Kiss the Shadow
Chapter 1: Casual Irony
Grissom Vedivier shifted uncomfortably in the stiff formal armor. Sweat streamed down the back of his neck within the thick woolen cowl, and his arms were all but numb from the strain of holding his sword at attention for hours. He stifled a weary sigh. The evening sun stun in his westerly eyes, sharpening its gleam against the intricately carved and polished armory of the dozens of soldiers. They stood in rows like stone saints amidst the Grand Cathedral's towering walls. Among their ranks Grissom usually felt a swell of pride, the thrill of upcoming justice--now he only ached to return to his quarters.
"Chin up, lad," a deep voice from behind him murmured. "They've all but finished."
Grissom pursed his lips and forced his chin higher. His gaze drifted down the line of soldiers and clergymen, nobles and curious commoners, to the hastily constructed outdoor chapel. Upon a stage stood the Cardinal himself, giving his last blessings to the ornately clad bride and groom--the Cardinal's own cousin and soon-to-be sister in law. Only such an occasion short of a crusade could account for the entire regiment of the Crimson Blades being paraded in so extravagant a fashion. Grissom recollected his strength in holding his blade aloft. Perhaps to the happy couple a blazing wedding had struck their fancy, but he was far from enjoying the strain.
The same man chuckled sympathetically. "Save yourself. We'll have our turns later, you'll see. I've been looking forward to this." Balv Tieger, a solidly built knight many years Grissom's senior, chuckled to himself. He was a hulking man, with a hard-carved, crooked face that knew only the brightest of grins or the most intimidating scowls. As his brother's long time companion, Grissom had known the burly commander longer than his own mother.
"I'll take your word for it, Sir Tieger."
"You'll see, you'll see. Ah--look at them, now." A heavy sigh escaped his lips. Upon the stage, bride and groom sealed their union with a delicate kiss. "Inspiring, isn't it?"
"Naturally," Grissom replied simply, hiding his relief at the end of the ceremony. He and his comrades withdrew their blades as man and wife passed, saluting as a symbol of their congratulations. It wasn't that he shared no warmth of feeling for the couple--he was merely too caught up in his own discomfort at the moment to care.
The knights were dismissed soon after, though with the encouragement that they would join in the post-ceremony celebrations. Naturally, such advice was unnecessary. The wedding of the Cardinal's cousin had provided even the most godless of men excuse to flock to the Holy Capital of Icili, to join in the festivities. Taverns were packed to overflowing, each provided with extra wine barrels by the church as a symbol of thanks for the blessings bestowed on the joined couple. Men and women of every possible rank and status were out in force, lounging in the streets or inns, sharing drinks and meals, dancing carelessly even when music was not present.
Most noticeable among the masses were the city's sworn protectors, the Crimson Blades, hailed for centuries as God's chosen soldiers. Following the wedding presentation each had returned briefly to shed their armor and join in groups to attend the different activities. Despite his fatigue, Grissom was no exception. He quickly changed out of the stiff ornamental dress and met his brother and fellows at a familiar tavern: the Lovely Dove, long since accustomed to its sword-bearing patrons. Dozens of their comrades had arrived long before, as was proven by their raucous behavior and slurred speech. Grissom viewed them distastefully before taking his seat in their usual corner table.
Duane, Grissom's elder brother by eleven years, ordered drinks--only fine wine on an occasion such as this. To his right sat the senior of the group, Balv Tieger. Next was Neesa Daw, the dark-skinned Wuryn woman, whose pale hair rivaled that of her aged companion. Though the only female member of their motley group, she had never done less than held her own among them. Lastly was Albred York, merely a year older than Grissom, with ruddy chestnut hair and wide, ever-eager green eyes. The recent addition of a beard to his complexion still managed to puzzle his friends when their minds were sluggish, as indeed it made him appear years beyond his age.
As soon as the drinks arrived Albred lifted his glass in a toast. "To the happy newlyweds, whoever they are!" he declared, earning the cheers from his friends. They drank together and laughed, grateful that finally their services had concluded. Several similar toasts sprang up around them, as their knightly companions added their own appreciation.
"Ah, but what a ceremony," Albred continued exaggeratedly. "Might you have seen the bride's face as they departed? God makes no greater joy, I'll warrant. Perhaps I, too, shall take a wife..."
Neesa choked ungracefully on her drink, and the rest of his companions laughed. "You? A husband?" Duane repeated mockingly. "I should see the day!"
"Listen to him," Grissom advised with a cocked eyebrow. "My brother is well-versed in marital woes."
Duane cast his brethren a curious glance, earning more laughter from the others. "You may mock me now," he said pointedly, "but who among you returns every night to a lady in your bed, to love you when you are in need and to comfort you in illness? You'll not get that from any local brothel, I should say." He fixed his eye specifically on Tieger.
"He speaks well," Neesa laughed as Tieger sputtered indignantly on a response. "But then, I don't think married life suits either of our tastes, Tieger."
The friends conversed for long hours in this way, sharing the wine bottles and laughing in merriment. Several other members of the order joined and took leave of them as they saw fit. Grissom drank in moderation, remembering episodes of days past that were of considerable embarrassment for him. At some point his interest wandered from the drunken dialogues of his friends, taking in the scene of lazy chaos spreading through the tavern. Such disorder among men of God, he thought, smiling faintly.
Grissom's attention was taken briefly to another corner of the common room, where a group of soldiers like himself were gathered. A man was approaching--the leader of the Crimson Blades himself, Romeo Guildenstern, moving with precision despite his own subtle intoxication. As Grissom watched, the commander seated himself among the young men and was promptly offered a drink, which was gratefully accepted. Immediately afterwards the behavior of the soldiers sobered considerably.
Grissom chuckled faintly to himself at the irony he was witnessing. The soldiers, upon meeting their captain, were struggling to maintain an attentive and respectful attitude; Guildenstern wasn't interested in their formalities, laughing with all the rambunctious spirit of his men. He was attempting to be one of them. Grissom, however, with his sobriety and righteous spirit, fancied himself the sensible of his own comrades--comrades mirrored in the actions of the opposite table. He knew it to be his responsibility to watch out for his friends, and therefore would not partake of their indulgences himself. As if he were a captain, prepared to care for or discipline his peers should there be the need.
So the Commander wishes to be a soldier, and the soldier in turn wishes to lead.... He turned back to his friends. "It appears that the commander himself is not entirely unaffected by celebration."
The group looked for themselves, though none made comment to his discovered irony. "He appears a bit unsteady himself, doesn't he?" Albred commented wryly.
"There's nothing for it," Tieger muttered into his glass. "This is a wedding celebration, after all."
He cocked a curious eye. "And what has that to do with our leader's unusually indulgent behavior?"
"Have you drunk you mind away?" Duane snorted irritably. He had never been a graceful drunk. "I'll remind you, our Sir Guildenstern also knows the 'woes of marital life,' so to speak."
Albred and Neesa returned his gaze with confusion, and so Grissom took it upon himself to explain, as he'd heard the story from his--sober--brother on several occasions; though he himself had not recalled until its mentioning. "Many years previous, the good captain was betrothed to a nobleman's daughter, the Lady Allia," he said, only loud enough for his friends to hear. "But just when it seemed they were happiest, the engagement was abruptly and inexplicably cancelled. The good lady abandoned her love and fled Icili to join her cousins many leagues away, and Sir Guildenstern has yet to fill her absence." He leaned back in his chair. "A quiet matter, dealt with carefully. I'm not surprised you'd not heard."
His friends exchanged dubious glances. "I can hardly imagine," Neesa retorted smoothly, "that such a thing occurred."
"Are you accusing my brother of lying?" Duane sneered over the top of his glass.
"No one's accusing anyone, friend," Tieger quickly intervened. "You're just drunk, 's all. Have another." He poured his companion another drink, then one for himself. That matter concluded, he turned his gaze in the direction of their captain once more. "Ah, but the poor lad. He always looked better with a lady on his arm."
Grissom followed his friend's eyes, watching as Guildenstern took his leave of the corner table. A wry smile quirked his lips. "Indeed."
The night passed all too quickly as far as those involved were concerned. Soon enough the taverns began to usher their patrons out into the already crowded streets, and gradually the townsfolk made their way home. Some never made it that far, and were content to rest their wine-weary bodies in alleyways or street corners, awaiting a sober friend. Those of the Crimson Blades were only slightly more successful in returning to their quarters, beneath the moon-cast shadows of the Cathedral. Grissom was especially instrumental in aiding the usually respected men to their beds. As the most clearheaded of his comrades, he took it upon himself to guide each safely to warm and welcoming bed sheets before partaking of the same comforts. Sleep was no stranger to many a soldier that night.
Grissom awoke slowly to the gleam of morning light against his eyelids. It was not a welcomed intrusion; though his intoxication from the night before had been relatively light, it was still enough to sour his mood with a throbbing skull. Groaning softly he rubbed his weary eyes and slid out of bed.
The day was still quite young, as shown by the horizontal light piercing his windows. He stumbled forward and pulled the curtains closed to give his sight a rest. From there he paused, surveying the disorderly state of his small quarters. This bothered him. Even if he had returned at a late hour under mild intoxication, Grissom despised sloth and disorder most vehemently. As he had time—being the morn after a near holiday—he slipped into a pair of soft leather trousers and set upon the mess. Having replaced all his things, he sought a brief breakfast—some bread he'd saved, and a bit of cold soup—cleaned his face, and finished dressing casually. He doubted that anyone on the grounds would be yet rested enough to condemn him for less than perfect attire.
Grissom wandered out of the knights' quarters, and made his way to the chapel for a morning prayer. Thus refreshed, his contented feet took him about the gardens. In the ten years he'd served as a Knight of the Cross, he never failed to appreciate the beauty of this place. He saw God's hand in every bud and blossom, every upturned, dew-glazed leave. God's gift to him, to them all. His hand slid lazily over a puckering rose, granting it a kiss to his fingertips. And smiling he moved on, wondering how long he should wait before rousing his peers.
Grissom's meandering at last brought him to the farthest edge of the cathedral gardens—a maze, almost, of tall rose bushes and towering lilies, and smaller pansies and poppies, each stretching eagerly to meet the fresh sun. He rarely had time to travel so deep into this floral paradise, with his duties of late. Wondering if perhaps there was a section of garden he had yet to see, he traveled on, being careful not to tread on the smaller plants.
He had not gone far when he came upon something unexpected—a form not of flora's design, but a man, resting alongside a curved stone bench at the garden's edge. He was clad in soft leather and clasps of bronze, no shoes or boots to speak of, sitting with legs folded and head bowed. Grissom stood still, as he feared the man asleep and hoped not to wake him. Though he had chosen a splendid bedchamber in which to rest his mind and body, it was hardly appropriate, and the commander wondered if perhaps he should stir the poor chap. It certainly didn't look comfortable, in any case.
In the end, Grissom's pondering was unnecessary. The man slowly lifted his head, revealing the long, etched face he knew well—a pair of bright blue eyes and thin-pressed lips that belonged to none other than his master, Romeo Guildenstern.
Grissom bowed his head in respect, offering a greeting. "Forgive me, if I disturbed you."
Guildenstern waved his hand to dispel any apologies. "Think nothing of it, Commander. I was merely absorbed in a morning prayer." He reached behind the bench, retrieving a leather pouch. "Won't you join me? You can bless this wine for me."
Grissom smiled wryly and did as per his suggestion, seating himself in the soft earthen-grass. "I thought you had drunk your fill at the celebrations last night," he commented, hoping his leader would not think him too bold.
Thankfully, the elder knight chuckled with good humor. "Ah, so you were at the Lovely Dove, were you?"
"Finest wine to be had."
"That it is, that it is."
Grissom accepted the offered wine flask and said a brief prayer over the offering. Once finished he returned the drink, his curiosity perked. "If you don't mind my saying so, Sir," he said pleasantly, "why did you never earn your cloth, in which to perform this task yourself?" The Crimson Blades were, after all, a holy order made of the Cardinal's own hand. Many of the officers, especially those of higher rank, were first suggested to attend to the clergy, earning their title as a preacher of the Word of their Lord. Grissom himself had acquired his title several years previous. As it was his mother's wish that he pursue the priest's calm mind and his father's that he take up the sword, he had readily applied himself to both with the most eager of devotions.
Guildenstern waved a hand dismissively. "I am not so articulate," he replied, pausing to take a sip of the wine. "My faith is in my heart and in my steel, good Father, and not in my tongue."
"The good ladies will be disappointed to hear you say so," Grissom casually remarked.
Guildenstern laughed heartily. "A battle scar will win just as much infatuation as a pretty word, Father. Or so I have learned."
"Ah, to think then, that I have wasted my breath all this time," he rejoined, "when one of my captain's beatings would suffice."
The men laughed together, their lifted voices the only sounds in the stillness of the morning garden. Guildenstern appeared quite amused by the boldness of his commander. "Speaking of which, what thought you of the ceremony?" he asked easily. "You've not yet gone through the rites yourself, if I remember correctly."
Grissom smirked. "Nay, good sir, I've yet to grant a lady such honor. With my duties of late, I've been a bit too occupied to attend a woman proper. And as I've not yet met the charming Lady Guildenstern, I assume you are of the same dilemma...?" He wondered briefly if this was not proper territory for him, remembering the stories passed the night before.
But the captain took no offense to his words, simply replying, "Such a lady, if I am to meet her, will have to be of great patience." He drank again from his wine before passing the offering around. "I am a knight, and a leader of men in combat. It is necessary that sacrifices on my part be made."
Grissom nodded thoughtfully. There was little he knew about his captain's true personal life, but in combat he was precise and unwavering. Guildenstern had taken command of the Blades half a decade ago, the youngest to ever hold the position--he was their strength and their pride, and they his willing hands. It was a bit odd for Grissom, sitting with him this way, chatting about such trivial and commonplace things as if he were simply another officer of his regiment. His body well enough remembered the punishments dealt by his fierce captain, the sores and aches after his grueling training. The guidance of Sir Romeo Guildenstern was not easily taken or forgotten. And yet here he was, as if they were no more than a pair of captains enjoying a morning chat. He wondered at what his commander was thinking.
Romeo Guildenstern, a man of no title save his rank, no wealth despite a respected family, yet unwed despite these things. There would be no telling the concerns a man such as this would leave behind in escaping to the garden during the morning's early hours.
"I must admit I was a bit surprised to find you here, Sir," Grissom said, indulging himself in a bit more curious small talk. If anything, he would have an interesting story to tell when he met with his companions later in the day. To think that he would be sharing a drink with a commanding officer in this way...and delicious wine at that, he soon discovered.
"I imagine the sight of me will not be welcomed among the barracks after the night of a feast." Guildenstern leaned back against the bench, the very picture of ease. To see him so relaxed strangely calmed his companion as well. "They've deserved a late morning's rest, and I wouldn't want to intrude." His lips quirked with an expression of amusement Grissom had never seen on him before--there was something odd about it. "Commanding officers often have that affect."
Grissom considered this a moment. "I hope you are not offended by my presence here, sir."
"Of course not. I could use the company." He traced his thumb absently along the arch of his bare foot. "Actually, I was recently pondering the very question you put to me a moment ago, Father Grissom," he admitted, meeting his subordinate's gaze in an open, very frank manner. "You are an honest and strong-willed fighter, and I would greatly appreciate a friendly ear."
The younger man was somewhat startled by this request, but he made no show if it, shrewdly nodding his head. "Of course, sir. Of what matter are we speaking?"
"Of faith, Sir Grissom." Guildenstern lifted his head slightly, his eyes taking in a slow, though unobtrusive view of his fellow. Grissom did his best to look attentive and trustworthy, like a child before his father, about to be entrusted with a secret of heavy importance. "When did you first know you wanted to live serving God and his prophet?"
Grissom frowned slightly, caught off guard by the nature of the question. The leader of the Crimson Blades, speaking so openly of matters of faith...it was unnerving. But Guildenstern's expression held no ill ease, no uncertainty. As if he were merely inquiring about the weather, or what kind of wine Grissom preferred. He had no idea that this was a matter of great significance to a preacher and soldier such as himself, so deeply devoted to his religion.
Or, did he, and was now testing...? Gripped by sudden uncertainty, Grissom decided at last that he could do nothing but offer truth. "'Twas the will of my parents, God bless them." He smiled faintly as he remembered the Rood necklace hidden beneath his tunic, pressed to his chest. "They have long since joined our Lord, and so I am honored to carry out their wishes."
Guildenstern regarded him silently a moment, making him slightly nervous. "Ah, so you had little choice in the matter," he surmised over his flask.
The younger knight was quick to defend himself. "At first, good sir, but I have always hoped for so fulfilling a duty as this." And before he knew it, he was continuing into his personal history, speaking of a matter of great import to him. "I knew I had made the right choice when I received the authority of my rank. Within the halls of the cathedral, the Cardinal blessed us with no more than a hand on our brows. But when he touched me...." Grissom felt himself swelling a bit with pride at the retelling of the story. "...When he touched me, I felt a tremor pass through me, like nothing I'd ever felt before. As if the Holy Spirit Himself had descended upon me...."
Grissom trailed off, glancing to his master, hoping that he would not be met with a quaint and indulging grin. He was surprised, and rather pleased, to see that the captain's eye was fixed upon him with considerable interest. "Forgive me for speaking so frankly," he went on with greater confidence. "I'm sure you must think me foolish, but that brief experience has driven me forward ever since." In truth he did not at all think himself foolish; there was merely something in the man's trained eye that led his words to seek approval.
Guildenstern, sipping quietly on his wine, appeared intrigued. "You are lucky, then, to have such memories to draw upon," he murmured, strangely distracted. "But if you were called so strongly to the clergy, why continue your training to become a knight?"
"That too, was the will of my parents, to follow in the steps of my father, and my elder brother." Grissom paused, and collected his thoughts a moment before continuing. "But this was not my only motivation, Sir Guildenstern. In many ways, I believe it was the strength of my faith that drove me away from taking up the cloth."
"Explain." The knight offered his flask once more.
Grissom accepted, but was too caught up in his brief speech to drink from it. "I would, if words could do my mind justice. I hope you will accept a pale comparison." His mind spiraled back, trying to remember what he had once tried to make clear to his brother, with little success. "I knew, you see, that I would always devote myself to my Lord. However, for some time I was unsure of how best this could be accomplished. As a Priest I may have been able to speak out against injustice and sin, but...but truly, sir, sometimes I can't help but wonder if my words would be enough. There are dozens of men that can speak well of idealism and faith, but a great few that would be willing to die for it. I want to be one of those rare men." He felt himself straightening, speaking faster than a moment before. "There are so many good intentions, smothered by the wicked and twisted souls that manipulate them. If we are to truly change these soiled times, there must be a change in the way we deliver judgment. Deliverance can be found easily on the blade of a sword."
Grissom stopped, realizing that his speech was becoming warped, and his meaning unclear. "What I mean, sir," he said, trying to sound even and reserved despite the clear gleam in his eyes, "Is that I believe my skills will be put to better use routing out the world's evil, rather than singing psalms to frightened people which are already unable to change their own destiny."
"To kill the wolves," Guildenstern mused, "rather than fatten the sheep." A smile slid gradually to the corners of his mouth, showing an expression of great approval. "I find it...refreshing to hear you say that, Father Grissom. There are few of us who are able to view the world in such a way. I thank you for your honesty."
Grissom kept himself from grinning openly, at last helping himself to a sip of wine. "There is no need. I am, after all, merely fulfilling my duty to you, sir."
"Nonetheless." Guildenstern pushed to his feet, and his subordinate quickly followed suit, returning the drink. "In any case, I dare not infringe upon your leisure time further; the Cardinal awaits."
"Of course," he replied with a respectful bow. "Thank you, sir, for the wine."
"You're quite welcomed. It was good to speak with you." Guildenstern nodded his acknowledgement and started out of the garden, his bare feet leaving small imprints on the yet dew-laden grass.
Grissom watched the captain leave, and breathed a sigh once he was out of sight. He'd feared that his forthright response to the inquiries might have been seen as some insubordination against the clergy, or worse, interpreted as a fanatic's bloodlust. But Guildenstern had interpreted his intentions as the justice he thought of it as, a great comfort to him.
"Perhaps he was testing me," Grissom murmured, seating himself on the worn bench. "To see what I would say." He brushed his hand lazily over an exceptionally tall lily. "What kind of man is he?" he wondered aloud. Well, that was simple enough--he was a man who killed the wolves. The thought made the young knight chuckle, and with a shake of his head he returned to the barracks in search of his peers.
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