07.14.04 Death of Harith (short story)
Title: Death of Harith
Author: player of Charna Ja'Varrel'Kav
"Journal" is not in the list (essay, letter, periodical, poetry, short story, song, storyline, vignette) of allowed values for the "Creative-work-type" property.
Cerisago was dead. Part of me felt like I had somehow failed and yet, deep down inside I knew it was a task that had to be done. It only served to remind me of just how much this war made us all do what we had to do. I hated it.
I had my answers, I had gone across the spine to get them but they were already the ones I had known. Maybe I watch too much, I do not know.
Last night, I had called out to the Sickle’s Heart. I did not know if he had found out about the death of Cerisago, or the Gardener, but I wanted to tell him. I wanted to pass the words to him from me. He deserved it. We had met her together, in the Landing, and had tried to always do the best by her. At least, I thought we did.
We were standing on east bridge when the second wave of headaches ran through us. I grew frantic, I could not do this again. I simply could not. Harith had dug her claws into my skull before, extracting from me not even I know what. She had tied into the base of my skull and created a link that would cause waves of pain to coarse through me when I thought on the net. I would not relive Illistim of past, my failings there, or my sorrow.
It was at this time that the Magus came by us. We congratulated him on his victory at the Bardfest, his performance had been truly disturbing and memorable. He seemed distracted and distant. Repeating himself often and losing our conversation.
There are certain men that fairly preen when complimented, their very demeanor changing under the gentle words of appreciation. The Magus, normally, is not above such attentions. His shoulders square off when speaking of the Arts, his is held high under compliments and his smile is quick. He showed none of these signs last night, but a kind of frantic anxiety; anticipation.
Sickle’s Heart and I shared a glance, there are rare moments in life when you can look to someone you know and instantly have them understand what you are thinking and feeling. This was one of those times. As he returned my glance we seemed to move as one.
We offered him tea away from the streets and away in the café. It only seemed right to get him out of the main thoroughfare. We were concerned for our friend but we were always concerned for something larger and bigger then the three of us.
Little Ring had wandered by at this time and began to watch us. I have worried for her over much lately, though I try to not let her know lest she pulls away. I see in her something that I do not think she even bears witness to. She has grown, in her absence from Jastev’s Temple, melancholy and morose with a bit of viciousness to her. She is more like her Patron when he is in his darker moments than she realizes and, unfortunately, has taken it to mean something else. I fear for where my eyes find her when she is alone.
A wave of pain ran through our heads at this point, different from the last and more intense. As a whole, we groaned but the Magus took on a different light, he seemed paler and drawn. He was fanatical in his response to the pain, though he is one of Mularos’ children this seemed beyond that. After he lost the thread of the conversation for far too many times, amongst several collapses, we finally got him to join us for the café.
With Little Ring in tow, we set off for the Bank then the Café only to have the Magus collapse in the lobby of the latter. He writhed in a mixture of feverish delight and vicious pain. I went to his side to aid him but he was upon his feet before I could more than pull his head from the tile floor.
We made our way to the café, his tastes for tea revolted by what we offered him. Another cup was offered to him and we moved to the patio. Here there were no patrons of the small establishment and we hoped to monitor him.
The waves of head pains came again, the intensity more than the last and I was forced to my knees. How I hate what she can do to my mind. The Magus grew frantic and began speaking not to us but out loud to someone else. He drew a bracelet blade out of his wristlet and began to crave upon his flesh. The Sickle’s Heart attempted to remove the blade from his hand while I admonished Little Ring to move away from harm and blocked the patio door with my body. I was sweating.
His grip on the blade was so strong that Sickle’s Heart could not draw it free. The blood that was covering the Magus’ robes and the tiles was becoming alarming. In a panic, I glanced at the Sickle’s Heart and called out to the only person I could think of for aid. The Lady was swift in her response to my mental thought and by our side in a matter of moments. The Cleric of Koar was with her as well, though I do not know that Godefroy trusted the Sickle’s or mine plea.
The Lady acted without pause and swiftly set herself into action. He was blinded by the Light of Lady Oleani’s Graces and at that moment, blood frothed up from his mouth. I was more concerned for him than before.
At the exact moment that the Lady’s spell took effect upon the Magus our minds erupted in a showering blaze of pain. The cry of a male voice echoed within our skulls as if it would never stop.
I gag and fought to keep myself from falling.
The Magus seemed to shake off the effects of the spell far too quickly and he too began to scream. I have never known a man to be of such breath to allow a scream to rip through is body in such a way for such a long time.
Both clerics cast at him this time, I believe watching how the Magus writhed in his agony and called out to the Whip was finally the proof that he needed.
It did nothing this time, he seemed to shrug off the effects as though they were nothing and continued to carve of his flesh. He was calling out to her more, giving himself to her fully. The Sickle’s Heart drew his blade and I knew, at that very moment, it was what had to be done. I bade him make it swift and painless but I think he was too lost in his own prayers to his Lady to even notice my admonishments.
The strike was swift, the death quick and painless. At the exact moment that I witnessed the Magus’ death, I felt two others fall with him. Deshian and Harith were dead.
I wilted then, the tension so high that my body could contain it no more. The pressure within my skull was gone with an abruptness that was nearly blinding and my friend was dead. I was numb when they dragged the Sickle’s Heart away for his crime.
I drew the Magus’ broken body close to me and placed his head upon my lap. I wept with relief but also with no small amount of sorrow for this man. Sometimes it really doesn’t matter what side of the line you sit on. Sometimes it does not matter who is what to whom. Witnessing a loss of this magnitude in a man is heartbreaking, especially when that person is a friend. I smoothed the hair from his face, his skin was so cold and there was blood splattered all over him.
A crowd was gathering that was begging answers for what had passed, I could not speak but left the answering to the Lady and Deacon. I waited for the Sickle’s Heart to return, at a loss for what to do until he guided me. I was beyond thinking on my own.
Time passed slowly while I held the corpse of my friend, his whispers of loss mingling with my tears of mixed relief and sorrow for him. Perhaps I am given too much to compassion.
When the Sickle’s Heart returned he bade me raise him when I asked him what I should do. I tended his wounds and withdrew the parchment from my hip-satchel that would bring him back to life. As our souls touched I felt a pressure, most intense, upon both of my wrists. Was this a warning? Or a means of thanks from a God who gives pain for his gifts? I did not know, nor do I want to. I whispered to my Lady and bade her bind his spirit to his body with the soft caress of her laughter. She answered my call and he left us.
There were many talks after that, no small amount of arguing and much guessing. I did not stay long.
I really hate doing what I have to do.