oh hey another WIP done what are the chances

Although it was while writing this that I realized I never really got over Orla's death and probably never will. :( So.

/crawls into a hole

On the day of Sending, there were arguments again. There was disruption, division, sharp words flung across the Council chamber, like the dreaded arrows that the mensch so often liked to use in their barbaric wars. Orla could not recall when her husband had ever been so angry with her, not even when she had opposed the Sundering. There are shadows all around us, she had heard, sensing his thoughts reach through her. And our enemies wait inside them, wait to strike us down! Do you mean to join with them?!

To the Sartan, Alfred belonged to those shadows. The corruption of the ancient enemy had infected him to the core. He could not be here to spread the contagion. He had to be sent away, and never find the means back to beautiful Chelestra again. This mild man was more dangerous, more insidious than the young Patryn he was seen with, or even the serpents in their venomous skin. This clumsy man who had stumbled into the sea, his velvet coat soaked through.

"Do I mean to join him, you mean?" she had asked aloud, noting the confusion on her brethren's faces, the livid rage on her husband's. "A council member has duties to the people, but you do not take my counsels seriously, Husband. You have not heard them at all for many years. I am beginning to wonder if you ever had."

On the day of Sending, she had remembered one final thing.

When Orla was sixteen, her hair a silvery white instead of a dull grey, her skin free from lines and marks, she had already put the thought of her trivial pastimes behind her. There was no more time for walking through the grass or admiring the trees. She had Sartan duties to attend to, and mensch to supervise, so she could not afford to indulge. The difficulty was expected, for prejudices between the races were much too ingrained to simply overcome. Weapons were used, blood was spilled, and there were the Patryns, still in their shadows, mocking the Sartan and their light.

Samah had been correct about that. She could not deny it.

"We must be the firm disciplinarian for these poor mensch," he had mentioned at the previous Council held for the pubic. He had only been eighteen, but he already towered over most of his peers, his stance tall and proud, his hair a brilliant shade of white. "The Patryns are simply waiting for a decisive moment to strike. We cannot simply let them be on their way, not when they are so actively against us. It will only be a matter of time before our inaction will work in their favor, for deceit and treachery is in their very nature."

There were a few dissenters in the Council, elders that pleaded for a more cautious path ("It is wise of my brothers to be cautious in their actions, I agree," Samah had admitted. "But it is also wise to maintain a strong force for the possibility of violence."), as well as those who had nodded along with young Samah's words. His own grandfather was Head of the Council, a man that was already going in his years, even for the long-lived Sartan. There had been whisperings of the grandson taking his place when he came of age, but only after a democratic proceeding, of course. Nepotism was certainly not their way.

Orla had been young, eager to find her role in the ever-changing events sparking across the world. Words were not enough, no, for the mensch were afraid and, to be perfectly honest, so was she. How could she change things for the better with all these threats? There needed to be unity among the mensch, just as there was between her people.

"We must stand together and face this threat, for ourselves and our children," she heard Samah speak, his voice clear and resonant, enough that people furthest away could understand. "Division is our enemy, as I am sure my wise and just Council knows, and that is what the Patryns -the true enemy- is counting on."

That was true. To be united was important, more than anything else. She would put it before her own self if she must, for only then could this world even survive. It was such a simple concept- how could anyone oppose it?

"Your parents have spoken to me about you," he had said to her a day later, meeting her on the marble pathway. He was a handsome young man, with barely a line of exhaustion on his face. "Might I ask for your name?"

"I am pleased to meet you, Samah," she had replied, her thoughts clear and bright. And then she had freely given him her own name, knowing he would do no wrong, for suspicion and treachery were words she did not yet know.

She allowed herself to be escorted by him to the public building she had been headed to, just as she allowed their courtship to come into being later on. He was a just man, a good man. And it was only imperious that such a just man would require a wife, who could help share his needs and burdens. She knew that he would be head of the Council one day, and she believed that he would be a strong leader- a leader who could unite them all against the shadows.

So they had walked and courted, all of it expected, all of it dutiful. Their marriage ceremony had been modest, for it was not necessary to spend so much on extravagance. Their duties were much more pressing, all relying on the unity of the Council, on the marriage between husband and wife.

But she remembered, finally, after centuries of sleep, after repeated dreams of grass and mountains and deserts, of when he had grasped her hand as he had escorted her down the path that day. The evening back then had had a chill to it, making her robes rustle and shiver. Even so, she did not feel the warmth of his hand, no press of fingertips against her palm, no hint of a caress or anything of the sort. It was as if she had been grasping air.

It was on the day of Sending that she quit the Council.

And so, standing before her husband's glare, she had taken Alfred's hands in her own, and waited with him to be flung into the shadows.

The Vortex was exactly what she expected. The Sartan admire order, cleanliness, and wide spaces. Even here, in the very heart of the Labyrinth where her ancient enemy lived in staggering numbers, she was greeted to the same whiteness she had seen all her life.

The emptiness was almost maddening, the silence too much. She nearly wept in happiness when she heard Alfred stumbling beside her, still recovering from the powerful teleportation spell her people had cast on them. She gripped his arm, steadying him. "Alfred?"

He righted himself up quickly, though he eyed his feet warily, prepared for their inevitable betrayal when they would lead him off again. "I'm alright. What about you?"

"Yes," she said quickly, her nails digging into his coat sleeve. The velvet of his clothes was coarse against her fingers, not like the downy softness of a Sartan's robes. "I suppose we should get ourselves comfortable."

Being of Sartan-make, she knew the Vortex would never let her and Alfred want for food or drink. It was a bubble of safety, the magic in its space still strong. All they had to do was stay in the white.

The brightness of the floor, the walls- it was hurting her eyes so much.

Alfred looked around, confusion lighting his features, his eyes that could peel through barriers now burning with questions. "We are in the Labyrinth…"

"The center of it," Orla confirmed. "We are safe here though." Yes, the Vortex would see to all of their needs, would keep them protected from the creations they had made.

She had made.

It didn't matter that Samah had been the one who orchestrated it all, swaying the Council members to tear apart their world for the greater good. She had helped, she had allowed it all. She may as well have killed that Patryn man's parents.

"I'm sorry, Orla," Alfred was saying, his mild voice cutting through her thoughts easily. "If I hadn't done what I-"

"I spoke against him," Orla interrupted, remembering the hand that she couldn't feel. "I told him I couldn't abide this anymore." The smile she gave was bitter. "He was never one to listen to different opinions."

I spoke against him, and now I will die.

As long as she stayed in here, away from the Gates that marked the Labyrinth's path, she did not need to fear death. Even so, the thought came with a certainty.

She was not sure how exactly- she had already seen the images from Alfred, of monsters tearing the bodies of a man and woman apart. But here, with memories that only consisted of a small girl and her trees, of a young woman with a man who was leading her down with a barren smile, it was strange to be separate. If she was not Samah's wife, then what was she? If she had other things to hold onto, other moments that were her own… but the holes in her head hadn't left. She recalled Samah holding out his hand to her, and shuddered.

Alfred was still trying to take it all, trying to shoulder all the blame on his head. That was why he was always so stooped, why Samah would stand proud and tall in return. "This is still all my fault, Orla. I never meant for you to get into such…" He could barely finish the thought, the reality of the situation slowly sinking into his head. "I couldn't even save that poor girl on Draknor, and instead I've just made a mess of things-"

"Alfred. Don't. Please."

She laid her fingers against his mouth, an echo of what she had done before when he had protested her resignation. He remained silent, still so confused, still so guilty. But he was the wrong person to apologize for anything.

"All that you have done was try to wake us up from our sleep. We may as well have stayed in our chambers, for all the good that we did. And it had been so long that I think we preferred the dreams to what was really happening."

Even so, she had been exhausted, weary, too much so to keep her thoughts in line. She'd had little time for sleep back in Surunan- from the meetings, the accusations, the dragon-snakes. She and Alfred had all the time in the world here.

But I spoke against him, and now I will die.

She had seen female mensch mourn for their husbands, throwing themselves on a funeral pyre in their horrid practices. They seemed so savage. How could we see them any other way? For what is a wife without her husband? What to do when half of you is torn? Sartan did not consider such things, though it was not uncommon for the sadness to consume one whole -wife or husband- until the demigod must fade away.

But she was a wife that had been banished and forgotten from a husband who wanted nothing more to do with her. He would not fade, no, but would she? And would he even follow her down the dark? She knew the answer, sad as it was.

Hands gripped her shoulders, gentle and kind. More than she had ever known.

"Orla, I-" Alfred started to speak, stammered, his eyes flitting from the floor to her face. "I've wanted to… I mean, I've been meaning to tell you… It's just, I've been so used to hiding and trying to deny who I was that it's…difficult…"

She realized what he meant then.

"There are no Brothers and Sisters to judge you if you keep it a secret, Alfred."

He stared at her, barely noticing when she took one of his hands off her shoulder, holding it near her chest.

"I am a Sartan also, to my sorrow." She smiled, feeling ready to cry. "And I would just like to forget, if I could." Because remembering proved too painful, especially when seeing Samah at the end of the road.

"I don't understand," Alfred said softly.

That was alright. She barely did herself.

Orla leaned against him, her face pressed against his shabby coat, clutching his hand to her still. She appreciated these sensations; the heat from his skin, the gentle thrumming in her head from the closeness, and even the quiet surrounding them. Because it no longer felt overwhelming, just hushed and pleasant, giving her a place to think.

It was a few moments before she felt his arm circle around her. She could feel the force of his heart beating against his chest, feel her own breath shortening. She was warm here, filled. There was still some emptiness, the furniture pushed far close to the walls, letting the drafts in, and Samah's presence still lingered around her head, but it was overwhelmed by Alfred's own love for her. And she wanted this love for her own, to give to him in return.

Because who could make her weep like this, or could make her believe that the images of two people holding onto each other, desperate and lost of everything else in their lives, lost in this moment, could actually be hers? And no one -least of all, her husband- could take this away from her. At least, not now. Not now.

His touch was soft, sending her thrills. An old fool could be permitted this, just once.

And Alfred, she would later think of fondly, was very, very gentle- in all his ways.