Exhaustion had rolled in like a misty fog, coating Doran's consciousness in a wispy blur. He should have been surprised by how close the white walled city was to Kaelserad; he should have been more present in the discussion Ziemko and Alistair had had before their departure; he should have been able to say more than a handful of words to his brother who had spent time, effort, and money to find them a place to stay for the rest of the season; but all he was able to do was to was wearily cast himself upon the bed and lay in the cool darkness of the room in silence.
Ziemko let him alone. It wasn't a surprise - the man was as socially involved as cold pudding in an icebox -, but Doran felt a vague sense of gratefulness either way. He wasn't necessarily "upset". He was weary, and the weariness was much more than fatigue of the body. His mind felt raw and bloodied, much like the gurgling, bubbling gashes in the mens' throats as their lives had slipped away with each crimson cascade of their fleeting panic. The scene had replayed over and over again, but their masked faces had warped and shifted with each repetition until they were unrecognizable, merely an amalgamation that cycled through a near endless stream of human and non-human features.
What had worn him away so quickly - and so completely - was the realization he had, in the moment, wanted the men to die. The feeling had passed, and the guilt and regret had set in as he'd known they would; yet, there was a distance to them - perhaps one self-imposed - and all that was on the forefront of his mind were the composited faces, eyes bulging, life slipping away. Though he'd not been the one to draw the blade across their necks, his hands felt sticky and wet. And it didn't bother him as much as it should have.
Alone, in the semi-darkness, light filtering through the drape shrouded windows like an unwanted visitor, wane and apologetic, Doran pressed his face farther into the soft covers of the bed, eyes shut and fingers intertwined at the back of his head. He knew well that the act of watching one kill another was very different from committing the action oneself. The logic and rationality behind his lack of active participation didn't escape him. It was the emotion behind it, the odd acceptance - desire, even - at what Ziemko had done.
He didn't blame his brother. Perhaps a part of him wished the man had been a tad more remorseful - human -, but the end result was the men were dead, Ziemko was fine, and he was... lost. Lost in his thoughts, in his emotions, in the fact that he'd knowingly crossed a line he'd never imagined he'd might and would need to continue treading farther down that winding, twisting path. Such a thing should have frightened him, but all it truly managed to instill within him was a fathomless lassitude.
Life had always managed to surprise him - typically with its beauty and wonder. It was then not so much a stretch needed to understand that where beauty existed, so too did something darker, something parlous and malignant. He couldn't begrudge his life for that very reason: it was what it was. Events completely out of his control had landed in him so impossible a situation, he'd have most certainly laughed if one were to have told him the exact sequence of events that had landed him still and brooding upon a large bed in the half-dark of the Na'haeran evening, his bastard brother quietly doing the Seven only knew what in the other room.
Yet as absurd a world as it might have been to him only a tentrial or so before, it was his new reality. Though they had evaded their pursuers, Ziemko seemed to think it was only a matter of time before they might need to run again. To where, Doran didn't know nor could he find himself to particularly care - not there, upon the bed. He wanted to sleep, to escape into the empty blackness of unconsciousness free from worries, from fears, from fatigue, from dreams, but it would not come to him.
Slowly, he turned onto his side, muddy green eyes starting listlessly at the neat, empty writing desk against the wall. "Ziemko...?" His voice sounded peculiarly small - like he were listening to himself from behind a wall of glass, or perhaps more appropriately ice for all the warmth he felt.
Not a trill passed before the door was quietly opened and his brother's rolling voice sounded one of his two ever simple answers. "Yes?"
Doran didn't look at him; he didn't need to. His brother's expression was always the same: impassive, implacable, impartial. "Could you- would you speak some poetry for me?" The question was soft and gentle, nearly a sight of request that - perhaps - Doran didn't expect anything from.
There was no reply, not immediately, as Doran heard the door click shut, but the sound of Ziemko's quiet steps, muffled by his socks, sounded faintly against the smooth wooden floor as the crossed the short distance to sit on the other side of the wide bed. Doran felt the mattress sigh with the man's weight, but he did not turn to face him. Instead, he let his eyes close as he listened to the steady breath of his brother.
Shifting on the bed, Doran settled onto his back, staring up into the murky reaches of the ceiling. For a time, the two of them remained in silence. It stretched, like a cat easing into an afternoon nap, and Doran's lips slowly began to turn into an exhausted smile. "Do you think Tay'sira knew death as a friend or an enemy?" His voice was a murmur, a whispered thought.
"I don't know." Ziemko remained where he sat, back still turned even as the light had at last begun to fade, leaving behind little but a soft pallor in its wake. "But I know it."
Turning only his head, the sound of his hair against the pillows sounded loud in the relative silence. "And what is it to you, brother?"
"An end." He rose, the mattress' slight slope correcting itself, and headed slowly for the door. "It's best you rest now."
Remaining where he lay, staring at the small sliver of silver light that peaked through the drapes, Doran only nodded silently, the covers rustling beneath his skin. As the door closed behind his brother's quiet exit, Doran shut his eyes once more. The faces in his mind had become less disfigured, less wavering. Now, their cold, empty eyes stared back at him, faces pale and bodies empty. He had not been the one to take their lives, but neither had he obstructed such a thievery. He had not had the strength nor the ability nor the will.
His weariness was not born out of anything these things specifically but of an understanding he was weak. He was a weight upon his brother, and if he didn't learn how to make himself useful in his own way, he would be what would drag the both of them down into those murky, abyssal depths. As sleep began to overtake him, he found within him a quiet, knowing resolve. He would find his own way, make his own path; death would have its place there, but he would not be the one to invite it in. Death would be Ziemko's; his would be life - and end and a beginning, if it were possible.
Ziemko let him alone. It wasn't a surprise - the man was as socially involved as cold pudding in an icebox -, but Doran felt a vague sense of gratefulness either way. He wasn't necessarily "upset". He was weary, and the weariness was much more than fatigue of the body. His mind felt raw and bloodied, much like the gurgling, bubbling gashes in the mens' throats as their lives had slipped away with each crimson cascade of their fleeting panic. The scene had replayed over and over again, but their masked faces had warped and shifted with each repetition until they were unrecognizable, merely an amalgamation that cycled through a near endless stream of human and non-human features.
What had worn him away so quickly - and so completely - was the realization he had, in the moment, wanted the men to die. The feeling had passed, and the guilt and regret had set in as he'd known they would; yet, there was a distance to them - perhaps one self-imposed - and all that was on the forefront of his mind were the composited faces, eyes bulging, life slipping away. Though he'd not been the one to draw the blade across their necks, his hands felt sticky and wet. And it didn't bother him as much as it should have.
Alone, in the semi-darkness, light filtering through the drape shrouded windows like an unwanted visitor, wane and apologetic, Doran pressed his face farther into the soft covers of the bed, eyes shut and fingers intertwined at the back of his head. He knew well that the act of watching one kill another was very different from committing the action oneself. The logic and rationality behind his lack of active participation didn't escape him. It was the emotion behind it, the odd acceptance - desire, even - at what Ziemko had done.
He didn't blame his brother. Perhaps a part of him wished the man had been a tad more remorseful - human -, but the end result was the men were dead, Ziemko was fine, and he was... lost. Lost in his thoughts, in his emotions, in the fact that he'd knowingly crossed a line he'd never imagined he'd might and would need to continue treading farther down that winding, twisting path. Such a thing should have frightened him, but all it truly managed to instill within him was a fathomless lassitude.
Life had always managed to surprise him - typically with its beauty and wonder. It was then not so much a stretch needed to understand that where beauty existed, so too did something darker, something parlous and malignant. He couldn't begrudge his life for that very reason: it was what it was. Events completely out of his control had landed in him so impossible a situation, he'd have most certainly laughed if one were to have told him the exact sequence of events that had landed him still and brooding upon a large bed in the half-dark of the Na'haeran evening, his bastard brother quietly doing the Seven only knew what in the other room.
Yet as absurd a world as it might have been to him only a tentrial or so before, it was his new reality. Though they had evaded their pursuers, Ziemko seemed to think it was only a matter of time before they might need to run again. To where, Doran didn't know nor could he find himself to particularly care - not there, upon the bed. He wanted to sleep, to escape into the empty blackness of unconsciousness free from worries, from fears, from fatigue, from dreams, but it would not come to him.
Slowly, he turned onto his side, muddy green eyes starting listlessly at the neat, empty writing desk against the wall. "Ziemko...?" His voice sounded peculiarly small - like he were listening to himself from behind a wall of glass, or perhaps more appropriately ice for all the warmth he felt.
Not a trill passed before the door was quietly opened and his brother's rolling voice sounded one of his two ever simple answers. "Yes?"
Doran didn't look at him; he didn't need to. His brother's expression was always the same: impassive, implacable, impartial. "Could you- would you speak some poetry for me?" The question was soft and gentle, nearly a sight of request that - perhaps - Doran didn't expect anything from.
There was no reply, not immediately, as Doran heard the door click shut, but the sound of Ziemko's quiet steps, muffled by his socks, sounded faintly against the smooth wooden floor as the crossed the short distance to sit on the other side of the wide bed. Doran felt the mattress sigh with the man's weight, but he did not turn to face him. Instead, he let his eyes close as he listened to the steady breath of his brother.
"I looked up towards the vast and empty sky,
And I saw nothing there but callousness.
I searched the depths of the ocean's abyss,
And I found only the bones of the drowned.
I called out to the mad winds of the storm,
And I heard merely a voiceless refrain.
I scaled the majestic, massive mountains,
But the all valleys below remained grey.
I fell into the arms of a lover,
And there in such warm embrace shall I stay."
His voice filled the room, powerful and low. There was no musical intonation, merely the sound of one recalling words long since held in rote, but there was an oddly soothing nature about the clinical recital. Perhaps it was because Doran knew his brother did so only because he'd asked, or perhaps it was merely the fact that there was another person there with him - one who had shared everyone moment of his waking nightmare. Whatever the case, he felt his body finally begin to relax - a tension had not even known to have been there slowly fading as his brother continued.And I saw nothing there but callousness.
I searched the depths of the ocean's abyss,
And I found only the bones of the drowned.
I called out to the mad winds of the storm,
And I heard merely a voiceless refrain.
I scaled the majestic, massive mountains,
But the all valleys below remained grey.
I fell into the arms of a lover,
And there in such warm embrace shall I stay."
"I stalked through the calm verdant forests,
But the animals heard my steps and fled.
I descended into the dark caverns,
But the murk held within nothing but chill.
I spoke the wise, sagely, learned men,
But there was no grand knowledge new to gain.
I drew crimson ribbons from the wicked things,
But such ministrations were vacuous.
I fell into the arms of my lover,
And there in such warm embrace shall stay."
With a sigh, Doran finally rolled over, tired eyes staring up at his brother's silhouette, framed by a fragile halo of the dying dight that struggled against the heavy drapes. The man gazed out towards the other wall, back to Doran, and he too sighed as the poem came to its end.But the animals heard my steps and fled.
I descended into the dark caverns,
But the murk held within nothing but chill.
I spoke the wise, sagely, learned men,
But there was no grand knowledge new to gain.
I drew crimson ribbons from the wicked things,
But such ministrations were vacuous.
I fell into the arms of my lover,
And there in such warm embrace shall stay."
"But time presses ever onward,
But time withers all that which lives,
But time traps the present in past,
But time shrouds what will be with now,
And I fell into the arms of my lover,
But my lover was with me no longer."
There was no sadness in his voice, in spite of the words he spoke, but Doran felt the weight none-the-less. "Another excerpt from Tay'sira Fallow's collection of works, Time." But time withers all that which lives,
But time traps the present in past,
But time shrouds what will be with now,
And I fell into the arms of my lover,
But my lover was with me no longer."
Shifting on the bed, Doran settled onto his back, staring up into the murky reaches of the ceiling. For a time, the two of them remained in silence. It stretched, like a cat easing into an afternoon nap, and Doran's lips slowly began to turn into an exhausted smile. "Do you think Tay'sira knew death as a friend or an enemy?" His voice was a murmur, a whispered thought.
"I don't know." Ziemko remained where he sat, back still turned even as the light had at last begun to fade, leaving behind little but a soft pallor in its wake. "But I know it."
Turning only his head, the sound of his hair against the pillows sounded loud in the relative silence. "And what is it to you, brother?"
"An end." He rose, the mattress' slight slope correcting itself, and headed slowly for the door. "It's best you rest now."
Remaining where he lay, staring at the small sliver of silver light that peaked through the drapes, Doran only nodded silently, the covers rustling beneath his skin. As the door closed behind his brother's quiet exit, Doran shut his eyes once more. The faces in his mind had become less disfigured, less wavering. Now, their cold, empty eyes stared back at him, faces pale and bodies empty. He had not been the one to take their lives, but neither had he obstructed such a thievery. He had not had the strength nor the ability nor the will.
His weariness was not born out of anything these things specifically but of an understanding he was weak. He was a weight upon his brother, and if he didn't learn how to make himself useful in his own way, he would be what would drag the both of them down into those murky, abyssal depths. As sleep began to overtake him, he found within him a quiet, knowing resolve. He would find his own way, make his own path; death would have its place there, but he would not be the one to invite it in. Death would be Ziemko's; his would be life - and end and a beginning, if it were possible.
. . .the 15th of Ymiden during the 718th arc. . .
