for graviturgy

[the_other_brother]

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the breaking

[the_other_brother]

Verin Theylss stands before the Bright Queen and the assembled court to deliver his report. He has not had a moment to change or wash any of the dried and caked blood from his hands, his hair, his armor. Some of his own wounds are still sluggishly bleeding, some visible and others not.

Upon enter the city, all he wanted to do was shed the weight of everything he just experienced, but they had been met by the Aurora Watch and taken directly to the Lucid Bastion, beacon and all. Verin himself carried it, and it was taken from him not that long ago. Flanking him stand two others from Bazzoxan, looking no better than he does; one looks much worse but is still standing straight.

Verin's account is detailed. They managed to seal a breach, but at great cost. His voice is steely as he recounts the orders handed down from this chamber to seal it even if there were still living Aurora Watch inside. Orders to take the beacon from the city despite the many still dying.

He is not sparse in describing the reality of what his comrades - and anyone left in Bazzoxan - may face to the clean, lofted people around him in the gleaming center of the Lucid Bastion.

"I request that you allow me to take a force back," he says at the end of his grim report. Verin's eyes burn with determination and a simmering anger. "There may be--"

"They are lost." The Bright Queen's response is sharp and unyielding. Verin closes his eyes, jaw tight, and he tries to hold back the temper he learned to manage as a younger man. "In every way. There is nothing to recover."

That's when Verin loses his temper. Though he does not move a step toward her, his voice raises with the anger of a man long-burdened. Not enough resources. Not enough attention. Determination to hold a place that cannot be held. The cruelty of removing the beacon and condemning consecuted souls to be lost.

It isn't death that upsets him. It's that those who were consecueted and who died trusted they would have another life. They trusted they would return to their people, somehow. Now that will not be possible for so many. Whatever he thinks, they are lost now. The word madness might slip out in his barely-restrained fury. Perhaps he should have known better. Perhaps he should have known that the Bright Queen would not sit and allow him to speak thus. A warning shoots up his spine when she stands from he throne, but Verin cannot make himself stop.

He is already facing disciplinary action for failing to immediately follow the order to retreat; he is willing to risk more. The only thing that stops him digging this hole deeper is a hand touching his - one of the few parts of him that is bare. Verin's voice cuts short with a sharper breath. He does not need to look to know who has come to save him. He would know Essek anywhere; he can smell his brother's intoxicating cologne. He feels weak beneath the simple gesture, and yet it has its intended effect. He shuts up.

Verin's expression is unwavering as further discipline is passed down, the severity only mitigated by Essek's words on his behalf.

completion

[graviturgy]

Verin turned 50 today. Technically he turned 50 nearly two weeks ago, but such a short span of time is utterly insignificant in the eyes of Kryn society. A significant milestone, that first half-century, especially when it also marks the completion of formal training: in Verin's case, as an echo knight within the Aurora Watch. The Umavi and Den Thelyss itself spared no expense in celebration of its youngest soul. All the proper rituals and rites were observed, of course: a visit to the Bastion for the blessing of Her Radiance (though Leylas would also be attending the party as a guest in a more informal capacity later), prayers with the Umavi and close denmates, a formal acknowledgement from Dusk Captain Quana Kryn herself, with a generous offer to station Verin in the Lucid Bastion directly under her command for the next several years: a prestigious position and close to home. Then there was the party, to which Den Thelyss welcomed practically everyone of consequence among the Dens of Rosohna.

Apart from the particulars (completion of training with the Watch versus early graduation from the Marble Tomes Conservatory's advanced dunamantic studies program), this celebration was not so very different from Essek's a decade earlier. Though Essek enjoyed this one much more, insofar as he ever really enjoys events like this. Tonight at least he was not the center of attention: Verin was, and as their mother would say, he was cast in a brilliant light. Though he remained impassively cordial as ever, inwardly Essek can't help feeling rather proud. Tonight Verin was lauded for his accomplishments, for his strengths and skills and the strides he has made in his life thus far. He deserves these accolades and more, for the struggle of a new soul to advance in this world is like fighting against a current, even (perhaps especially) for the children of an Umavi. Essek knows this well.

Even their father was in a good mood tonight, though probably at least in part because he and Essek gave one another a wide berth whenever possible. Verin has openly been his favored son for many years now. Their father enjoys, to Essek's constant annoyance, bragging about Verin's accomplishments as though they were his own, seemingly just because they have followed similar paths. As though sitting on the laurels of his own past lives wasn't enough, the man has to ride in his son's coattails, too. Verin doesn't see it that way, and Essek can't blame him for wanting to keep their father's pride and respect now that he finally has it, but Essek finds the behavior disdainfully indolent. He is more than content to be mostly ignored by the man. Deirta's attention is already more than he can bear at times.

As a member of the Umavi's blood-family in her current life, Essek is unfortunately required to remain until the celebration ends in the early hours of the morning, which is exhausting for him even if the party had been comparably more bearable than most. No one is surprised when he excuses himself to rest at the first acceptable opportunity.

In the privacy of his chambers, he methodically removes and hangs his formal attire until he is down to the most basic shift layer over his smalls, and then with even more care picks apart the complex updo he's styled his hair into. He puts away the onyx comb and all the adornments but the unobtrusive silver and pearl beads threaded into his three main braids, which remain intact, then swept up again into a much looser and more comfortable style for trancing, each wound like a crown around his head and tucked together at the nape of his neck. It's been decades since Essek has worn his hair down in public, just as it's been decades since he's worn anything but robes that modestly cover every inch of him from the neck down. After, he removes his jewelry and replaces most of his earrings with simple studs or small rings. In readying himself to trance, he cleans his mouth of the lingering taste of wine--he'd had enough tonight that he's still feeling pleasantly lightheaded--and washes his face.

Incongruously with his other preparations, however, after he removes and hangs his shift, he reapplies just a touch of makeup: a simple silver line swiping sharply across each eyelid, and his subtlest and softest lip paint, which darkens his already wine-stained lips just enough to be noticeable, yet not unnatural with his complexion. Though there have been no formal arrangements--there rarely are--he is anticipating company before the night is over, and this is a special occasion. His choice of smallclothes, the only thing he wears beneath the luxuriously soft but simple black peignoir he typically trances in when he turns out the lamps and slips between the silken sheets of his bed, are not any different from what he usually wears day to day. But he'd still selected them with the knowledge that today he likely wouldn't be the only one to see them.

He falls into a trance tonight laying on his side with his back to the bedroom door. He has not even been trancing for an hour yet when he becomes aware via his Alarm spell that someone has crossed the threshold of the door to the outer chamber of his rooms--and then hardly a breath later, with no more sound than a soft footstep and a barely-audible whisper, the open door into his bedroom itself. He is not concerned. He can feel that his wards have not been unraveled or tampered with, and only one other person is kept apprised of the ever-changing passphrase to bypass his Arcane Locks. His visitor is exactly who he expected.

Still, Essek opts not to visibly stir. His breaths are meditative, even, and he does not turn nor move at all, affecting continued trance. His visitor will make himself known soon enough--will make his needs known, with a lack of subtlety or tact Essek would only find endearing in one man--as he always does.