From behind the bars of his cell, there was little else to be done other than to pore over the article again... and again... and again. To say that he'd spent most of the sun fuming was an understatement; he was livid. He'd risked life and limb, present and future, for a chance to bring an end to no small amount of suffering, and for what? Gods damned rook was still milling about, and here he was rotting away in gaol.
Dead men walkin', the lot of 'em. Not for ruttin' lack o' tryin'.
Infuriating, was what this was. Adonis, Epinoch, Taeros; the faces didn't matter. What mattered was that the dead refused to stay dead. Knowing that the struggle, all the pain and tears and blood... knowing that the struggle would never amount to any meaningful change... that was eating him alive, killing him from the inside out. The knowing.
Knowing that Lazarov had been right.
"I will escape with no difficulty, and face no punishment for the wrongs I've committed."
Futile.
"The choices you make when no one is looking paint you as a man not too dissimilar to I."
He'd been engaged in little more than exercises in futility for more moons than he could be bothered to count. All he had to show for the pain and tears and blood were a handful of lives here and there. Innocents. Bystanders.
"The women and children."
His hands moved seemingly on their own. No thought drove them, other than perhaps the thought that he'd had enough. Tearing the Lantern in half didn't seem sufficient. Quarters... no. Eighths. Sixteenths. He bounded off his cot and cast the shreds into the far corner of his cell with a roar.
"You care that much?!"
"I swore an oath."
He wanted to be done. He so desperately wanted this to be over. He wanted his freedom. He wanted to take his family and flee to the farthest corner of the realm, to a place where heartless men couldn't follow. He wanted his life back.
"Pick your own ground and stand on it, gods damn you."
The most difficult task, he thought, is always the taking of one's own advice.
"As you serve, you will live, and as you live, you will serve.â€
"Do your best, Flame Sergeant."
He stepped over to the bars, took them in hand, and marveled at how the cast iron wasn't what held him here. He could've broken out at any time, had he wanted... but that would've meant a life on the run. He'd be a vigilante in truth, then. Outcast, exiled, a man on the run from the law was in no position to shield his own family, let alone the innocent. No. He had to let the system work.
Bless you, Lights. Bless each 'n' every one of you.
"I WANT ME A BARRISTER! GET ME A BLEEDIN' BARRISTER, RUTTERS, OR I SWEAR ON RHALGR'S NAME, THERE'LL BE BLOOD SMEARED ACROSS YOUR GODS-DAMNED WALLS, SHADOWS CREEPIN' THROUGH YOUR PRECIOUS PISSIN' PALACE, AND MY FIST THROUGH THE HEART O' THE SWORNS' OWN GUTLESS CAPTAIN!"
Death ain't to your likin', Jameson? Fine. Destruction'll suit.
"GET ME A BARRISTER!"
Dead men walkin', the lot of 'em. Not for ruttin' lack o' tryin'.
Infuriating, was what this was. Adonis, Epinoch, Taeros; the faces didn't matter. What mattered was that the dead refused to stay dead. Knowing that the struggle, all the pain and tears and blood... knowing that the struggle would never amount to any meaningful change... that was eating him alive, killing him from the inside out. The knowing.
Knowing that Lazarov had been right.
"I will escape with no difficulty, and face no punishment for the wrongs I've committed."
Futile.
"The choices you make when no one is looking paint you as a man not too dissimilar to I."
He'd been engaged in little more than exercises in futility for more moons than he could be bothered to count. All he had to show for the pain and tears and blood were a handful of lives here and there. Innocents. Bystanders.
"The women and children."
His hands moved seemingly on their own. No thought drove them, other than perhaps the thought that he'd had enough. Tearing the Lantern in half didn't seem sufficient. Quarters... no. Eighths. Sixteenths. He bounded off his cot and cast the shreds into the far corner of his cell with a roar.
"You care that much?!"
"I swore an oath."
He wanted to be done. He so desperately wanted this to be over. He wanted his freedom. He wanted to take his family and flee to the farthest corner of the realm, to a place where heartless men couldn't follow. He wanted his life back.
"Pick your own ground and stand on it, gods damn you."
The most difficult task, he thought, is always the taking of one's own advice.
"As you serve, you will live, and as you live, you will serve.â€
"Do your best, Flame Sergeant."
He stepped over to the bars, took them in hand, and marveled at how the cast iron wasn't what held him here. He could've broken out at any time, had he wanted... but that would've meant a life on the run. He'd be a vigilante in truth, then. Outcast, exiled, a man on the run from the law was in no position to shield his own family, let alone the innocent. No. He had to let the system work.
Bless you, Lights. Bless each 'n' every one of you.
"I WANT ME A BARRISTER! GET ME A BLEEDIN' BARRISTER, RUTTERS, OR I SWEAR ON RHALGR'S NAME, THERE'LL BE BLOOD SMEARED ACROSS YOUR GODS-DAMNED WALLS, SHADOWS CREEPIN' THROUGH YOUR PRECIOUS PISSIN' PALACE, AND MY FIST THROUGH THE HEART O' THE SWORNS' OWN GUTLESS CAPTAIN!"
Death ain't to your likin', Jameson? Fine. Destruction'll suit.
"GET ME A BARRISTER!"
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
