Things pass as quickly as the days had been slow not all that long ago. Gren emerges aboveground to greet the pale, thin light of predawn and very nearly collapses at the sight of it. But he is in the company of the Crownguard and the castle is alive with commotion and people and this is no time to unravel. He glances, for a moment, at his wrists in the light -- thin and shadowy bruises replacing what had been deep, violet marks. Unbloodied. Pressing two fingers against his pulse point, he draws a breath and plunges into the wake that treason leaves behind.
His first stop is with the council. Opeli’s rage is painted in the tense, locked lines of her expression, her posture, and he cannot begrudge her the righteous fury even if he cannot quite feel it in its entirety. The report he gives is brief, touching only on what is most important: Viren’s interception of the rescue mission, his interrogation of the elf, and his magic that was beyond anything that Gren had ever seen. Most of what he’d said behind closed doors were not things that he could hear, and for a moment the feeling flickers to life -- the bitter, acrid taste of failure. But for now it seems to be enough to round out the council’s understanding.
He offers to stay longer but it is at Opeli’s insistence -- couched gently, but almost as stalwart as the General can be -- that he attempt to tend to himself. So after assurance that word will be sent to the Breach, he heeds her -- finds that a room has been prepared, a bath readied, food. Gratitude sinks claws into his throat, almost enough to shake his composure -- but not quite. Even when the doors close behind him ( alone, but the window lets in daylight and that is more solace than he deserves ) he is perfunctory in taking care of what needs to be taken care of. Spends only a moment laughing gently at how he cannot keep his arms high enough to shave away the scruff that has collected across his jaw.
Sleep is a piecemeal thing, scattered and leaving him deciding that if it won’t come to him, he might as well get on with what needs to be done. Which -- seems to be the passage of more information. Waiting on word back from the border, a missive from Corvus and King Ezran ( and he is dizzy with relief ), the announcement that the pentarchy must also write back. Gren spends the next day relaying whatever he can -- and then, that night, finally speaks with the council about laying temporary claim to the affects Viren had left in his dungeon.
It does not occur to him to secret anything away -- this is the kingdom he has given his life to serve. These are people he has known for so long, and through so much, that he trusts their judgement as much as he hopes that they will trust his. It is -- beyond his ken, to explain the other magic he’d witnessed, beyond his belief that he was not the only prisoner housed below the castle. --- And that is how he finds himself revisiting the chamber himself once more, swallowing the terror that wants to settle against the length of his spine and under his breastbone, in order to transport the glassy, ornate mirror from its spot in its cell up to the chamber he’d taken.
It strikes him, for a moment, that he could feel foolish -- insisting he carry it himself, despite how his arms still will not lift very high. Seeing its surface as nothing but reflective all through the trip. But he chooses, instead, to complete what he’d set out to do, driven by the flickering desire to free anyone he can from the fate of imprisonment below the castle. And it sees him through to the end, setting the mirror beside the window in his room, gazing at it for a few long moments, then dropping unceremoniously to the bed to bow his head and rest it against his hand.
❛ --- Gods, I hope this is the right thing to do. ❜
