Mourning
The candles were burning at the head and the foot of the bier. She'd expected that. She hadn't expected to see two living figures, kneeling separately, in the chapel, however. One, yes. She knew that the church brotherhood would take turns keeping watch all through this night. Tomorrow was the funeral, after all.
She hadn't expected that any such priest would object to her coming in to pray her usual prayers. She didn't think that the spirit of Baron Justin would mind either. She fully intended to pray for his soul as well as William's this night. She always tried to pray for William when she was in Westmore. And, although he had opposed some of William's policies, Baron Justin had been a servant of the throne. He too deserved her thought and prayer.
Quietly she made her way to a shadowed aisle. The candlelight glinted off a familiar colour of hair, a familiar set of shoulders. She was pretty sure she knew who the other figure was. A new but familiar shiver ran over her and her breath quickened. But she'd been given no right to disturb his prayers, his meditation with the dead.
Firmly she composed herself. Tried to, at any rate. At a kneeling bench she sank down, closed her eyes, bowed her head. But her first prayer was not for the dead but for the other kneeler still visible in her mind's eye. A gush of yearning, sympathy, and admiration that was momentarily frightening in its intensity. "God bless and keep Ewen!" The words framed themselves with a simplicity that belied the sharp sweetness that pervaded the moment. She let her breath out, only just realizing that she'd been holding it. "Ewen's here. But -- I should pray too." The words of her Order's prayers started sonorously in her head and she let herself feel that they would sweep Ewen along too as they had started to sweep her. Quietly William's face appeared to her near Ewen's. Then Justin's. Her prayers quieted and calmed her.
She lifted her head. The candles might have been noticeably shorter. But she hadn't really noticed. Ewen was now sitting near, looking at her. He smiled, the dear crooked smile. She returned the smile, her eyes dark and glowing in the dimness of the chapel.
They had wandered out of the chapel together, her hand formally on his arm. "This castle came with a very nice garden," he murmured. "And I would love to walk with you," she added softly.
They walked in silence in the summer night, the resting of hand on firmly muscled forearm, comforting, reassuring to them both. "Half the time," Ewen's voice was a little strained, "it seems to me that he can't be dead. Not this way. Not without any more opportunities. The other half, it seems that he's been dead a long long time and I've always had this -- empty place. Paris...?" He turned towards her and she lifted her hand to his face.
Paris was silent. She knew -- and knew she did not know. Ewen's memories of his father would be different from those she had of hers. Her hand slipped down to his and she gave it a reassuring pressure. "I'm here. Talk about him if you like."
He spoke as they walked through the garden, the two of them moving smoothly through the bushes though the moon was nearly dark. He opened himself up, his little remembrances of his father when he was a child, all the good things he had meant to him, sharing with her...
"So you daydream too," Real Girl interrupted.
Serious drew herself up. "It was not a daydream. I was simply planning for events that might occur. One must do that to be prepared."
Real Girl smiled. "But I think that we can make him better with hugs and kisses. Shouldn't you be prepared for that too?"
"What makes you think he will want our help?" Waif said, her child voice high pitched, nearly whining.
Paris arrived at the palace chapel. Justin's body had been brought here as the only open church, along with the others who had died and were awaiting burial. There were two women there, crying and sobbing uncontrollably; Paris didn't recognize them and figured out that they were here for someone else. She knelt, and between their sobs, tried to pray herself. Again, no voice spoke to her. When she finished her prayers, she stood and expectantly looked back at the other pews in the church.
They were empty.
She stood, uncertain for a moment. She turned back for one more set of prayers; wouldn't hurt to remember Calais, Rhori, Tanner, all the others...
But when she stood again the only person was one of the altar boys, cleaning up some of the guttered candles. He wasn't outside either. She went to the garden. It was dark, but a search showed that he wasn't there either. Finally, she returned to the stables.
Next to Beaujolais was a great black horse, and standing next to it was its rider. "Don't say it," Ewen said, his voice tired. "If I hear 'sympathy' or 'condolences' again I'll..." and he let his voice trail off as one hand balled into a fist.
Panic set in Paris. 'What can I say, when all the formulas are gone?' she thought.
"Do you have some time?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, a little scared to speak.
"Come on," he said, nodding, and led her through the palace. She recognized the route, one she had taken many times before, to the small storeroom next to the west gate courtyard, the room where the practice equipment for class was stored. He pulled out the heavy quilted gambesons, passing her one. They donned their equipment, neither one speaking. They each grabbed one of the wooden practice swords and shields and stepped into the courtyard. Each still wore their steel swords on their hips.
The courtyard was very dark, lit by just a little light from a distant window and a lantern by the guards at the gate. "Here now, what are you doing?" one of them said, moving over to the pair. Ewen raised his weapons to a guard position and Paris matched him, both ignoring the guard. With a lunge Ewen started the fight; Paris blocked and swung back, a blow that Ewen caught on his shield.
Ewen had gotten better and stronger since their last bout; so, too, had Paris. It took her concentration to keep up with him, so she heard the droning of the guard until it stopped, without paying it any attention. She kept herself focused on the pattern of blows, the strain of her muscles, the rhythm of the fight.
She landed a blow on his shoulder, and saw a sparkle in his eyes; moisture she thought. She remembered her mother's eyes, when she stood up from beside where her father had lain when he last breathed, her mother's eyes that were tired from crying and a little bit...dead. Something that had made them smile was gone forever when her father died. Something in her, too, that had made her want to be everything for her mother that she needed; that strength, that seriousness, had come into her then, and Paris' eyes started to water.
A sharp blow on her ribs brought her back, and she got her shield back around where it belonged. Her arm moved on its own, a rain of wild blows beating on his shield, giving him no time to respond, because of ... the death of her childhood, the death of her father, the ... never being good enough to replace him. Of always letting her mother down.
Her arm wore out, and she in turn found herself on the defensive. It settled again, into an exchange of blows, and more than one found its way through to the padded armor. And bubbling up, a memory she tried to suppress. A night as dark as this one, her mother's scream. "Run!" was all she had said, screaming into the night as strange things moved in the dark. She had to get Calais away, she thought, she was the responsible one, she couldn't let her mother down as she heard her screaming behind her. She had seen Goodman Green wave her into the root cellar on that night long ago when Tarot came to the world, her mother's scream distant in her mind.
The tears flowed, and the two shields and swords locked against each other, pushing and grunting in the dark. One of them collapsed, and both fell to their hands and knees, swords lost, as they faced each other and panted. "Does it ever stop hurting?" Ewen asked, voice ragged and exhausted.
"Tell him the pain can be borne because it must," Serious said.
"Tell him we will share the pain and heal him," Real Girl cried.
"Tell him it never goes away," Waif replied through tears.
She could see his eyes, demanding the truth from her. She drew in a ragged breath and it hurt like thousands of ice picks inside her lungs. "Some," she gasped. Another painful breath. "Never entirely." Another breath. She thought her stomach was going to explode. "But enough."
He just nodded, lowering his head as they sat on all fours. Through her own tear-filled eyes she could see a heavy blanket fall on his shoulders. A moment later, one was placed on her too, and a huge hand with a steel grip grabbed her arm. "Let me help you up, missy," Lord Gryphon said softly. "And you too, lad." The incongruous thought struck her, that no matter what, to Lord Gryphon she would always be missy, and Baron or Duke or Prince or, had William lived, King would have simply been lad. She briefly noticed that the guards were no where in sight, as Gryphon moved them into the palace.
There was a lantern in the room where the class had taken its lunch, listening to the herald. "You two just sit here," he said, guiding them to two benches. He helped them get their helmets off, and supplied some towels to clean the sweat, tears, and snot from their faces. Paris stole a glance at Ewen, eyes somewhat red and swollen, and nose flaming red. 'Do I look like that?' she briefly wondered, and knew.
Gryphon pulled up a stool at the head of the table between them, and set out three small glasses. He poured a small amount of brownish liquid from a steel flask into each of the glasses. "I only rode once with your father," he said, looking into the small glass and swirling the liquid. "It was before I went over the hill to ride in the King's horses. We were hunting some deserters from the fort who had come here to make easy living on some of the deLacey chickens. Caught them at a ford on a small stream. He fought well, good position in the saddle. Your shield work, well, you come by it honestly, young lad." He raised up his glass. "To Justin deLacey, a good Baron and a fine warrior" he offered, catching Ewen's eye. One hand moved out from under his blanket to take the glass, raising it as well.
The liquor was sharp and stronger than anything Paris had ever tasted, and she could not suppress her cough of surprise. Gryphon poured some more, and continued talking, tales he had heard of Justin's life. Paris found herself getting warm and sleepy.
With a start, she realized that Gryphon had stopped talking and was laying Ewen out on a straw mat on the floor. He pulled off the young man's boots, and arranged the blanket over him. Holding his finger to his lips to quiet Paris, he escorted her to the door. "I'll make sure he gets moved before lunch, don't worry."
"Shouldn't I pray for him?" Paris asked. "He will be very bruised from where I hit him."
Gryphon shook his head. "No, missy, he needs the bruises to remind himself he's alive." At the edge of the courtyard a man waited in the blue and silver of the Gryphon colors. "This is Camion," he gestured. "The man who drove my daughter's carriage when she went to visit you. He will make sure you get home safely." He grinned. "Good night, Sir Paris."
"Good night, Sir Gryphon. And thank you. From both of us, I think." She nodded slightly back in the direction where lay Ewen.
[S: I think that between this and the night on the boat, Paris has come to reasonable terms with death. She still cannot _like_ death; no one _wants_ the holes Death leaves behind in the hearts of the living. But, too, she knows that Death is one instrument of Change, bringing un-looked-for opportunities and the chance to exercise unknown strengths in the process of living through and beyond it. Besides, as Sir Gryphon knows the bruises will remind them, she knows that knowing Death makes one treasure life -- and the beloved lives around one -- in a way not possible when one believes that life goes on forever. God bless -- and be thanked for -- Sir Gryphon and Ewen!]
[S: I didn't mind the borrowing of Serious, Real and Waif. I am glad that you had Paris herself making a synthesis out of their comments. It's the way I see her growing as she herself heals.
This has got to be one of the oddest courtships/ male-female friendships in roleplaying. Beating each other up as a means to deal with grief! Thank goodness Gryphon understood. I rather think that Lorraine might not.]
[GM: Well, it is a traditional male thing to go do a bunch of physical labor to deal with grief -- chop wood, beat up a punching bag, etc. People do go through anger in dealing with grief, and having a physical outlet for it is handy. ]
[S: Paris was doing the same thing when she fought the icy pell. She does understand.]
[GM: Of all the people he could think of, though, he decided to share it with you ... perhaps if you weren't bruised, you would appreciate it more... :) Seriously, Ewen is not the type to take out his anger on someone he would actually hurt. He wasn't going to pick some random guardsman. He might have challenged Sir Gryphon (think Officer and a Gentleman), but he preferred to spar with you.
And, while Lorraine might not understand, I think her mother would. Certainly Sir Gryphon understood what Ewen needed; Lady Gryphon will have also seen enough of grief to know what was happening. ]
[S: If Paris weren't rather thinking that it would be nice to curl up next to Ewen and simply 'sleep it off', I think she would be conscious of the honour Ewen did her in choosing her for this. (No, she's not thinking salaciously; I suspect that she's nearly as tired as Ewen. Just not wound as tightly.) She understands the need for the fight. The other ramifications will occur to her in the morning -- when both alcohol and fatigue have been dealt with.]
[S: BTW, they had to have been wearing at least leather armor over the padded gambesons, else they'd have really hurt each other. ]
[ GM::) I figured that they got into the same practice armor that they always wore (though it was probably tight around the shoulders these days). I just put in the gambesons because once they started, I figured they would both get dressed in silence, having done it a hundred times before. I also considered having them break a few wooden swords, or have Gryphon bring some more light, but I kind of liked his only being apparent at the end of the fight.]
"Sable Night" copyright 1999 P.Shea & S.Knowles. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.