Chapter Six, Friendship’s Funeral

Small hours before morning, Felhenge stockades

The once humble hill-town that catered to the eccentric flock at Felhenge underwent such drastic transformation since Drakkon claimed it from the druids. Half the woods or more, felled. Some burnt in the ‘battle’ that befell the skalds months back, to deprive them their enclosure. The rest cut to craft the many lodgings, martial barracks & basic constructions to house a Summit or two. With the nearby hill raised up to house many a family fled from devastated Crestfall. Makeshift cells were erected to imprison the enemies of Imperium when the bellies of Windhand’s dungeon and the villas, upturned from the strife were gorged. In the sanctum of the dead, arrayed with palisades & added balistraria, the infamous songster damned to die mired in a dank holding carved of what used to be a mead storage for monks & aspiring morticians.

Shackled to the wall and stifled by the oppressive air of this ersatz hold that was to be his grave, Baron drifted on the verge of consciousness. Unable to sleep for fear of what his final dreams could be yet exhausted by all that transpired. His chest heaved in afflicted pangs; every breath accompanied by incessant stinging. Weary eyes idly observed the drops of water seeping from the cracks above. He'd sworn to make peace with death before being dragged across the threshold of the unknown. But sworn in vain, for the persistent pain in his chest riled up his discontent and he found no such respite in thoughts of leaving this world forever. What matter if he had a last valiant stand before tyranny if he left that living world to the tyrant’s fancy?

He felt that he deserved this fate, but he could not resign himself to it completely. That he would leave the world in such a woeful state having engendered the despotism that sentenced him to abyss smothered him in melancholy. Baron tried not to dwell too much on this, in large part due to how arduous following even a simple thought to its fruition was. Given the tension pressing on his sternum and his lack of prospects rendering introspection excruciating.

Beyond the gated basement strode a lone, fearsome figure. Heimskal, one of the Champions of Justice, served as his guard. Pacing along the corridor in introspective thought, his steps pounded the prisoner’s mind. Though pale cowl drew about his face, in those scant seconds when he would glimpse inside the cell, Baron gleaned reluctant grimace of sympathy. Perhaps his holder only performed the somber task because his Emperor tasked it of him. Though he knew him to be a man adherent to noble code of conduct of his own, sworn to Astraea, the bard understood it to be a futile effort to persuade his keeper to free him. Nor did he particularly feel compelled to attempt escape. He was consigned to annihilation, even if he flinched before it, and simply awaited its imminent arrival. Waiting with haunting attention to every creeping moment.

Creaking from the stairs above & muttering exchange informed that his chosen executioner arrived. Heimskal marched to meet with the visitor and Baron wondered who it would be. Would it be Drakkon himself, here to do the honors or mock him with more personal grate? He sealed tight his eyes and tried to ignore the irritant clanging of his chains while awaiting the reaper’s herald. No matter how still he made himself, the fetters cast a chafing sound, a reminder of his place. Time neither passed onward nor remained still but absorbed him in a wretched delirium of nonbeing. When he opened his eyes, Heimskal had departed, as told by the creaking of the furthermost door. Before him stood a cryptic figure draped in dreary cloth robe.

The visitor unveiled its hood, showing wearer to be Corinna. Her tired visage could not conceal her resonate elegance & charmed beauty to him. For a second Baron found elation, before the diabolical pulse of reality set back in. He was soon to depart from this earthly kingdom on rather ignominious terms. To be so close served only to remind him of what would be lost, never seen nor touched again. Peering back into her eyes, so lustrous and alive with feeling and need, fetched a sharp guilt that stabbed his ribcage. How could he abandon her? One of many an edged question asked to his heart, alongside how he could dare think to live with the shame of his failure, with its stupidity & weight dragging her to the gallows with him.

“What morbid mockery this is!” he asked cynically, already assuming the worst. “You are to be the herald to my execution, the last hand to hold me as you bring me to the block?”

“No, Baron,” she said, visibly hurt by his distrust. “I know you have plenty of reasons to look upon all with such a sullen filter, but you should know, from all the time we have spent together, that I am always earnest when I seek you out. Ever looking out for you. I know what my husband is, what he’s become… I will not allow him bury you, whose heart beats for the people-”

“-and beats for you.” He mustered a strained smile before clenching at his heart from gasping pain. “But is this dawn of ours not deemed the hour of my death? Drakkon might distrust you after your arduous plea and I do not want you placing your neck out and risking the axe for me - already condemned to die. I hath already played my part and failed to stir the people to reclaim their destiny from that despot I once called a friend.”

“You are not lost,” she moved to console him, caressing his pallid cheek with her palm, “not this morn. Drakkon in his grandiose drunkenness has ordered your…end to be postponed.”

“Why?”

“So that he can ‘prepare a pit of vipers for which the traitor shall be tossed into’. Sent the Drakes out to catch some. The rest, with Mordaunt, glare down the court for fresh traitors.”

“Damned to all eternity! He is past the perch of insanity. His mind is utterly shrouded in perilous conceit! A fool was I to fight for him-”

“I too played the fool. I wed him, even with the warnings. Allowed myself to be swayed by parades of passing luxury. Pretended he was the man I fell in love with when he was guided by the whispering whims of wolves cloaked as helots and his black blade humming for red. I let that spark to improve the lives of others wane. That light: snuffed by carrion beasts who pick at the corpse of our realm. His mother is the worst of them. A part of me feels he is not beyond redemption, that there is still a sliver of hope. If I can reach him... But then I recall how those close to me suffer for my proximity to him! Lavinia, murdered for my sake, only for that wedding bond to find fruition later and turn to fetters for me. Looking at how he has left you, Baron, tis hard to believe we aren’t past the pale. But we must try!”

The destitute prisoner turned his head away for a moment, his burdensome thoughts too much to bear before Corinna should he sway her heart to his glowering melancholy. He was at a loss to believe in anything, but the malice and wanton gloom abound. I am naught but a martyr for those already lost.

Corinna seemed to read these terrible thoughts scribed in Baron’s mind and softly unlocked the cell gate. Gliding to him like a ghost of grace to cover him from the darkest vesper, she embraced Baron tenderly and whispered. “When circumstances bear malicious fangs against us belief becomes the rarest commodity and the most vital. Hope is a beacon to assuage despair. ‘Twas you that taught me this. Your compassion kindled my light. Keeps it flickering still.”

A beat in Corinna’s reassurance, while she draped her hand across Baron’s beaten body. His worn eyes passed back to her, though trembling to dam tears. He mustered a smile for her warmth, though her words were yet wintry; as saturnine as soothing. “You once saved me when we shared our souls with one another awhile back. When I was wed to death with our lord, our love wrestled me from dreary brink. You showed me that I could persevere to right these wrongs which I played the pawn to. That I was not defined by Drakkon or his sins. You must be strong for yourself as you were for me then. You are more than this prison!”

“And you are the pinnacle of empyrean virtue & beauty manifest.” Baron simpered at her. Abruptly he clasped for his chest and let out a groan. He uttered to speak again with troubled tone. “But I am not strong enough to withstand this storm. It has torn away my roots and my body will be scattered to the winds, just as my spirit has fled. I am weak, in all too many ways. And I do not wish for my foolishness to be fatal for you!”

“You are not so powerless as you claim, Baron! You are the author of our people’s enlightened education; the architect of the Illuminaries and the torch bearer of wisdom for children not yet born! You brought the People’s Protectorate to the cusp of real virtue! Turned them from rabble rousers who vent their rage on witches, caravans, and rich folk to valiant defenders against overreaching Dominion. Tis because of you that the abused have a voice to assemble around and raise their own demands for justice aloud! If you die now, with you shall go the last fragment of hope for change.”

“If I live, I shall be inept upon the stage. Nothing can be done while Drakkon and the many believe his lie of astral heritage. What madness should befall if that faith in him slips, and he can no longer wear the mask which makes him? I spoke the truth to them all but perhaps it is good that he proved deaf. Imagine the wars to result if our lord isn’t humbled to hear fact but plunged to deepening war with himself by it. And I cannot contest him in open war-”

“Nay, I am a player evermore inept still. Thinking sweet words and careful cases could sway our Lord into ruling for the people and not his reflection. I dithered. Perhaps did not put on the proper gloves, forgoing gauntlets – but death is not the only answer, is it?” Corinna blubbered, existential tides thrashing her, “I should have heeded your words sooner. Though you saved me I failed to save myself from insipidness, when I could have raised the groves of my Corinae to keep Azarra locked in her tower with her leeches & thermae. Or allowed your agents access of a more bloodless sort into the courts. My image is deservedly doused. But you, your cause?”

Baron groaned, dismayed, but did not offer argument as his love quavered quivering claim. “Those who would flock to arms against oppression will have their hearts shattered by a legend as yours being defiled so publicly. This dark rain will continue to blight the land, as nothing more than the Vizzari rule renewed with more indomitable vigor. I hath many a sin to redeem, been so close to the heart of despotism. Yet this can be our moment to triumph over our past hesitancy. From this torment we may pave the way to the stars, together if you will have me help. We can- can make up for mistakes- my mistakes. Tis my fault you are trapped here. Pressing you to stay with me in that damned city. Were I not so selfish, been more cautious-”

“May I make a confession to you, Corinna?” her imprisoned lover shifted his bruised frame back, bearing a tortured look under brow. “This upheaval, these frayed strands of rebellion – my hand in it was but forced by my mortal condition. See, a worm of rot hath burrowed into my chest and threatens to turn the cage inside to my crypt, at times its crushing venom feels too much to endure, and I know my heart hath not the stamina to push on much longer. I waited too long to truly fight. Till the hour is too late and my strength fast atrophies.”

Corinna gasped. “Bar- if we can just slink you away from here, get you to our Grove, we can find the right herbs, a secret spell to relieve it – We can-”

“My days dwindle in allowance. Maybe not so swiftly but my years are uncertain. This execution ordained by a fools’ court would but speed up what is fated. I am not so brave, Lady. I dallied to join the fray against your Lord. I only made my resolve kinetic when death’s door knocked, began to open. I am bereft of foresight and proved blind to the schemes of others. As was I sightless to how those my plans for subversion put in danger those I care for. Framed them as villains. Like yourself. Little good I did for you, sadly.”

“Baron, we are all mortal. This fact alone steers all too many of us to madness. Drives Drakkon to deny it for delusion. Yet can push us to pursue that ephemeral nectar of life’s fruitful fields. It pains me that you did not confide in me earlier, that you ached in hushed secrecy so. I hate watching you wallow in pity and self-blame when that is so far from the hero you truly are. At least you, when marked by this worldly affliction did not abandon all hope of a better life when faced by the frightful reality of death. Instead, you strode onward, rode against the thundering tide.” So, she said and laid her hand over Baron’s breast as though the warmth of her palm could radiate healing and extra strength to his ailing chest. “If the Fates decide to take you across that fatal border by this curse, I cannot stop them. But I know your final hour should not be decided by any but the gods themselves – the real gods – and not by the arrogance of a man who is more a slaver than a worshipful savior.”

“And what glory, what mercy, will the gods give to the woman wrapped by his side? You, painted as the earthly queen of heaven? Do they not curse us all, if they still breathe out there in the stars even, for stealing their light as our own? Tis what the peasants & shamans alike would claim!” Baron spat snidely. Enraged by his own impotence. Were it not for her he would’ve bashed his head against his cage, in wounding catharsis from this hateful state. “Nay, let not my pittance risk your profoundness becoming flambeau for my frailty. Tis my song and sword that falters. Let them curse only me, that you be free from our liege but not from life!”

“Think not so lowly of yourself,” Corinna rushed him more ardently, her caress somewhat suppressing the spasms of his chest, “I must own some shame too. I who am meekest among women sat meekly by my consort’s side watching disgrace unfold from his hand and did nothing to truly reach him. Even now I cannot think to bring myself to harm him, making you the last possible prophet for the prosperity of all people. If it is as glum as you say, then let me be damned first and foremost. I idled in my gardens with a small circle of students dabbling in what ways we mystics, actors, oracles, and curious minds study of in our mother, Elderath. Yet denied humanity! I enjoyed the pleasures of his side too much and came to deny our realm; what it needed from me. I know how hard it is not to fold to blame!”

“Is blaming yourself so unbecoming?” The prisoner posed. “Yet that blemish barely stains your loveliness, empress. Perhaps you try to show me my ugliness though through that mirror of shame. Yet you are still so bright. What good would arrive from denying Drakkon? Nay, Cor, you did your best to tame his temper. This blight prospers of its own accord, past all our attempts.”

She clamped down on his hand, a grip to match the irons he’s cast in. “Aye it is an ugly look, self-pity. One I do not like to wear long. But I wouldst not dare shame your looks when you are not allowed to wash away this dirt for so long. One dip in the glade’s pool would restore your charms, for me, dear singer. I shall drop my pitiful look, that you do the same. Dreadful appearance can only cage us so long if we focus on a remedy for the future. Let us be free to make this right how we can. Bare ourselves to hope, even in this evil evenfall.”

Awe & anguish lived in his look. “How might there by hope when this martyr in me languishes in a mead cell, awaiting venomous end? What could come of getting caught for trying to pilfer me from my stony sentence? Should I run to nearest Illuminarium and be hung there by my students?”

“Drakkon drank himself to oblivion after the excesses of the hearing’s stress. Thank the Muses for seducing him with delirium, enough that he plays the fool more than we by not keeping his blood hound as your watcher. Instead, Heimskal and the other champions (who hold to true Justice) ready to aide your escape. Those other watchers are turned upon Felhenge, hunting fugitives in vapors and conspiracy in every corner, save where it lay. Where freedom may…” Corinna conjured a key to unshackle the muse of her soul’s second wind, “you’ve friends in Valkingrad and a whole confederation of tribes; fresh or otherwise fired by renewed resolve, who await you at their head. We’ve only this slim chance while fortune shines in crescent.”

The Lady of his Love wound herself within his clasps. Showing how she could not abandon him even if irons be their outer bonds. “So please, Baron, while I know it is poor manners to ask a dying man a favor, but will you promise me one final thing? Know the choice is all yours, I cannot force you. But do not refuse for my sake if you wish to honor me. Will you leave this pit and be brave enough to fight this ailment & wider despotism? For me, for yourself and for us all? I wouldst prefer to know you as a great lover and courageous trailblazer one day, rather than a martyr and defiled corpse – o I could not bear it!”

In the space of a drawn, strained breath, Baron transported his thoughts from dejection to reluctant chivalry. Moved to sympathy by her and lured into a renewed resolution. “So long as you can swear to me to keep yourself safe from the consequences of this sedition if discovered then my heart shall prevail a little longer. If only for you.”

“Then go. Go forth with the stitch of my heart holding to yours and let it not fail!” Corinna brushed Baron’s forehead with her lips then stood back from him. A beacon shined in her eyes at him past the squalor of the cellar. From her pouch slipped a crude leather & silver mask in shape of sentinel’s helm. Slyly leaving it as a disguise by the corner of the open door. “I believe in you, Baron. But my help can only carry you so far. You must believe in yourself and make the way out, for the both of us. Heimskal and his boys are willing to be blind to this affair for another hour. Be it a brief chance to leap. Let this not be our fate, that this dank cell should be our final place of meeting. We must both find the strength to seek a better ending.”

A passing peck, sliver of full ardor to strive for more. Then the lowers shuffled off their bonds. Baron changed tattered rags for sentinel’s suit of armor. Face under helm. His lenient warden in Heimskal and a couple of Corinna’s faithful shadowing his steps.

Lover’s Quarrel

Another day under the Lord’s Aeon, Windhand Hold

Corinna shuffled through her hastily gathered belongings and assorted attire strewn about her caravan packs. Readying for journey. She’d only just returned to the more stable, if imprisoning, court of this Hold but already needed to away. Planning trot one of her green groves with loyal sisters before the first sign of warning. There remained no time to waste on searching for precious keepsakes when her husband was surely soon to return with dire indignation against her latest sin. The Empress – though she knew not how much longer that title would grace her head or how long her head would grace her shoulders once Drakkon discovered her transgression – paced endlessly by the glint of letters & poems burning in the cinder pot. All scribed by Baron’s hand. Erased to ash. Charred memories to linger on, waiting for a sign of scourge or salvation.

Then that sign – that ring of fortune’s blessing – arrived. Its avatar in form of Heron, pushing open the door. His airs frenzied, judging by heated blush about his cheeks. Though out of breath, he gave her a fatigued bow. “My Lady. Drakkon returns from his meeting with Mordaunt and his minions. Surely, he speaks ill of your link to Baron and inflames the ire of our Lord against you. We must away on our course at once – your carriage is readied by the courtyard!” She met his gaze and found his concern piercing. Corinna conceded and hurried behind Heron with her pack.

Onward, the pair traversed Windhand’s halls and endless spiral corridors till the stone sea parted for the courtyard. At this late hour few were about the grounds save for servants who averted their gaze, retreating from any trouble or pretending they weren’t just idling away at their tasks. The night air split their bones with ravenous chill. But this Corinna welcomed as the brisk gale of coming freedom. She sighed with the arctic autumn; the last cadence devoted to Drakkon. Casting off the fetters of a phantom love which bound her to a man transformed. She fled through the shivering bows of the waning race of Andrasil trees (few yet formidable, these domestic breeds and their Halcion cousins, casting such luminous shadows; flourishing in the bite of winter and thus anointed for the Imperium’s resilience).

In the gray ahead, an armored carriage awaited them. Those powerful steeds at the head appearing like Hel-wraiths. As they approached the carriage and the caravan that tailed it Heron let out a quick howl to the drivers & occupants, alerting them. At this a dozen of hardened sentinels leaped from behind the caravan’s curtains with halberds at the ready. Heron gave a forlorn look to the woman and whispered through wavering tone of suppressed sorrow. “I am sorry. I cannot serve your light over that of our Imperium’s. Plead for our Lord’s Mercy, my Lady, for I am no rescuing hero.”

Sharp edges encircled the woman, her pale face flushed with agony & fear. She tried to mask this tumult till her eyes turned back to the carriage to see Drakkon step out and face her with the gleam of crackling hurt in his iris. “My Corinna. It grieves us – maims us – mortally that you should betray us and all we built together. & for the sake of a bloody snake posing under the skin of a friend! Tell us true and without hesitance: did you release Baron? Did you help him escape the henge?! Are you hoping to flee from me now?”

Further shapes divided the cover of night with the dancing lights of lanterns. These wielded by Azarra and her coven. Her devilish smirk held such infernal glee that Corinna knew that the High Mother plotted for this moment to be her annihilation. Yet such villainous wrath as she & her Azarine (fewer in number yet more fervent than ever) cast upon her sparked in Corinna a burst of vengeful inspiration. She knew then how to regain favor from the web that wicked woman wove.

In a fit of sobbing panic the disgraced Empress flung herself low at her husband’s feet and wept openly. “O Bright Lord! Forgive me of this womanly frailty! I had been possessed by a phantom of Night which in my misguided trust I believed to be a divine apparition of the pantheon above. This web of lies spindled by thoughts along the thread of delusion and made me believe that Baron was still the bard we once knew and not this daemon he’s become… His devil’s tongue bewitched my ear, dear Light!”

There grew a long gap in any spoken words, one filled with the wind’s wintry wails. After time trespassed a few minutes of ground with the groans and croaking of the grand trees around, Drakkon bent low his knee and placed a soft, open palm over Corinna’s drooping locks. The wave of distress which dragged her spirit beneath the riptide of woe now dissipated as she felt herself land into embrace, sinking into his arms. “I know you love me still. I see that the goddess is alive as an untamable spark within your heart. I do not fault you for your womanly sin, and perhaps an act done with compassion should be treated kindly, were it not against our Judgement. Know that your betrayal wounds me greatly. That you should turn from me to the viscous spinner, Baron. Whatever he once was to you – to us all – we both know what he is now. What he is will no longer be tolerated in the Imperium. The mercy I offer you shall be granted only this once.”

The sentinels relaxed their pincers. Drakkon lifted Corinna from the ground that she walked beside him again, still shuddering. Their eyes locked and her soul screamed with tearful gratitude through those shimmering windows. Then Drakkon ripped away his gaze, tearing the trance. “Alas, I cannot reward you for loosing that rabid wolf back into the wilds. Baron is an adversary – a traitorous wyrm & writhing fiend –in opposition to all pillars of our society you must learn disciple. Yet still I will not see you harmed, Corinna, hear me now.”

“Yet I gave you more than one chance just before. My Steward of the West, Heron, came to you with chance to deny these crimes, yet you affirmed them and offered him a part in plot. But he is loyal and warned me. You see, your brash act of lapsed reason reignites a war I must away to. So,” Her emperor cupped her shoulders firmly as his eyes towered over her with the darkly incandescent glint of hurt & retribution’s longing. “For a time, I will not see you at all. This caravan will escort you to Silverwood Grove where you shall remain. In exile but with the good company of your sisters. This is no sadistic punishment, my love, only how it must be. As you have proven a volatile member of our court, I cannot risk any further breaches.”

Scorpion tail of paralysis tip stung her veins. Limbs arrested by poison of denial. Heron shuffled forward and dragged Corinna onward into her mobile prison of a carriage. She could feel the darts of Azarra’s ire flung from afar as she made that shameful trek and seated herself…

Azarra and Mordaunt flocked to Drakkon’s side as she was sent away to her exile. Although each of their minds wrestled for different aims, their tongues aligned in resentment of Corrina. The pair set to their derision of her, telling Drakkon that his woman had been unfaithful and edging him to relinquish this exile for sake of even harsher punishment to come.

“The Lady dissolved virtue & vow with that bastard bard!” argued one, “Cast the disloyal siren into the sea!” added the other, “You let her enjoy fruits of disloyalty, seed grounds for more? With her in that grove waiting on countless false consorts in your absence?”

“She shall be guarded by chaste steel. Those flightless Drakes are asked to stand to redeem their lost manhood. They provide her no means with which to be unfaithful & I shall hear no more of this spite!” With his love in indeterminate exile the Lord’s desire drew to opaque solitude. “Learn temperance, friends & subjects. Mother, why not return to your tower & finally contemplate something outside your rage for her? She deserves grace, even in her shadowed glade. Mordaunt, my Thane: Do not overstep, pointing out aggrieves she flagellates herself for, or find that you also falter into need of a lashing. She did nothing against your line. Focus rather on readying for the coming marches, that we crush the villains by the spring. We must ensure this be the Final War. That no more raise rebellion thereafter. Be as the trident of my Thunder.”