(( This is crazy overdue. The conclusion to Askier and Roen's kidnapping, from Delial's perspective. With much love and apology to Itarliht's player in particular. ))
The memory would come to her at times, unbidden, redundant: a voice like silk in her ears and just as rich. Her mother's hands slid over hers, soft and cool as snakeskin. "Quick and fluid, duckling." Slender fingers would wrap around hers, still small and clumsy, and together they would hold the simple blade. Delial could hear her smile without seeing her face. "One motion. Clean, else we waste. We cannot have that, my sweet. We simply cannot have that."
Itarliht knelt upon the deck yet still he was gargantuan, nearly coming up to her chest even when he was on his knees. He was encased in armor just as he was the last time they had come to Crescent Cove. They called him Crimson Mountain and the heavy plate glistened like blood freshly cut from the vein. They called him a monster yet there was peace in his deep green eyes.
"What did you do to her?"
"I turned her into a dog."
She knew the moment that Gharen handed the knife off to her that she would have to use it. Wolfsong, for all the errors he had made in his life, was no fool. His sister knelt at the end of the pier in nearly nothing at all, shorn and trembling. Her arms were twisted behind her back and she stared hard and bitter. "He is a monster," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
Quick and fluid. Itarliht's lips moved. He did not look away from her, the woman who stared not at him but at the memory that came unbidden. Garren Blackstone was not kneeling when he died but he looked at her much the same: resignation. Acceptance. He knew his daughter was beyond his reach and when her small hands dragged the blade across his throat she did not look away. Only when he stopped moving did she press her fingers against his throat and marked her face just as mother had shown her. Just as the witch had shown them both.
The knife was warm in her hand. Itarliht was speaking. "I wanted to protect you," he said. "But all I did was hurt you." His voice was much calmer than before when the pier was still crowded by those who wanted his head. She could not tell if he regretted. His face betrayed nothing, and the rumble of his voice only made her ache in ways she had forgotten she could. "If you want my life, it's yours."
"Stupid. Lunatic." Â The fire of her rage, the legacy of her bloodline and the name she did not wear, thrummed loud in her ears. Even as every scrap of evidence along the trail Osric had led her had pointed at Itarliht, she had refused quite blatantly to see it. Itarliht knelt before her penitent, waiting, unafraid of the fury which stood before him. He had seen the knife and Delial wondered briefly he if knew as well. "I should kill you, if you truly wish to die. My life is not worth that of any man - not ... not yours. Not even yours."
"I don't want to die," Itarliht said evenly. Her knuckles ached. "But I'd rather die than have you hate me."
Westor did not beg either and he fought with every last breath, foolish in his conviction that betrayal was worth his life. She shook her head as if to shake the memory away, ignoring the foul taste that was rising in her throat. His eyes had been clear though he moved as if with the grace of Rhalgr himself up until the knife sunk into his gut. Even then he stared, hawk-like. He made no sound even as he died and for the first time Delial Blackstone thought to wonder if she had been wrong.
Hatred and disdain had made the air heavy. As the suns since Roen's disappearance stretched on and the blame piled up, she had adamantly denied that her knight could be responsible. He swore his loyalty and his sword to her, a woman whose crimes he never knew though it stained her plain as day, and he believed in what she could be more so than what she was. The first time she called him her White Knight she had thought it a joke, but he had smiled as though it were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him in all his life.
"I love you." She said it as if the very words offended her, made her skin crawl. Â Inside her gut she ached and in the moments she took stepping closer to him, bending down to rest her brow against his, her body felt like fire. His eyes did not stray from hers and even when she shut hers away she could feel him watching her with all the calm of a quiet sea. "But this...."
"I know. I'm sorry. Just... make it quick, okay? And... I love you, too." His forehead pressed back against hers and clunky, armored arms reached up to embrace her in blood-colored steel.
She kissed him once upon his brow, and once upon his lips: a chaste, brief affair, hasty and... lost, somehow, as if resigned. Delial's nose touched to his and she murmured, quietly, "I cannot forgive. I cannot regret."Â
He returned the quick kiss, nuzzling her nose as though nothing were amiss. Even as the hand that held the knife white-knuckled rose to press against his throat he did not quake nor quiver. There was a pressure around her hand and she realized then that his strong, armored fingers had wrapped around hers. It would have been no challenge to stop her had he desired. He held her hand and he waited.
"Live a better life than I did, my love."
Quick and fluid. Her hand jerked through the practiced slash of a woman raised spilling blood and she could not tell then who it was that gave the hard, choked gasp she heard, just as she could not tell if the way his hand twisted with hers inside was a reaction to the pain or if he had done so intentionally, ruining flesh and artery alike. Itarliht's heavy, armored form twitched and he began to slump against her as blood rushed free from his body.
She did not let go of the blade. She did not fight him. There were a many things Delial did not do. She steeled herself, bracing herself with the fury that came with betrayal, steeled herself with the knowledge of history repeating. Her jaw tightened as she braced herself against him, painfully aware of hot blood spurting from the ugly tear in his throat. She made not a sound as she held him up as best she could manage, until he was indeed still and silent. She did not say a word.
Tracing fingers through the waning tide of red, she marked her face just as mother and witch had shown her, just as she had every time. His eyes were still open when at last she opened hers, blind and glassy as they stared across the water. Her fingers pressed them closed and she wondered, briefly, if it was the peaceful gaze that bothered her more than his torn skin.Â
Knowing not what else to do, she finally gave him to the sea.
The memory would come to her at times, unbidden, redundant: a voice like silk in her ears and just as rich. Her mother's hands slid over hers, soft and cool as snakeskin. "Quick and fluid, duckling." Slender fingers would wrap around hers, still small and clumsy, and together they would hold the simple blade. Delial could hear her smile without seeing her face. "One motion. Clean, else we waste. We cannot have that, my sweet. We simply cannot have that."
Itarliht knelt upon the deck yet still he was gargantuan, nearly coming up to her chest even when he was on his knees. He was encased in armor just as he was the last time they had come to Crescent Cove. They called him Crimson Mountain and the heavy plate glistened like blood freshly cut from the vein. They called him a monster yet there was peace in his deep green eyes.
"What did you do to her?"
"I turned her into a dog."
She knew the moment that Gharen handed the knife off to her that she would have to use it. Wolfsong, for all the errors he had made in his life, was no fool. His sister knelt at the end of the pier in nearly nothing at all, shorn and trembling. Her arms were twisted behind her back and she stared hard and bitter. "He is a monster," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
Quick and fluid. Itarliht's lips moved. He did not look away from her, the woman who stared not at him but at the memory that came unbidden. Garren Blackstone was not kneeling when he died but he looked at her much the same: resignation. Acceptance. He knew his daughter was beyond his reach and when her small hands dragged the blade across his throat she did not look away. Only when he stopped moving did she press her fingers against his throat and marked her face just as mother had shown her. Just as the witch had shown them both.
The knife was warm in her hand. Itarliht was speaking. "I wanted to protect you," he said. "But all I did was hurt you." His voice was much calmer than before when the pier was still crowded by those who wanted his head. She could not tell if he regretted. His face betrayed nothing, and the rumble of his voice only made her ache in ways she had forgotten she could. "If you want my life, it's yours."
"Stupid. Lunatic." Â The fire of her rage, the legacy of her bloodline and the name she did not wear, thrummed loud in her ears. Even as every scrap of evidence along the trail Osric had led her had pointed at Itarliht, she had refused quite blatantly to see it. Itarliht knelt before her penitent, waiting, unafraid of the fury which stood before him. He had seen the knife and Delial wondered briefly he if knew as well. "I should kill you, if you truly wish to die. My life is not worth that of any man - not ... not yours. Not even yours."
"I don't want to die," Itarliht said evenly. Her knuckles ached. "But I'd rather die than have you hate me."
Westor did not beg either and he fought with every last breath, foolish in his conviction that betrayal was worth his life. She shook her head as if to shake the memory away, ignoring the foul taste that was rising in her throat. His eyes had been clear though he moved as if with the grace of Rhalgr himself up until the knife sunk into his gut. Even then he stared, hawk-like. He made no sound even as he died and for the first time Delial Blackstone thought to wonder if she had been wrong.
Hatred and disdain had made the air heavy. As the suns since Roen's disappearance stretched on and the blame piled up, she had adamantly denied that her knight could be responsible. He swore his loyalty and his sword to her, a woman whose crimes he never knew though it stained her plain as day, and he believed in what she could be more so than what she was. The first time she called him her White Knight she had thought it a joke, but he had smiled as though it were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him in all his life.
"I love you." She said it as if the very words offended her, made her skin crawl. Â Inside her gut she ached and in the moments she took stepping closer to him, bending down to rest her brow against his, her body felt like fire. His eyes did not stray from hers and even when she shut hers away she could feel him watching her with all the calm of a quiet sea. "But this...."
"I know. I'm sorry. Just... make it quick, okay? And... I love you, too." His forehead pressed back against hers and clunky, armored arms reached up to embrace her in blood-colored steel.
She kissed him once upon his brow, and once upon his lips: a chaste, brief affair, hasty and... lost, somehow, as if resigned. Delial's nose touched to his and she murmured, quietly, "I cannot forgive. I cannot regret."Â
He returned the quick kiss, nuzzling her nose as though nothing were amiss. Even as the hand that held the knife white-knuckled rose to press against his throat he did not quake nor quiver. There was a pressure around her hand and she realized then that his strong, armored fingers had wrapped around hers. It would have been no challenge to stop her had he desired. He held her hand and he waited.
"Live a better life than I did, my love."
Quick and fluid. Her hand jerked through the practiced slash of a woman raised spilling blood and she could not tell then who it was that gave the hard, choked gasp she heard, just as she could not tell if the way his hand twisted with hers inside was a reaction to the pain or if he had done so intentionally, ruining flesh and artery alike. Itarliht's heavy, armored form twitched and he began to slump against her as blood rushed free from his body.
She did not let go of the blade. She did not fight him. There were a many things Delial did not do. She steeled herself, bracing herself with the fury that came with betrayal, steeled herself with the knowledge of history repeating. Her jaw tightened as she braced herself against him, painfully aware of hot blood spurting from the ugly tear in his throat. She made not a sound as she held him up as best she could manage, until he was indeed still and silent. She did not say a word.
Tracing fingers through the waning tide of red, she marked her face just as mother and witch had shown her, just as she had every time. His eyes were still open when at last she opened hers, blind and glassy as they stared across the water. Her fingers pressed them closed and she wondered, briefly, if it was the peaceful gaze that bothered her more than his torn skin.Â
Knowing not what else to do, she finally gave him to the sea.
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