This is really, really radical—and I mean really radical—but it was something that I personally felt needed to be written.
Ok, so I wanted to write it. Same difference.
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Rainfall on Judgment Day
Chapter 1
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present
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Whose hands are these? he muses one evening in the privacy of his rooms. These hands, this body—to whom do they belong?
He sits at the edge of his bed, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand; the cut crystal of the glass catches the glint of the candlelight, sending the rainbow spinning throughout the room and lighting the deep burgundy liquid with a hidden flame from within.
Fifteen years. Such a short time in the grand scheme of things, it seems—and yet how it could age a man! He smiles, a small curve of his lips, and raises his hand to the candlelight. His flesh glows red from where the light shines through his skin, and he imagines that through the skin he can see the bone and sinew beneath. Would the muscles of his hand still remember the touch of the sword or lance, he wonders, or do they only recognize the delicacy of the quill now? If he were to straddle a horse, would the basic commands of horsemanship come as naturally to him as they had all those years ago?
A quick rapping at the door pulls him from his thoughts; he downs his glass quickly and sets it on the bedside table before answering. "Come in," he says as he pulls his robe about him tighter, the cloth a vivid crimson that does nothing but bring back memories every time he looks at it.
It is Arden, the new Knight Commander of Caelin. The man bows quickly, a clumsy and inelegant thing, and approaches nervously.
"Sir," he says, "it's late, and tomorrow is a festival day. Surely you need your rest!"
He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle again. "You know I was a soldier before I was steward, Arden," he says as he pours himself another glass. "I am used to this. And besides," he takes a sip and looks at the other man over the rim of the glass pointedly before continuing, "I believe your reason for coming to see me personally tonight had nothing to do with my sleeping habits."
"A-ah!" Arden hurries forward and kneels on one knee before him. "Forgive me, sir, but we've just received word from Ostia. They ask for soldiers from all the cantons—they say Bern is coming."
"Bern?" He drains the glass in one long, thoughtful sip. "So it has come to this at last."
Arden—poor, bumbling, inarticulate, lovable, blessed Arden—looks up at him, curiosity etched plainly on his face. "Milord?"
"It is nothing," he says as he sets down his glass. "Most of our elite were already stationed in and around Ostia at the first hint of trouble, but that in itself is not a large amount. Caelin does not have the military strength of the other cantons, even if our knights are famous for their courage and loyalty." He pauses for a moment and thinks, forefinger rubbing the bridge of his nose absentmindedly. "We can only send a company to Ostia, perhaps two if we can manage with only a handful of soldiers here. Can I trust this to you, Arden?"
The younger man stands up hastily, his salute almost endearingly awkward. "Of course, milord. Right away."
"Good man. I expect a full report after the evening festivities tomorrow—and be sure to inform the soldiers that they will be heading to Ostia first thing the following morning."
"Yes, Chancellor Sain," Arden says. "I will let them know tomorrow, before the morning festivities."
He smiles. "Thank you, Arden. You may go."
"Milord." Arden bows once more, turns and leaves, and once again Sain is left to ruminate in the solitude.
Arden is a good man, he thinks as he stoppers the bottle and sets it down. A good man who didn't yet know the world. He was a good soldier, yes, but he was young and uncertain; he had the capability to do more if he only believed in himself. His promotion to Knight Commander had not been on a whim; he was more than capable of the position, as had the man before Arden—as Sain himself had been told when he held the position until Reissmann's retirement fifteen years earlier.
Again his mind marvels at the time that has passed. Here he is at forty-four years old: the steward of Caelin, a widower with no heir to call his own. Reissmann himself had never married—though Sain thought it was because of the untimely death of his fiancé over thirty years ago rather than the pressures the stewardship carried with it. In the end, it seemed, even Sain's own marriage was doomed to misery, his wife dead not five years into their marriage from a strange illness after an innocent trip to the seaside.
He stands up and sets about extinguishing the candles set about the room. Perhaps Fiora's fate was meant to be; as a land under Ostian rule, Sain's role as steward forced him to act on Ostia's demands while at the same time caring for the people of Caelin and ensuring that their needs were met. It was either Caelin or his heart—and in the end it was clear which one took precedence. Perhaps, in addition to his own love for Fiora, that was why he had never remarried, though his advisors had pushed him to make alliances with lesser noble houses; it would not be fair to his wife to remain alone in a cold, empty bed late into the night while he attended to paper work and treaties, oversaw the military and settled the disputes and quarrels of the common folk.
The life of a steward truly was a lonely one.
Because we are sad men, he thinks as he blows out one of the candles at his bedside table. Except for the small light of a lucifer atop the desk at the other end of the room and a smaller candle upon the bedside table, the room is thrown into shadow. He watches the strange writhing shapes from the candle's flames on the walls for a moment, and then closes his eyes in exhaustion.
We are sad, lonely men leading sad, lonely lives.
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Xirysa Says: Like Gilded, I'm going to work on this (and it will likely be posted) rather sporadically, mostly to keep myself in the 'fic writing mood while I'm at school.
Feedback and critique are very welcome indeed—thanks for reading!