Harper Split-Party Thread

I feel a chink in the armor I've built over the past few years. A reputation, a series of scars and tattoos, a charismatic flair to distract from a lifetime's-worth of fear: it is all woven into a relatively thick husk. But there's a breach, albeit a fine one, and I am a child again. There is warm sun on my back and sweat running down my arms as I mirror every motion of my father with the scythe. A cadence of work. Good work. Everyone in the village works in the fields in the summer harvest. And a thought crosses my mind for the first time: my mother must have been someone's daughter, just as I was once someone's son. I sheathe the blade.

I rock into a lotus position, and resist eyeing the food hungrily. I make no move towards it, as I am more exhausted than hungry, but I have a feeling this could be a long night. Before taking any food, I ask directly, but wearily "Why am I here? Why am I... alive?"

"I was a little busy." And I crunch an apple, while eyeing the more luxurious foods.

My passive-aggressive tone has become softened. But I am sincere, and still angry. "No. I can't. The only thing in my mind is your attempt to kill me with your powerful blast, only moments after your associate murdered my father in the street. I think you'll forgive me if those events preclude any attempt at circumspection." I pause here. If I'm honest, it hasn't made much sense. But many don't need a good excuse to cause violence. I've come to know that well enough. I take another deep breath, and another bite of what appears to be a small bird. Rip me, this is good. "Enlighten me, then. What makes me interesting enough, aside from being 'quite adept at running?' "

Of course it could not have been accident. Of course it was designed. I feel a greater fool than ever in my whole life, but how can this be true? It feels true, and I know it to be. She speaks with a sincerity that I've seen in men and women in their moments of fear, when all artifice, requiring courage, has left them. But she is not afraid. She simply has no use for lies. And I am a fool. But I have so many questions, but curse my pride I must keep up the facade of one in the know.

"Assume I believe you." I reflexively attempt a cocksure smirk but I'm certain it reads as 'wounded animal,' "You said you were a woman of honor. What 'dealings' of my father could be so abhorrent to make one as noble as your self break your word?" I'm satisfied with the question, for now. But I know the slight break is the armor is splintering. I feel it spidering out, and I can't keep it together much longer.

I'm in shock. Any shred of doubt I had about her speaking the truth dissipated when she mentioned Thalnoth. It is all true. She was protecting me. My father is dead. His harp his gone. My mother is also - my mother. "Wait!" I shout after her, still seated and beginning to slump "How did she die!?!" my desperate voice echoing in the chamber after her...

The echo mocks me. I am alone.

That fact has never felt more true, and the denial of 7 years is ripped away, leaving only raw, bloody flesh, like a violent ice burn. The reality of all I have lost arrives at once: My father. The innocent child-like view I had of him, as well as his life. His harp, and all my plans for it. A mother I never knew. My vengeance and recently-found purpose. The promise of my youth. And my one chance at happiness... It's all gone. It was all gone that day 7 years ago, I only just now know it.

My denial is spent. I embrace this new truth. And I feel anger boiling. If the last seven years were marked by their coldness and fear, this day would be fire and blood. Rowena. Leave me now. You want no part of this. I say out loud, but to myself, as I feel the last line of self-control slip from my bloodied grip. I reach for something familiar with which to lash out, and my hand goes to my hip. My sword has left me too.

I rock onto my knees, curl until my forehead touches the cold slate floor and shriek with pain and anger.

The echo mocks me. I am alone.