Oliver

Oliver

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He eyed the woods, all golden treetops and blue darkness betwixt the trunks where the warm sunset couldn’t reach. The monastery at his back, small stone posts marking the well-beaten path home every few furlongs. Out here they were, two Dawn.

Recovery was a strange thing. They’d all ached twice over, wounds of the spirit and those of the flesh, but one was not like the other — a red slash could be knit, a bone bent back, a limb lost so that one might live, all predictable results. Not certain, but the body and the nature itself were hardy. This much was known.

Different had it become with what remained, lingering past the bruises and cuts — unhealed, unseen, unspoken of. What he’d failed to even properly comprehend, the little twists, turns and splinters without names or specific spots one could point out. There, fix this one, make it as it was. Unbreak it.

Part of it was trust. The rest, where he’d realized himself comparatively unscathed, as of late. How long had this been going on? Should he have pried and asked more questions, instead of shoving his head in the sand? Had there been, at any point, a way to thwart where they were now? Did it matter, now that it seemed all too late for whatever power he had, if any? Words fail, more often than they don’t.

Another hundred paces along, tall and worn at the edges stood the old watchtower, a great monolith of runefolk make from ages ago. Carved with strife and hollowed out by time, just another orphan adopted by the Order. Not that one could tell by the look of it, left discreet and unassuming as it was. The windowholes up top were dark and deep as empty eyesockets — not exactly staring back, but giving the impression that perhaps they could. Unnerving.

He approached unhurried and in plain view, companionless save for the lone dagger tucked into his belt. Having successfully convinced himself he was to be equipped against the chill alone and not much else, he could justify but a simple gambeson in addition to the rest of his warmer raiment. Despite whatever feelings and anger he may have had not too long since, preparing with anything more against his sworn brother felt a prospect so loathsome, he would’ve rather laid down and died of his own accord than whatever the man may have had in store for him.

What stray there, behind that visage. It’d been a sight that’d aided his sleep none and yet he was here now — some brand of hubris?

“ Faramund. “ He called, experimentally. A level of voice for a ranger’s alertness, a watchman’s ears. His steady march slowed down some more as he drew nigh to the tower, stare taking in the surrounding pines and spruce that’d swing in the gust. Creaking and cracking, humming and swishing, alive with noise.

“ Do give signal, should you be up there. “
 
Sleep had been an absent friend as of late. Uncaring of his wishes, it sought him out when he least expected it, catching him off guard and unprepared for the nightmares that followed, always. Are they, though? Nightmares? Faramund had reason to doubt. What he believed true could not be trusted - not anymore. The story of his life was one big ruse, after all. A screenplay fashioned by a sick mind to serve a nefarious purpose, one that left him sick to his stomach. Even the day's death did not bring him peace.

Four bells till midnight. I wonder what fresh hell awaits me, there, in the dark?

It had been the same ever since their return. A successful mission paid for in blood. The cost had been surprisingly light, all things considered. They had achieved what they had set out to do, and managed to keep themselves alive long enough to make it home. As if that would make a difference. What fools we are, to think ourselves safe.

Even now, he could feel it. Creeping up on him like a blade in the dark. His secret. His shame.

Solitude had seemed like such a good idea, at first. Vayd's Lookout was an old spot, favoured by knights and squires alike. A relic from a bygone era, it was a place of crumbling stone and whispering winds. Ghosts were said to man the lookout at night. Brave brothers, watchful sisters. Memories of memories lost to time. Loyal unto death. Unlike me. His presence was a stain on their honour, and yet they continued to tolerate him. Thus far, anyhow.

A disturbance from below had Faramund sitting up straight. A sound running counter to nature's calm, it pulled at his ears like no other. A voice, vaguely familiar despite the distance. Syr Oliver? The dawnling's brow knitted as the voice sounded again.

'Up here, Syr!'
 
Came answer, prompt. So simple, formal where he hadn’t been. Old pattern.

He shifted idly, squinting at the sunset to play time against the hesitation that threatened to root him to spot. Why the fuck had he left at this hour, the label of bad idea plastered on every inch of this — for what he’d seen and what he knew. The wind hummed in his ears, a calming whistle of a world that cared for their mortal woes none, rustling his hair and traveling past him as easily as it did through blades of grass.

Though, perhaps, dry straw would’ve been more accurate. Brittle and washed out. For the occasion. He swallowed the grief in his throat and reanimated, stepping forward.

“ I’m coming up. “

And that was a promise he made good on, at his own pace. Like a man dragging along a millstone. The worn door closed behind him and it felt so final, the darkness in the upward spiral of stairs broken by small arrowslits that only managed to make it more gloomy. He didn’t count the steps up, listening to the bricks speak underfoot and beneath his palm as he rested it against the wall on his way.

At the top, was but an open doorway, an empty set of hinges on the frame. A lantern at the end of the stairs was yet unlit, dutifully waiting. He moved past it without a second thought.

“ What tales from the woodland? “ He asked, adjusting the cloak he'd wrapped thick about his neck and shoulders. " Seen anything of note? "
 
'Nothing worth mentioning.' Faramund had listened to the footsteps grow louder and louder. Caught in a haze of contradictory emotions, he had remained sitting upon the Pursuant's approach. Cast in the warmth of a dying sun, he had foregone his cloak in favour of a quilted gambeson and hose, the first of which bore the colours of their shared Sanctum.

Though, shared willingly, he could not say.

'How fare the ferns? Your students figured out where not to place their feet yet?' Forcing a smile, Faramund continued to watch the World Flame disappear behind the jagged fangs of the Mheara. Slow in its sorrow. But also quite magnificent to behold. Unlike the look on his once-brother's face. Does my attempt at normalcy hurt you, syr? Or is it my play-acting that bothers you so? Faramund could but guess. All he knew was that he felt it, too - the divide that had grown between them over the course of weeks.

Swallowing down his nerves, Mund stood to welcome the knight properly.

'Is it the Sun's setting that has brought you out here, syr, or me? The former I can understand, but the latter...' A shrug as he leaned upon the balustrade, back turned to the orkin. Have you changed your mind? If so, plant the knife deep, and let's be done with this, thought Faramund, disgusted by the way they tracked. Wishful thinking, my arse.
 
Well, part the clouds and strike me dead — Who would’ve thought it’d be this darn awkward.

“ No. “ He responded to the initial question, despite the feeling he had that it was naught but a crippled little nicety. “ But they’ll learn. “ Unless they don’t. Have we? His look traced as the man averted his attention to the Sun, the diminishing light. Where exactly do we stray now, our feet planted on nothing solid at all.

As the man stood, himself made to approach just that he might be away from the immediate vicinity of the doorway. Two steps, three, then halting to stand again, listening closely as the Sworn questioned the obvious. His brows drew to a frown, some disbelief in it and the tilt of his head as he stared at the turned back.

“ I’ve no business with the Sun— As for your watch, I believe it’s for a couple hours yet. “ He responded steady, shrugging one shoulder.

“ Why would you not understand the latter? That I should be here for you. Are you perfectly content as for— “ He glanced at passing air, like he expected it to spell out words to say.

“ How things are? “
 
Content? Such a low bar they set for themselves, and yet still they struggled to reach it. 'How things are,' Faramund repeated the words, finding in them some semblance of his lost humour. 'I could ask you the same. How are things between us, Syr?' In the presence of healing, if your presence is any indication as to the fact. Still, Faramund was loth to assume.

After all that had transpired, he did not wish to encourage false hope. In himself and others, those that had trusted him until they couldn't. Oliver, Helena, Bebin, Jarro- the list went on and on.

Fingers flexed. Eyes were averted. Oliver's gaze bore into back, sharp as a boar's tusks, hooking what little remained of the Faramund he knew and pulling him back. Was it compassion that had brought the Pursuant here? Duty to one's brothers? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The kind of hurt they were nursing was never that simple, Faramund felt. It manifested in ways that made sense to the individual, if not the greater whole. Sometimes it didn't make sense at all.

Grief changed a man. Guilt, doubly so. To contend with both at the same time was not easy.

And here I am, failing miserably. Scritching his beard, Faramund watched the light dwindle down. 'I'm sorry,' he heard himself say. 'It was... unfair of me, to ask of you what I did, now and... back then.'
 
Syr. The title sunk like an insult, a pinprick to tender flesh. And no response, naught that he could do anything with — a deflection, a parry. Doing everything in his power to not let dissatisfaction sour his expression, he merely stared and let his shoulders bob once with equal openness, weary for how slack it was.

Nothing given, nothing gained. They’d stand as equals, for now. Nothing owed.

He allowed the moment hang, unprying further, withdrawing two steps to plant his back against the wall. There he’d stand, impassive as a fellow watchman, keeping company to whom felt so bent to not having any of it. Some facade, as he’d realized a lot of the levity and quips not long since — the cheerfulness of one submit to dying.

It wasn’t— comforting anymore. Just sad. As was the apology, spoken to the sunset and the trees outside.

His chest rose and fell in a pronounced breath, like that of a man getting ready to leap off a cliff.

“ Yes, it was. “ He begun with agreement, eyeing the man carefully. “ But a man’s desires and means to obtain them are his own — what concerns me more is that you should’ve asked it to begin with. “

That is my business. You, us, Dawn and everything that connects.

“ And that you seemed to know that something would intervene. “ Matter-of-fact, ignoring past anger and betrayal he’d felt for it. Insult to injury. He folded his arms, shifting weight.

“ You understand how that looks, to me? “
 
Asked. Begged. Big difference. 'Not the first time, believe you me.' In Crown's Hold, at the onset of his downfall. That was the start of the end for me. The straw that broke the camel's back. He had not been the same since. Sure, he continued to pretend that everything was fine - even through his days in isolation, where the silence had grown so loud as to become deafening.

'I understand you give me more credit than I'm due. But yes, I knew what would happen. Another thing I'm sorry for.'

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and every knight was a Captain after the fact. Faramund found it was easy to convince himself he had made the right call. Looking back, now- 'It was the only way. I mean, it seemed so, at the time.' Breathing deep the night air, Faramund let his hang forward. Gravity tugged at his fringe as he admired the drop. 'I needed you to see the enemy up close. To know, without a shadow of a doubt, what resides within me. Maybe then, I hoped, you would listen, and-... and "do what needs done."' He laughed, though, it didn't last long. Not long at all.

'Do you hold it against me?' He asked once the silence started to become too much. 'My... selfishness, syr? Do you forgive me my trespasses?' For they are many, so many now.
 
Seemed so at the time — Oldest tale in the book. And the most plausible. He hadn’t it in him to doubt the truth of it. If anything could’ve been considered too much credit when it came to Faramund, was to assume that he held any plans over much at all beyond the next two steps. Some impulse and whim of a moment.

Again, unpredictable. But there wasn’t arguing the results. He had seen something for himself, that was for sure. And he was listening right now, was he not. Even the laugh and the lull therein, heavier. He allowed the words their time, a man his wonder.

“ Perhaps I will, one day, come the time for it. “ He responded, noncommital, as one did to trivial things. “ But wouldn’t it be easier if I didn’t, to one so bent to die wretched? You spoke you’ve been made — a monster in your own right. Subject to some sort of possession, this enemy you speak of. “

Is that the Shaper, or something else? The moonlit woodland was about them for a second, the silence and the suspense. The desperate look, the knife at the throat. He eyed the floor of the tower, with its simple specks of dust and worn bricks, all stone of the same grey hue.

“ But you were still but a man, then. And you’re here now, even if people besides myself know. “ More powerful ones, too. And oh, if they do not know leagues more than I do.

“ Why, do you think, are you still alive? “

Mercy. Punishment? Attachment. Some plan, reduced to a piece in a puzzle.
 
The question hovered in the air between them. 'Your guess is as good as mine,' replied the Sworn. 'I know not the motives of others. Hells. I don't even know my own, half the time.' Spinning webs, forging bonds of brotherhood and friendship, that had been his game. A spy embedded in the enemy's heart, sabotaging them from within. Unwittingly, granted, but that did little to lessen the blow to his conscience.

'I'm no shapechanger, Oli, but neither am I human.' It sounded weird just saying it, as if the very words were a lie. A fabrication meant to keep him and everyone who heard them reeling. 'Does that make me worthy of death? Hardly. But show me a future in which I don't end up hurting the Order.' Or worse, one where he fell back into the Shaper's hands.

If Evil had a face, His would be the first to appear.

Straightening, Faramund turned his back to the balustrade, arms folding against his chest as he met Oliver's gaze. The first time he had done so since the Umbral Mount. 'Maybe it's craven of me, aiming to avoid that which has not yet come to pass. All the same, I'd rather not find out.' He shrugged then, monkeying Oli in a way that left him feeling better, if a little embarrassed. Not so mocking as one might assume.

'Maybe there's a greater plan at play here. If there is, it's not one I'm privy to.' Shaking his head, Faramund shrugged again. 'What will be will be.'
 
The response was bizarre, but suppose he had asked, knowing that it’d hardly align with what he’d hoped it to be. Was that the distance speaking, or actual opinion? With so much shared betwixt, so much lived through alongside and without, what would’ve been the point to keep an arm’s length. For a man ready to die there sure was— a whole lot of bullshit yet left to give.

“ Either you’re lying or you’re a fucking idiot. “ He cursed, unable to express his disappointment with anything less. Meeting eyes, he felt a tugging in his chest, the thoughts coiling to words. Leaden, barbed.

“ While your own attempts for your life may be thwarted by that— thing — that has hardly been the case with anyone else involved. “ Most of those in the know could snap you in half before you had time to even ask for it. He had to wonder whether the man had tried, or had himself just seemed the weakest to bend out of all of them.

“ Why is it so unfathomable to you that what stills anyone’s hand is genuine sentiment and affection? That they might care about you? “ He straightened a tad, head keeling in a snap as he truly urged the man to amend his throwaway nothing of a guess. “ Because that’s what it is. I’ve seen people killed, banished, locked up and demoted— “

For— Way less? He shook his head, lips twisting with distaste.

“You’re one of the greatest liabilities at present and certainly the only one of this caliber I’ve had the opportunity to actually know. “ That much, was genuine. He was done hurting for the truth, though only whomever didn’t know him at all would take it for disregard. Was that what the two of them were, practical strangers? Or did Faramund just protect his own desire to die, convincing himself that they were.

“ You are hurting in a very specific way. I shan’t deny it must be difficult. “ He continued, attempting to file down some of the sharpness from his tone. That budding anger at the cynicism and self-deception — the willful defeat and conjecture.

“ Suppose you fancy yourself disposable for your own benefit, than anyone else's? “

Just a sword to be let go.
 
Faramund weathered the tirade, stone-faced. Oliver may have been justified in his outburst - certainly, it seemed he had put some thought into the matter. But the armour around the Sworn's soul did not chip or crack, the bark proving more potent than the bite, this time around.

The Pursuant's last question brought a sad smile to the dawnling's face.

'Like a double-edged sword with no grip,' he intoned, calm, despite the ache in his heart. Swallowing, he looked away. Of all Oli's accusations, the jab about other peoples' affections had slipped past his guard, nearly doubling him over. They'd have to be strangers, indeed, for the orkin to think him so callous, so neglectful as all that. But what if he's right? Faramund wondered as his gaze returned to the man stood before him. Still here, still fighting down the anger simmering in his gut.

As always, it was in the eyes.

'I guess we find ourselves back on the subject of selfishness. You've heard it all before. One life for several. Those I care about for-' Someone I don't. There, said it. Happy? Turning in on himself, Faramund shook his head, tried to keep his expression from betraying him. Endless possibilities lay before him, but all he could see was death, death, death. Mine or the Orders. Pick one and live with it. Only, he couldn't. They wouldn't let him.

Cause they cared where he didn't.

'Fuckin' fool-ass. Can't see the wood for the trees. Runnin' with eyes wide shut.'

Silence descended over the windy lookout, and Faramund wrapped it about him, not trusting the lump in his throat to speak.
 
Double-edged sword with no grip? Guess that was true enough, in a way. A bit dull at those edges.

“ Correct, I have heard it all before. From your mouth, too. “ He admitted, simply. Too fresh, was all that. The naivety that had landed more baffling the more he rotated it around in his mind. “ Think I called you a fool even then. You’re yet to assume the humility of one — claiming foresight when you have none as to what will happen, on any which route. “

Be that the one where you die or the other where you don’t.

“ As far as I’m aware, you might be overestimating the harm you’re capable of. “ Just one man. A found agent. Not even a shapechanger. “ That is, without disregarding the possibility it might get plenty worse. But, still— “

It was softer, look regarding the man like he meant to read the figments of a fond memory from his defeated shape. Something hopeful, a little ray of light.

“ You are yourself for the time being, are you not? Largely. “ Whoever that is.

“ Or have I misunderstood your situation? “
 
Faramund's gaze did not falter as Oliver spoke. Perhaps, he thought, or perhaps you're underestimating just what one man can achieve, even one so foolish as I. He suppressed the urge to speak up, knowing that the slightest of provocations could start a fire between them bright enough to eclipse whatever it was Oli had come here to do in the first place.

The Pursuant's final question was met with a thoughtful pause.

'No, no, I don't think you have.' His perspective might've been a bit askew, but then he was on the outside, looking in. 'I remain largely myself, most days,' he grinned. 'Still the same arsehole you've butted heads with over the years.' Gods, how rare it was to see you smile. Faramund had the innate ability to rub people up the wrong way, or so he had been told, and that had been before the troubles had started.

His grin died as he recalled all the faces he had once known, those no longer able to grin back.

Except from their graves. 'Y'know, I never did take you for an optimist.' Studying the stone beneath his boots, Faramund glanced up to find Oli's eyes already on him. Steady, and softer than he had anticipated. 'Has anyone asked you how you're faring yet, Oliver?' The words escaped his lips before he could smother them, taking the thread of their conversation and weaving it anew. A detour rather than a deflection.

I probably should have made it sooner.
 
There was a grin in the affirmation and he’d take it, gladly. The ghost of something similar passed his face, even as none could see it. But the lightness lingered therein, easing whatever worryborne creases had made home upon his face. The rest of his glare chipped away, authority yielded. Willingly.

They had butted heads, hadn’t they— His strict ways against Faramund’s lack of respect, least of all towards whatever he valued. And the snark and the constant more or less witty remarks, like he’d not wanted to punch him enough for the shit-eating grins alone.

Still, they’d gotten this far, spared one another plenty. At present and otherwise. Restraint permitting civility, even if he’d the creeping suspicion they’d never become actual friends — for what sort would they be, if it always took smoothing out the edges of who they were. Thinking twice before they spoke, like he noticed himself doing as inquiry extended towards him.

A little riposte. He almost smiled, but was unable to muster more than a ghost of one, a mere tight twitch.

“ Not in so many words. “ He shrugged, aloof and terribly unbothered, like the man had just pried into his plans as for tomorrow’s breakfast. “ But you do get the looks, the knowing ones when people read you for filth, how something is obviously amiss— “ A tap upon his temple.

“ I was angry for a while, which is also obvious on my face. Plenty people don’t charge at the sight of danger, like you do. “ He paused for breath, head inclining as he rested it against the wall behind him. Unfathomable, am sure.

“ I’ll admit that it probably helped to not speak, for a time. “ More meaning bled into that, an apologetic twist in the brows and the downturn of his mouth.

“ Lest I say something callous. Something I should regret, again. “
 
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