On the Brink of Mutiny

In the darkness of the night he remembered her image. The threads of her thick, soft clothes were a muted ivory, upon which the luminescence of the great hall slid like a streak of burnished light. It made the white garments glow with a gentle radiance, almost with a certain heat, that intruded upon his consciousness. This was the first and last vision he had caught of the Mysidian Priestess, before he had forced himself to draw his shining blade and—

He turned in his bed, hot sweat rising to his lips, beading his brow with moisture. The perspiration turned cold all too quickly. He couldn't help but remembering the vision. It could not be erased from his consciousness, washed with his guilt.

In the light of the shining hall she turned to face him. The floor upon which he walked rippled with a gentle aura, like the sun flooding the bottom of a clear lake. The harmony was broken by his presence; his night-black armor cast a deep shadow, disrupting the pure flow and beauty of the light. He was an intruder; he was unwanted there, in Mysidia. He had raped his way through its defenses, to demand its greatest treasure— the shining crystal, in whose heart he saw the same flow of purity, of light, that flooded its sacred temple. A few survived, closing themselves up in the great hall and refusing to submit to the invaders. He had come to show them the power of Baron, and the danger of resisting to it. He had come to—

Was she dead? He did not know.

Please… let it be that she was not dead.

He could see her now in his mind's eye; the white-clad priestess who had resisted his advance. He could see her face, and the accusing look of horror in the dark eyes. She knew that she was defeated, but she refused to surrender. Of the men he had easily dispatched; but the woman, and the old man, he could not bring himself to harm. And still—

Don't touch the crystal! She cried. She flew in front of it, determined to protect it, he knew, with her very life.

Drawing his sword, he raised it above her head, and demanded her surrender. But she would not move.

He brought the hilt of his sword down on her head and she collapsed. He could see the thin stream of blood coursing down her temple, staining the white hood that covered her head. She was unconscious, he told himself. But not dead. Not dead.

But she could have been, as easily as the others. And perhaps she was, now.

"What am I doing?" he whispered. "And why am I doing it? Why do I obey the orders given to me, like a blind puppet, like a heartless, mindless pawn, when I know inside my heart that they are wrong?"

"Why?"

He turned in his bed again, gazing with weary eyes blinded by his sweat. The window displayed a night that was black and frozen; no stars showed to shed a gentle, comforting radiance. There was nothing there for him to see himself in; nothing to reflect upon. He was left in the darkness of his musing, his anger, and his guilt. He was left with the wish to see more. And perhaps he could, only if—

"Rosa."

He had uttered her name aloud. And he recalled her image now, resembling the Mysidian priestess; the same white robe, the same drawn-back, fair hair that framed a pale, oval face, the same determined look in the dark eyes. They were so alike. That priestess, he thought, could have been Rosa. The place invaded could have been Baron. And if a warrior of Mysidia would have come to Baron, and if Rosa would have been protecting its sacred treasures, would that warrior have shown her more mercy than I had shown the priestess?

"She promised that she'd come."

The thought of that promise would not leave him; he wished she would come, and soon. She said as much on the narrow, spiraling stairway of the Castle of Baron, and she touched his hand and smiled the same familiar smile he had known for so many years, that always made him feel a trust in her perception and her loyalty to him. He wanted to talk to her, to hear that what he had done was not as wrong, not as deplorable, as he came to believe it was. He wanted her to give him a solution. He wanted her to be near him so he won't feel so alone.

Cecil stared into the night outside the window, and wished for some light.

When the shadows stirred at last, it seemed like an eternity had passed; the door gave a gentle sound, and swung open a little. Cecil turned around in the bed, looking into the darkness. He could hardly see anything at first, but then he could perceive her; a pale shadow, the ivory in her cloak merging into the darkness. Without speaking, she came to sit on the bed at his side.

"Cecil," she said at last. He looked up at her, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied. Seeing her again was like seeing the twin image of that Priestess. He turned his head away, looking upwards.

"Cecil?" her voice was very gentle, a little probing. He knew she had sensed that mood of confusion and anger in him. Rosa understood him well; perhaps almost too well.

"Cecil," she spoke, again. "Please don't look away from me." Her fingers reached out, touching the long hair that fell across his cheeks; she stroke it a little, gently. The touch curiously lacked passion; it was almost like a sister's affectionate, comforting touch to a brother she loved. Like she sometimes did when she used to sit at his side, when they were still children. Because it was what he needed now; that kind of solace. And Rosa understood it.

He remained silent, looking upwards. For a while everything was quiet, and Rosa did not press him to speak. She patiently waited for him to sort through his seething thoughts, to find the words to tell her what he felt in the seething cauldron of his bewilderment. And finally, it came to his tongue, and he told her everything. About Mysidia's Water Crystal, and the brutal invasion the Red Wings made upon it. About the slaughter made upon any one who dared to resist. And about the priestess he had to knock unconscious, and that he feared he had killed.

There was a long silence as Cecil came to a sudden halt. The throbbing memory made his feeling of guilt intensify, and made it more disturbing, more galling. Rosa was silent as well, and he turned his head towards her, suddenly apprehensive of what she would say. She was still that pale shadow in the darkness; the night had remained unrelentingly black. But to Cecil it seemed that her presence made it easier. He had poured out his self-condemnation; now, in her silence, he awaited her judgment.

Rosa finally spoke. "Cecil," she said, and her fingers withdrew back into her cloak, "I knew something was wrong for quite a while. And I thought I knew what it was; but you didn't tell me, and so I had to guess. Now I know for sure."

Cecil watched her in the darkness. His voice low, he said, "Yes, now you know. But most angering is the feeling that I'm utterly helpless in face of these doubts. I think this is why I kept them buried inside."

"I understand," Rosa said, gently. "But now that you spoke of what happened, do you feel better?"

He was silent for a moment, then made a small movement with his head that indicated negation. "No," he said, slowly and quietly. ""No. I am still angry because I know I am helpless. You see, Rosa... I am angry at the feeling that my hands are tied by the orders given to me. No matter how wrong they seem to me, I cannot help myself but doing as I am commanded."

She was silent, and he contemplated, his eyes seething darkly. Then he rose in the bed, and leant against the wall. For the first time, he directed his eyes straight towards her. In the darkness, he could see her pale countenance, and her dark, determined eyes, like the priestess's eyes, measuring him. He lowered his eyes again, his fingers clenching into fists. "I am weak," he said. "Weak! And yet, I don't know what my real weakness is— feeling this— guilt— or not heeding it."

The bitter feeling of desperation rose in him again. "Rosa," he said, stammering over her name. "Please, Rosa— tell me what you think ought to be done. What is right? I feel that I just don't know anymore, and that I don't have the tools to judge." He looked up again, into her face, but she was regarding him with the same earnest, inscrutable expression. He raised his arm, stretching his hand towards her in a gesture that was almost pleading. "How would YOU resolve it?" he asked. "I have a duty, and I have a conscience. But lately I find myself wishing I had only one or the other, and not both."

Rosa averted her face, and he watched her clear, white profile in the darkness. When she spoke, her voice was soft and quiet. "Cecil," she said; "You expect me to give you an absolute answer. But I can't tell you what to do; I can't give you an easy resolution to a complicated situation. All I can say is this: Cecil, as I knew him all my life, would never speak like you just did. Because the Cecil that I knew always had the moral courage to do what he felt is right." She directed her eyes at him now, and an edge of a smile appeared.

Cecil closed his eyes. An easy resolution. Is that what he was seeking? Maybe. He wanted her to tell him that he had been in the right. He didn't want to make the decision himself; he wanted her to make it for him. But he could now clearly see that it could not be that way. The decision remained in his hands, where it ought to have been.

Cecil opened his eyes again, looking at Rosa. The white clothes on her appeared a little clearer, a little brighter, as if the light in the room grew stronger. The night had passed swiftly through his troubled consciousness, and morning had arrived without his knowledge. In the pale light she was a thin, white figure, strong and adamant. Like the figure of the Priestess, only very alive, very warm, and caring rather than hostile. "Rosa," he said, in a whisper. "Do you think that the Priestess died?"

Rosa's eyes met his gaze. He thought he saw a smile glimmering; the light was strong enough now. "I don't know. But I could try and find out. Do you want me to?"

He made an almost imperceptible shake with his head, ashamed to admit that he did not want to find out himself, because he was afraid of the answer. But he knew that Rosa understood. When she refused to give him the final answer, and let him judge for himself, she had been right. It was his decision alone to make. He will wait as Rosa had done, and he will watch what ensues. Only then, he will judge.

Rosa leaned forward a little, reaching out with her fingers again. "You're going to the village of the Mist tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked. Cecil nodded. "Yes," he answered. "As the King ordered." This time, he thought, he will still obey. But not if it means killing again. If it comes to that again, he will make a decision— the right decision, this time.

Rosa's fingers touched his cheek. "You are sweating. Are you ill, Cecil? Are you sure you will be all right?"

Cecil turned his head away. "It's more the sickness of the soul than anything else," he replied. He felt her fingers sliding down the length of his hair, stroking it lightly.

He caught her hand gently, and held it in his own. "Rosa," he said. "We are not children anymore. I think you better leave before people find out that you came."

Rosa merely smiled. She rose to her feet, the pale robes swirling around her. Then she turned, looking at him. The light was strong enough for him to see her clearly; and her smile seemed to him to bode hope. No matter what you decide, her eyes said, I'll be there with you.

"I will see you soon," she said. Leaning forwards for one last time, she touched his cheek with her hand, caressing it softly; then, she turned around and left the room.

She is going to find out about the Priestess, Cecil knew. And somehow, as the light outside his window grew strong, he believed that Rosa would find that she is alive.

© Written by Hadas Rose

Notes

Yeah, Cecil and Rosa were totally doing it. Square said so. Sorry that's not the story you got.