Convergence
Kian looks curiously at the girl. She does look very alien, scared, and clearly hiding something. Her answers are as good as gibberish, less than convincing, he would have expected any criminal to try and come up with something more or less believable. The truest words she has spoken are probably some of the first ones - 'I don't know anything'. She surely comes across clueless. "I'm from the… the South", she has blurted in a way that makes it clear to him, she has no idea what South refers to in this land. She is lost in many ways, this one, he thinks to himself. He is pretty certain the girl has nothing to do with the rebel leader though, or the rebellion at all.
The warden refuses to release her at his request, "the local rules apply", he declares proudly. Vamon didn't lie about one matter at least, things are indeed done differently here. He has more authority at home. In Sadir he can ordered someone of the warden's station to obey, but not here. The warden bids him farewell and he has no choice but to leave, indignant. He stomps down the snowclad path, feeling emptiness growing in his stomach. Kian usually tracks his daily regimen, but this mission, his long travel, the strangeness he meets on every single step has thrown him off a little bit. He resolves to bring himself back on track. The first thing he wants to do is find a decent, filling meal. This city can be problematic though. The day before he paid an unreasonable sum for what was the least satisfying soup he's ever tasted in his life. Just as he decides to ask for a local's opinion, one turns the corner, coming in the opposite direction, and her arrival makes him halt so suddenly, as if he has walked into an invisible wall. It's… to his great surprise he discovers he does not know who she is, but for a moment or two he was so sure he did. She's a woman of his age or younger, pale with slightly noticeable freckles, brown hair in negligent disarray, dressed in dark, well worn clothes, her short cape tattered at the edges. He can only imagine she wears it out of habit rather than any practicality. The woman does not seem to register his existence. She walks all business like, head bowed and eyes on the path, and almost walks past him when he stops her.
"What?" She responds, clearly still half in her thoughts.
He apologizes politely and asks where he can find a hot meal. But even as the words come, that strange sense of recognition slowly starts to return. She advises him to head to Ayrede avenue and starts to leave, when Kian stops her again. He cannot remember her himself, but maybe she can assist him? He asks honestly whether or not they have met, aware that such a phrase can be easily mistaken for a banal pretext for making an acquaintance. She does not seem to take it this way though. When she hears his question, she looks at him thoughtfully, "I… don't think so". So she's not quite sure herself. "Who are you?" She asks, mildly curious.
Kian hesitates only for a brief moment. His first impulse, much to his self deprecating later on, is to answer truthfully. His full name is at the tip of his tongue by the time he realizes how foolish he's being. He does not know who she is, or who she might turn out to be. It won't do to carelessly reveal his identity to all and sundry. For all he knows this woman could be a rebel spy, or a sympathizer, or a well meaning person with a loose tongue blurting out harmful information in the wrong company. So, instead of an honest introduction he settles for a more elusive one.
"My name's Kian," he bows, "I'm new to the city." A strange expression settles on the young woman's pale face. A ghost of derisive smile plays at the corners of her mouth, cold amusement in her eyes.
"You are Azadi, aren't you?" She asks, not an ounce of curiosity, she has no doubt that her guess is correct.
"What makes you say that?" He asks, guessing outright denial would be futile.
She swiftly looks him up and down, "Because you look and talk like one of them." He notices a touch of arrogance in her demeanor.
"It sounds like you do not think much of the Azadi." He notes.
The woman doesn't even try to deny it. "I don't. They're arrogant and full of themselves. They believe they have the right to impose their politics and religion on others, and they even have the audacity to believe that we should be grateful for it."
This is not the kind of answer usually given to an armed Azadi warrior and Kian's not quite sure whether to feel indignant, or amused. He decides some credit is due for giving an honest, straightforward answer, not something many people dare after taking a look at his sword.
"You are correct in your assumptions, I am Azadi," he says wondering how much her bravery can stretch.
To her credit she does not even bat an eyelash. "Well, don't expect me to apologize for telling you how I feel", she says casually, not a note of panic or worry in her voice. He decides she's probably not a rebel spy, anyone who works for them would have the sense to keep such opinions a secret. Keeping such opinions a secret might still have been a wiser choice for her though, whether or not she is innocent. Then again, many have said the same about his esteemed master, himself among them, yet he could never bring himself to question his worth. The memory of his mentor mollifies him.
"I don't", he echoes her from earlier, "I appreciate your honesty, mistress, though I disagree with your views".
"It's not a question of agreeing or disagreeing, it's a question of facts", she retorts once more, "you invaded our lands, you imposed yourselves on us".
Despite his best effort to remain unaffected, his anger is prompted. "We delivered you from a brutal and deadly enemy", he throws at her, "We liberated your city. We fed your hungry and housed your homeless. We made your lands safe again. Without us, you would not be here." Something flickers in her eyes when he says that, but he presses on, relentless, his voice sharp and his anger unveiled, "Without us, your people would be scattered, broken, dead. Your cities would be in ruins, and your temples burned to the ground. We have only done what we know to be right. We wish only for you to walk in the light of our Goddess, to hear Her Word, and to know Her Love. Tell me, mistress, how have we wronged you? How have we imposed on you with our charity and good will?"
Unlike him, she does not even let a single sound coming out of her mouth raise above the calm, ordinary inflection.
"Charity and good will?" She repeats, cold, every word controlled. "Is that what they call military occupation these days? Don't mistake gratitude for love, Azadi. A lot of people were grateful that you liberated Marcuria from the Tyren hordes. Others are grateful for what you've brought with you. Technology, airships, exotic goods, increased trade. And your soldiers, they've made the Northlands safe against our enemies, and Marcuria's streets secure to walk at night. As long as you're human, of course. I'm embarrassed to say there are even those who are happy you've rounded up all the non-humans and stuck them in a ghetto. So sure, there are those who are grateful, and those who have gained a lot from your presence here. As for the silent majority... Well, who wants to rock the boat when there's food on the table, a roof over your head, and a job to pay the bills? But ask those who are no longer allowed to speak their minds, to walk the streets, or to practice their religion. What do you think they'll say? Ask a Sentinel Minstrum - if you can find one - what they felt when you leveled their holiest shrine to the ground to make room for your tower. Ask those who've had their homes raided and destroyed because they weren't born human, because they practiced magic, or because they didn't worship your goddess. Ask the Dolmari or the Zhid about being forced to relocate and live inside the walls of the ghetto while they await an uncertain fate. Do you think they will sing your praises? Do you think they've bought into the whole 'charity and good will' song and dance? You came here under the pretense of liberating us, but instead you've imprisoned us. You've taken our sovereignty and you've taken out faith. You're even trying to take our individuality away. You want to make us into you. It won't work. In the end, people won't stand for it. If you hadn't come to our lands, we might still be homeless, hunted, hungry… but we'd be free. And freedom, Azadi, freedom is worth a lot more than you will ever know."
The whole time she talks, Kian stands silent. His anger is dispelled and something else has taken its place. Her words almost make sense to him. He has always known that putting a heathen shrine temple is no crime, that Magicals are not worthy of walking the same streets as humans, that their religions should be eradicated by the only true one. But when she objects to it all, despite all his lifelong convictions, he cannot help but feel she has the right of it. And he cannot help but observe a much slower, measured, almost mechanical way she speaks. Her tone and manner of speech are seemingly at odds with the words themselves. Because she's too angry, he realizes all at once, she's reigning herself in lest she loses control of herself. She must keep that flame inside. Stranger yet, the more she talks his sense of familiarity grows. He does not understand it. It is not her appearance, not her voice, what then? With every passing word he expects to remember exactly where he knows her from, or whom else she might be reminding him of. It does not happen.
"You have… strong feelings regarding this matter", he notes, fascinated, the anger and arguments all but forgotten.
"Strong feelings? I…" She suddenly stops and stares as if only now seeing him, like a sleepwalker suddenly coming to her senses and realizing where she is and what she's doing. "I shouldn't be talking to you", she admonishes, "I have to go!"
Kian can't let go so easily though. "Wait!" he calls after her as she rushes past him up the narrow path, "I still… feel that I know you from somewhere."
She shakes her head, "That's impossible, we're from very different worlds, in more ways than you can possibly imagine."
It's an odd rebuttal, but he follows the direction of conversation, "Maybe I could learn about your world, and you about mine", he suggests and witnesses an almost helplessly incredulous look on her face. The look she gives him is that of someone who doesn't quite dare to believe what they're seeing or hearing. He will have time to ponder about that later, but right now his attention is focused on holding onto this conversation she's in such a hurry to finish. "I believe you've misjudged our intentions, but you speak with such passion and conviction, it would be wrong of me to simply dismiss you. Perhaps you could show me this Ghetto from your perspective and explain to me how your people have suffered under our rule?"
"You don't understand", she shakes her head stubbornly, "it's impossible and it's too late," another strange proclamation, that, "we can't come to an understanding, we're enemies."
Words sound so wrong to him, he can't stop himself, "How can we be enemies when we have just met?" He asks honestly. She finally has no comeback.
"I don't…" she starts, but whatever is on her mind remains unsaid. "I really have to go", she says instead, signaling the end of their chat, "good luck finding a place to eat. You really should try the Riverwood Tavern in Oldtown". The last words at least she says without anger or confusion, softer, pleasant, and so infuriatingly familiar. Nevertheless she turns and leaves without allowing him to protest. He has half a mind to go after her, but realizes how improper and inadequate this would be. He has no choice but to go on his way, her words still ringing in his ears, repeating over and over again.
She did not lie about the Riverwood Tavern, though he was hesitant about acquiring his meal in a ghetto infested with Magicals, or the Oldtown, as she called it. It appears a clean place and the scents hanging in the air are as mouth watering as a hungry man can ask for. It is not too crowded either, so he takes his meat and sauce in peace. He does get careful looks, quickly removed when he turns his head, but it is hardly even a nuisance. He has no less interest for some of the visitors, though he wants to believe he hides it better. Magicals come in and out, ordering food and drink, chattering about this and that. By the time he is done with his meal he has witnessed courtship, friendly banter, a financial deal and friends gossip about their potential lovers - conversations so ordinary and everyday, he could have been hearing them from ordinary people. He has been seeing this lot all around the Ghetto ever since he has arrived, but this is different. It is so strange to be in their company, even as an outsider sitting at the fringe of their figurative private space. He can close his eyes and imagine any one of these creatures as a human, and there would be no difference. But a man was given eyes to see for a reason, he reminds himself as he puts coin on the table for the waiter to collect and leaves for the Tower to interrogate the Magical he arrested earlier. Remembering the wretch is a strong wake up call. He chides himself for acting like an impressionable youth. He does need his mindset straight for an interrogation. It's difficult, he fails to put the strange woman's voice and her words out of his head completely, but he tucks them away for a time, to ponder on later.
That night, when Kian goes to bed, he is content that he has carried out his duty and his investigation has finally started moving. A few rays of Sun at the end of the dark tunnel. He is in a habit of recounting the list of things he must do the next day, so he does it now. The places he needs to go, the orders he needs to give, the possible leads he must pursue. He has straightened it all out in his head, leaving himself free to surrender to sleep. In his slumber he visits a snow covered mountain watching the world from above clouds. On it a beacon, throwing gentle light on the rocky surface, shaped akin to an enormous lighthouse. 'There's also beauty, freedom and humility,' he hears his master's voice, brought by the wind from far away, across the world, 'and freedom is worth a lot more than you will ever know'.