RESONANCE
ACT II, SCENE V
Dravania - On the road, south of the Tailfeather Hunting Camp
Leaves crunched under his feet. Pebbles skipped to the side of the road, stirred by his heavy boots.
She lived. She was safe. She would remain so. Did it matter?
The weather was cool: not frigid, not warm, not comfortable, not a blazing of heat that left skin feeling raw, and not even pleasant, really. Cool, enough to present a balm to skin that, indeed, carried reddened reminders of flash-fired sky, but not a relaxing one. It was more a tingle, like a nerve exposed, or a sleeping limb coming enough to wakefulness to be used, but still retaining that warning, that one bad position could leave it useless.
You spoke of going home for a time. Home. You really thought this was a home? Comfortable, secure, yes, but you rebelled against those things, remember? You rejected comfort, you wanted more, well, you got it, and you got a nice little parcel to remind you.
It was an odd truth that to the north of Coerthas, the world got warmer again, not cooler, but cool compared to frigid was still a warmth of sorts. Perhaps it would provide some solace. The Highlands were behind now; there was no snow to preserve footprints in deep relief, none here, none but the packed dirt of the road, leaving little more than a scuffling evidence of his passing, which would soon enough fade as others walked upon it.
And just what did you think would happen?
His fingers slid over the object held pinched between them: a decorative feather, red as blood, red as a dangerous morning sky. Once, it had adorned one of his favorite hats, but that hat now rested upside-down on his bunk, back at Sable Hall, where he left it next to the wooden box that had held it, a mailed delivery. Within the hat rested a parchment drawing, two smiling faces; its edges were already frayed from travel and wear when he got it. He had left it behind, with the hat, but had taken the feather with him. The rest seemed better meant to be left behind.
It's not as if you haven't wandered before. It's not as if you haven't felt sorry for yourself before. It's not as if you haven't given up things for that greater promise before. Funny, how it's different now, isn't it? "I'm sorry. I love you, I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore." That's all the note said. What more did you think she ought to say?
Dravania was awash all around with the colors of foliage, greens and browns and even some yellows and oranges in spots. To the north, up the road, was Tailfeather, the hunting camp.
You're a killer, now. It doesn't matter whether how much of the fire was hers. You lit the match. You played the song and called forth the inferno. For revenge? For the family? For one long dead, in her honor? Or was this just stupid, blind curiosity? Rage? Why, bard? You can't plead pacifism anymore. You can't pretend to be unblooded. You sought it out. You knew. What gift were you giving the dead - more dead? And whose gifts, whose light, did you borrow, did you send flaring, did you snuff for it? Storms end, but you cannot ignore their passing, anymore, can you?
He stuffed the feather into the band of new, remarkably similar hat that he had bought on his way back through Thanalan, the only other stop he'd made after leaving Sable Hall, at a haberdashery to purchase it. Unlike the old one, it had no story yet. It had seen no malms, and few suns. But in Tailfeather... maybe he could think. Maybe he could get away. If he was the hunter, then let him hunt. It was one of the few places he knew where a man's skill with a bow could excuse anything.
As if the bard within was making a meager protest, the song sprang to his lips, unaccompanied; the lute case and its instrument still hung from his belt, but remained there. The song was faster in tempo, more energized, even acapella, than it had any right to be.
"She had a dream, and it was a sweet one
And she bled for that dream, fueled by desire
But when she got too close, the inferno consumed her
And the dreams seared away, like a feather on fire
Like a feather on fire, smoke in the airways
Like a feather on fire, a pyre to end the day
Can a man be trusted to live his own way
Or is he only fit to smolder, like a feather on fire?
Can a man want love, with no investment;
Can he chase the wind, and change his heart like his vestment;
Can one grim whim consign a soul to the pyre
And see intentions all burn, like a feather on fire?
Like a feather on fire, leaving soot on parched ground,
Like a feather on fire, smoke hanging all around
When nothing but an ashen waste surrounds,
Did you see it blacken, like a feather on fire?
Everyone has a dream, for good or ill,
The thing we protect, or that we hunger to kill
And when you sacrifice, because you know you will
Who'll be scorched by your desire, like a feather on fire?"
( Inspired by John Mellencamp's "Paper in Fire" )
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."