “Dead,”  the jackdaw cackled with what seemed to be unrepentant glee.  Diana simply wished he’d learn another word.

She sat up, her blankets falling about her waist.  The air was cool against her bare skin, sending gooseflesh racing up her stomach and arms.  Though everything about the crane’s delivery was ominous, she reached for it with no trepidation.  Her heart raced, instead, with growing excitement.  There was only one person who sent her letters folded like birds, and if this letter was here, that meant--

“He’s not dead,”  She breathed excitedly to Pell as she smoothed the crane out flat, careful to make a mental note of the folds so that she could re-create him once the letter was finished.  Ardost’s last dove still rested, slightly worn, beside her bed.

The script is unfamiliar, but she can practically hear Ardost’s voice in her head as her eyes flit over the letter, drinking in every word.  Her emotions catch in her throat like a hard ball of lead, and she can’t swallow it down.  

She’s too excited to be afraid.  The fact that Ardost has apparently read her personal journal entries as letters goes ignored.  It’s good to hear form him again, to have his letter to hold.  She covers her mouth with one hand as she reads the letter, and then reads it over again.  Ardost has never been kind, but he’s always been honest.  And helpful, in his own way.  She cherishes every word, and bends to place a soft kiss on the crane’s head.  She isn’t given the opportunity;  The words melt, and she gives a soft cry at the sight of it.  Pell croaks in complaint as he flutters up to the rafters, watching as she scrubs at the inky blackness with her thumbs as if she might rub it away and reveal the letters beneath.

To no avail.  They’re gone.

There’s no time to mourn, however.  She gets quickly to her feet, pulling a blanket around herself for warmth as she goes.  She sits at a small desk, blanket draped over her arms as she quickly lights a couple of candles and scrawls a reply.

Ardost,

It’s good to hear from you.  I’ve missed you.  I can’t describe how reassuring it is to know that you’re still around.  You didn’t sound well in your letter.  I know better than to ask if you’re alright, or if you’d allow me to help you.  I’m quite certain you’d say no.  Please understand that the offer still stands.  I want to help.

I used to have such faith.  Kynareth was the answer to every problem in my life, and I look to her still for guidance.  It was so easy when I could hear her whispering to me, and impossible now that I’ve grown deaf.  Why has she abandoned me?  I ask myself the question over and over.  I do my best, and I want to do what is right.  Not just because it’s what Kyne would ask of me, but because good is good, and evil if evil.  This is indisputable.

Or so I thought before I met you, before I came to Windhelm and Riften and saw suffering.  People steal because they know want.  People hurt because they don’t know how to deal with their own anger or grief.  I understand.  True evil is so rare.  I fail to see how it can exist, and certainly not within you.  You’d probably disagree on that, too.  Which only proves my point further, I think.

But allow me to get back to my point:  Allowing Basille to die would be true evil.  To allow insinuates that I do nothing to help, and I cannot live with myself knowing that I did nothing.  I don’t want him to die.  He’s a good man.  I just wish his life wasn’t laid across my shoulders without my permission.  I didn’t ask for this.  I’m scared.

I’m so tired of being scared.  You always made me feel brave.

I hope you return to us soon.  I’ll send the letter with Pell.  He’s always known how to find you.

Love,

Diana

[priestess-of-kynareth]

[A letter arrives, folded in the shape of a severely distorted crane. The handwriting is shaky, almost illegible.]

Sister… Sweet sister… I am not… How long has it…? I know not… Difficult. It is difficult to write. Pell will bring it thence when I am done, I think, though still I cannot trust him. I have your letters. I believe they are your letters. If I’ve hands at all, I cannot stop them shaking. Fret not for me, and forgive my scrawling. Imagine me a ghost. I need not imagine the same. Do you think on what I would do, that you will then make certain not to do it? There are many who exist without faith. I have none, and am nothing, but you are not like me. Perhaps it is not faith you require. Whether you have it or not will not prevent your suffering. Let the lad die. Then steel your heart and forget before it kills you. A

[The letter dissolves into strange symbols and half-sketched and unintelligible images that in turn gradate into black ink, as if it had been spilled over the parchment.]

[priestess-of-kynareth]

Release

It was odd to be returned to her clinic.  Everything looked the same as when she had left, more or less.  A bit more dusty, her bread moldy.  Pell was gone, too, no doubt flown out the chimney, and Fero had been quite glad for the food she'd brought him.  It was almost like coming home, if it hadn't felt so hollow. She'd been in prison for two weeks, but it had felt much longer.  Her breath was still short and nervous, as though she expected to have Stormcloaks upon her at any moment.

And she'd been foolish.  So, so foolish.  How had she thought it'd be a good idea to write Basille about troop movements?  Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if he had been a blacksmith or a baker, but Basille was a military captain, and under command of the Legion.  She could understand, really, how Ulfric had thought that she was a threat.  She'd assured him otherwise, of course.  Unfortunately, he had not been easily swayed.

Her release had come as quickly as her arrest.  One moment, she had been eating her breakfast (cold cereal and bread), and the next, she was being led out of her cell in chains.  Perhaps Ulfric had decided she wasn't worth the coin it kept to keep her in prison, or perhaps there'd been an uproar about a priestess being arrested.  She didn't know, and didn't care.  All that mattered was that she was free.

Not without cost, of course.  Her release had come on terms:  First, that she would cease her letters to any legion soldiers while in Windhelm.  Secondly, that  any letters she sent out from Windhelm would be sent by an approved courier.

And lastly, that she would surrender her ownership of the clinic and vacate Windhelm within the month.

That was hurt the worst, of course.  Diana was proud of her clinic, and she had done much in the way of fixing the building and making it a place that felt safe for the locals to go.  She'd already arranged for one of her assistants to take over the running of the place while she was gone, and she'd send funds when she could.  But having it out of her hands made her nervous.  And sad.  

In the days that followed, there was little to do.  Pell returned to her, and looked none the worse for her two weeks apart from him.  The occasional patient came and went, and all of her assistants spoke a bit too gently to her for her liking.  At last, there seemed to her only one thing for her to do:  Write a letter.

Ardost, I don't know if you're alive.  I don't even know that, if I send this out, it'll find you.  Maybe that's not the important part.  Writing it feels good, though.  Like I still have someone I can talk to.

You're right.  It's a miracle that I'm alive.  I disrespect Kynareth by continuing to flaunt my luck, or whatever it is that protects me.  I've been foolish.  By all rights, I don't deserve to be here.  I'm a stupid girl.

But I have to keep trying.  I won't stop trying.  Isn't the saying to get back on the horse?  I suppose mine is used to me falling off of him, by now.  I seem to do it often.

I miss you.  I wish you had told me you were leaving.  You were one of the best friends that I had.  Have?  You're too proud and clever to die. If you find Lucretius, please let me know.

I hope you're alright.  I'm sorry I didn't send anything to eat.  I haven't been in the mood to bake. Love, Diana

[priestess-of-kynareth]

A Last Goodbye

She cried when she saw the dove.  She hadn't known who it was from, of course, but when she saw the form of the letter, she assumed at once it was from Lucretius.  She'd grabbed it quickly, the parcel left untouched.  With shaking fingers, she'd carefully unfolded the letter, the creases left in place so she would be able to fold it back into its original shape.  Her smile was bright as she began to read, and then, quickly, it faded and disappeared.

Lastborn?  Gone?

She refused to believe it.  Even after she read the letter twice, thrice, she ignored the aching, empty feeling that was beginning to gnaw at her insides.  This was a joke.  A cruel one, yes, but Lastborn--Ardost, had never been above cruel jokes before.  

Still, she worried.  Cruel joke or no, she had to investigate.

She had seldom ridden Lilly so hard before.  The mare was sweated up into a lather by the time Diana had taken the long ride to where Ardost's tower used to be.  But now, as she halted Lilly beneath the familiar rocky bluffs, she couldn't see anything.  Where his Tower had once stood, there was... Nothing.  Not even foundation stones were left behind.  There was nothing but lush grass, and she circled once, twice, just to be sure.  She climbed the narrow, rocky path up the bluffs, as if that might make Ardost appear.

But it didn't.  And she should have known better.

Her breath came to her in shallow, choking sobs.  One hand rested on her chest, and the other pressed against her forehead as she sat on her knees, her bottom lip between her teeth.  He was-- Gone.  Gone, gone, gone.  She could hear Pell chanting it in her head.  Had he known?

Ardost had never been kind to her, not in the usual way.  But he had been helpful, in his own way.  He had tried.  He had listened, and he had been a friend.  Her friend.  And she had so few.

"Ardost,"  She wept it softly, her face in her hands.  "I'm sorry."  Even now, she didn't know what she was apologizing for.  For being boring?  For not doing enough?  For not saying goodbye?  He didn't need her.  Ardost was strong, he was intelligent, and he was ambitious. She wasn't any of those things.  Maybe that was why they had made such a good team.

She couldn't do anything for him, now, and that hurt the worst.  

She meant to leave the dove behind.  It would have been an appropriate memorial.  But she'd been too weak to do even that.  When she returned home, the dove remained where it had been the entire trip:  Folded up in her breast pocket, right against her chest.  She'd lost him, but that didn't mean she had to lose this.  And she'd keep looking for him, no matter what it took from her in return.

Some things, some people, were worth the sacrifice.

[priestess-of-kynareth]

[A letter arrives, folded into a dove. Parcelled with it is an ample amount of septims.]

To my dear, sweet sister, I fear the time has come for me to go. Ah, no. I do not think it frightens me. The fact remains that by the time that this letter has come to you, I shall be… Elsewhere. Alas, I could not bear the thought of shuffling thence without first telling you good-bye. No one will ask where I have gone. I suspect only you might care to, but you may say that I am drowned, in the most unlikely event that I am mistaken. You must count your blessings, sister, that I grew tired before I could grow truly cruel. I hope the curious miracle that keeps you living carries on. I hope that you find poor Lucretius, or else are forever rid of him. I hope, also, that you will cease in your efforts to mend broken people. Turn your thoughts to broken things, as they can still be of use to you. And keep both eyes on Pell. He has the look of a bird, but not the soul of one. I have never understood you. You are kind even to the mongrel dog that bites you. Indeed, I have seen your kindness deplete you until you are barely breath, and yet you do not diminish. You struggle, and grow mysteriously brighter. I hoped to see what would become of you in the extremity of your good will. Instead, I am left only to imagine it. I am not what you are, nor could I ever have been, and thus, I cannot imagine what you will go on to be. Something curious. I wonder if the miracle that preserves you through your misguided empathy will extend into what you may do. Perhaps that is your beloved Kynareth’s hand, at work, even now that you can no longer hear her voice, if ever she spoke to you. If there is any misfortune in my ending, it is that I leave you just as you at last became interesting. More the pity, I shall never know how you continue to survive. Ah, but the abyss is calling me to my destruction. Does that thought sadden you? Let it pass quickly; your heart bleeds too easily and too often. Permit me, also, to spare you at least one unanswered question. You were right in that my name was never Lastborn (though I told no lie in saying that it was my mother’s name for me). I cannot bear to venture so far afield, and leave only that name. Both my mantle and dear mother’s smiling skull upon it can no longer mock me, but give me this last small act of spite. Therefore, let me end my letter with my name, and thereby be satisfied. Farewell, sweet sister. Think on me from time to time, won’t you? Ardost PS: Please find enclosed the monetary assets remaining to me, which I thought might be of use. This document therefore stands as my will, of sorts. Call it, if you will, a dead giveaway.

[askdusty]

✲?

They say it is better to have loved and lost.

The Lastborn thinks on this, twisting the stem of a goblet between long, spindly fingers, crystal catching the light of the fire in facets. Only when he tilts his head upwards with the creak of bone do his eyes catch it, as well glinting silver.

Love. Love is simply a form of madness, and a meddling one, at that. He dismisses it, for now, with a tasteless sip of wine. But the saying, perhaps it applies elsewhere. 

Better to be a fallen Lord?

A mirthless chuckle into his drink, low and soft. It ripples at the movement of his cold breath, almost trembling, before the surface goes still once more. Better to have once been great, to retain at least some scrap of what he was, than to have never had it at all?

He remembers it. Remembers being not iron but gold, gold hair, gold jewels, power at his fingers and on his lips. Oh, iron in name by his people, in heart by the tip of a blade, but plated in gold. When crimson was not just a flavourless shadow of a sensation, but known to him. Blood on his arrows, of the sky over a battlefield, of his wife’s locks in his hands.

Red and gold and power, and would it be more mercy, or less, not to remember it? Does Vaermina not preside over memories? Perhaps she saw fit not to steal his, whether to reward or punish him, he does not know.

The chink of crystal by his ear catches his attention, and he turns his head with another sickly crunch of bone. The stem of the glass, the spine, is snapped in his hand. Palm dotted with red. The round of the goblet balances upon the split stem for a precarious moment before toppling wish a splendid crack.

He gazes down at the mess of it, and laughs loud enough for the empty halls to echo.

[askdusty]

ϟ

He seems - off, lately. Not that he was ever quite normal, eccentric ass that he is, but he somehow seems weaker. Like ennui has tired him, somehow. Whatever is the matter, dear Lastborn?

[askdusty]

Little thing!

She's gotten very good at climbing trees, and this new, oddly arched man - shaped like that tree maman says is crying, by the old pond - is much too tempting. Gabby beams and immediately attempts to scale the poor man, grabbing onto his coat and trying to haul herself up before her father tugs away, red-faced and apologizing profusely.

Gabby pouts. She could have seen the whole world from there!