[Amphitheater] Playing the Part (Hirem)

[Marion Kay]

46 Winter 514 AV
Around the 13th Bell
The Riverfall Amphitheater

Marion tugged at the dress, the wretched thing that she was being made to wear. It suited the character she was to be playing tonight, certainly, but that was just about the only good thing about it -- though she was sure there were others who would beg to differ. It was black, with intricate gold embroidery swirling across the long sleeves and bodice, and as Marion gazed at her reflection in the floor-length mirror, she did have to grudgingly admit that she looked good. But that didn't make the fabric itch any less against her collar or the tight fit across her chest and more uncomfortable.

She pursed her lips and tugged up on the bodice for what must have been the hundredth time. The female antagonist was supposed to be a provocative role, she knew, but she couldn't help feel as if perhaps it was being a bit overdone. But what was drama if not... dramatic?

Above her, Marion could hear the play already underway, while a couple of the other actors still milled about here getting ready for their part. It was only a dress rehearsal, preparing for the actual performance later tonight. The theater troupe was halfway through their seven-day performance cycle, and Marion had been informed only this morning that the Powers That Be had decided the understudies would take over their roles for this one performance. Marion wasn't sure whose decision that had been, since the group seemed to act as a democracy for the most part, but she hadn't questioned it.

What she did question was why she felt this was such a big deal. For all intents and purposes, she really couldn't have cared less about theater. It was never something Marion had ever found interest in; practicing lines, sticking to a script. Perhaps if she'd gotten involved in it at a younger age she would have enjoyed it, but these days it wasn't the kind of thing that naturally appealed to her. Yet, somehow, it did. Somewhere along the line, Marion had begun to cherish the opportunity to escape her life and who she was. When she was here, being someone else, she could forget her responsibilities (though the majority of which were entirely imagined) and forget her duty to her goddess.

But that was bad, very bad. And at night, when she left rehearsals and curled up to sleep for the night, she was wracked with an incredible weight of guilt. But this was her guilty pleasure, and she would enjoy it while she was still allowed to. She was just a girl, after all... Marion gave a rueful sigh at that, because she knew it wasn't true.

"Nervous?" Dirian sidestepped behind her so his hulking blue image was reflected in the mirror as well. If it were possible, his sudden presence might have startled Marion for a moment. As it were, it only surprised her, and she couldn't decide if it was pleasant or unwelcome. Was it possible to be both?

Before her trail of thought could digress too far, Marion turned to face him, cocking an eyebrow as if he'd just suggested something utterly ridiculous. "Of course not," she snorted. They way his brow furrowed told her that this confused him to some degree but, nonetheless, he joined her when she laughed then, without having any clue as to why.

They fell silent after a moment and Marion skirted around him to a small vanity. Dirian followed, holding something out to her.

"A wig?" It took a great deal of effort for Marion to keep from rolling her eyes at it. She didn't often share the fact of her magical experience with others, so it was with no small amount of inner goading that she'd shared that pseudo-secret with the group on the day of her audition. It was the only thing she had going for her, and perhaps the only thing that had convinced them to keep her around, considering their penchant for pointing out that her acting skills left something to be desired. She was sure they hadn't forgotten about her morphing abilities. So was the wig Dirian's own suggestion, or the group's? "What's that for?"

Dirian looked down at the thing and shrugged. "Claire has black hair," he said simply, referring to her character. "And Jenna wears it."

"I know that," Marion replied just as simply, turning her back on the dark locks as she spun to face the vanity's portrait mirror. She stooped until she was looking into her own face and her distinctly golden hair spilled forward. Something as simple as altering hair color took minimal effort, and it couldn't have taken Marion more than a tick or two to prod her djed to follow her will. It shifted only slightly within her, and suddenly blackness washed over her hair and eyebrows from root to tip, until any trace of Marion's blondness had been masked.

She turned once more, offering the akalak a languid grin. "How's this?" He stared back with raised eyebrows, tossing the now-useless wig onto the counter of the vanity behind her. "You look great," he answered, and the way he said it made Marion wish she was anywhere but there. The smile fell from her face and she tore her gaze from his, slipping around him towards the stairs. Marion was not naive enough to think she was the only girl the fellow had his eyes on, but his advances, however harmless, only served to remind her of how easy it would be to take advantage of him -- and not in they way that he likely would have preferred.

Marion liked what she had going on here, with this small group of people who were slowly becoming her friends. But with every step she took that brought her further into their fold, she was also faced with the fact that this simply was not in her nature. She was a caged monster; put there of her own free will, perhaps, but she would break the cage eventually. There would come a point when she wouldn't be able to resist the temptation to break, in the same way that a starving man, however righteous, would eventually kill for a piece of bread. And when she did snap, Marion knew she would feel no remorse, for it was all for the greater good. But, for now, Marion would enjoy her guilty pleasure while she could.

"I'm sure that's the idea," she retorted wryly at some length, tugging her bodice up once more as she peered up the staircase. From here, she could hear the above actors' words distinctly. They were only on the first scene of the play. It was going to be a long rehearsal.

Her tone of voice must have been lost on Dirian. "Still, I'm going to be heading to the Blue Bull after the show tonight if you'd like to join me."

He's very predictable, Marion. It'd be easy.

Yes, and where would be the fun in that?

The fun would be in the end result. Isn't that why you came to this city? To torment these 'oh so disciplined' blue men?

No, you came here for a challenge.

You could destroy him.

He's a friend.

You know that will never be true. You could do it tonight.

But you won't, if for no other reason than the fact that you need a job.

How very practical of you.

Before Marion could give any kind of answer, the trap door at the top of the stairs swung open and Jey fluttered down in a storm of white. She was Ariyah's understudy for the production, and would be taking over the role of the female protagonist for tonight's performance. "Hope you're ready, 'cause this is your cue," she breezed easily, her voice light. Excited.

"I am," Marion assured her, and there was no doubt in her voice. She was ready to take the stage, and she was ready to leave Dirian and his unwittingly tempting offers behind. She gathered the folds of the dress in her hands, practically running up the stairs -- quite a feat, considering the heels they had her wearing. The konti passed her on her own way down, all white lace and white hair. Their characters were made to juxtapose each other, of course.

Marion shut the trap door with a kick of her heel as she stepped into the crisp afternoon air. She stood to the side of 'center stage', behind a wide stone pillar, roughly seven feet tall, which not only concealed the trap doors that led to the underground preparation area, but which also had its own stairs carved into it so that it may serve as a kind of platform or tower for performers. An identical one stood at the other side of the "stage".

There was no time to waste. Marion strode boldly to the center of the amphitheater the same way she'd watched Jenna do so many times before, and turned to face the audience -- which, for now, consisted only of a few of the other actors. She had no monologue here, but allowed her eyes to travel across the terraces, seeing row upon row of Rivarians in her mind's eye. It did not faze her. After barely more than a tick, she turned her attention to Keenaye -- or, more specifically the character the purple akalak now played as he shared the stage with her -- and the scene began.

NoteThe page for the amphitheater doesn't describe any kind of backstage, so I took some liberties.

[Hirem]

Hirem ignored the itch the woolspun robe gave him, this wretched thing that he was forced to wear tonight. Oh sure, it suited his rather tight coinpurse, and it was large enough to make him look small, swaddled up in a baggy outfit much too tall for him. It was made for an Akalak’s seven-foot frame, meaning the sleeves overshot his wrists by a few inches and the legs had to be rolled up to avoid trailing along the ground. It aided his disguise admirably, but the robe had been stitched up awkwardly at the seams, scratching endlessly at the bare skin underneath. It frustrated him to no end, and he longed to be free of the damn thing as soon as his errand was finished.

Staring at himself in the mirror by his wash basin, the Benshira took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a long time, and then tried to look upon his form with a fresh gaze. I look like a mound of folded towels, he thought, adjusting the robe so that it covered up as much of the skin on his arms as possible, but will that be enough to dissuade attention? Affixing the newly-bought cap to his head, Hirem tugged the brim down until it ended just at his brows, and pulled the loose neckline of the robe until it rested snug atop his nose, shrouding his mouth from view. His goal was to create the image of a hardworking labourer, too busy to pay attention to his features, bundled up against the cold and looking for entertainment where it could be found. I do not know if I have succeeded, but more fretting about the costume will make it appear as exactly that - if I am to do this, I must do it now.

It was odd, but somehow the activity of creating a disguise brought back cheerful memories of his youth, back when he had led a small Tent of Benshira into war against the Eypharians. It was odd that the memory gave him any sort of pleasure, after all that had happened as a result of that misguided quest, but there had been a deep sense of camaraderie back in those days, a camaraderie he had grown to miss. Back in those days, when he had needed help with a task - such as adopting a disguise to go speak with an Eypharian caravan master he had previously angered - he only needed to turn to his brothers for aid. Helping hands were not in short supply, and the group’s endless enthusiasm about the case, the preservation of Eyktol for the Benshira, helped to keep them afloat during the harsher seasons of their campaign. Back then, Hirem’s disguises had been much more grand and exaggerated, and he had not been afraid to have some fun with the task. Endless evenings had been spent laughing about a ridiculous accent he had adopted, or the queer mannerisms he had insisted on using. They were boys pretending to be warriors, and nothing else. The thought made Hirem… he frowned, fingers twitching at his sides. To give into sentiment now is to invite the monster inside me to come into the flesh. We were not ‘just boys’. We were killers. We were murderers. What we did was wrong, and no amount of nostalgia will ever be enough to justice what I did. Curling his hand into a tight fist, Hirem stepped away from the window and left his room.

He was going to find Marion Kay.

He had tried very hard to forget that the damnable woman had ever existed. He removed her from his thoughts, quelled what feelings of regret that emerged, and ignored all comments directed at him concerning her disappearance the night of the bloody brawl. In erasing every trace of her from his life, Hirem hoped that he might end up erasing the memory of their meeting from his tormented mind. He had no such luck, for every night since their fateful encounter, he had woken up from his sleep plagued by nightmares. That was not unusual for Hirem, but what was unusual was the enormous role the woman played in each of them. She was not just a face in the distance - she was the subject, the giggling murderess that sunk her arrows into him from afar, the shrieking victim that fell prey to his slashing sword. Her claws had sunk deep into his subconscious and would not let him go, driving him further into a cycle of despair and guilt. Nysel is giving my a sign of his displeasure, he thought, sending this woman to me in my dreams and never letting my forget what my hands have wrought. It was all he could do somedays, to avoid giving in to his raging feelings, to quell his pain and imagine instead that he was a happier, peaceful man. Eventually, the Benshira was forced to recognize that there was no way he was going to just wish the problem away. He had to confront it.

Finding out the woman’s identity proved a harder task than he might have imagined. As she herself had said, she was not a regular of the Rat Hole, and had only visited that one evening to get a taste of her homeland. Still, he figured that he had best start his search there, since he doubted she was the kind of person to visit Alements. He ended up asking, in his attempt at a subtle manner, patron after patron if they had ever seen her before or knew her personally. As to be expected, he came up night after night empty-handed; this woman was brand new to Riverfall, apparently, and had yet to set up any meaningful roots that he could trace. He might have given up asking around at the tavern had he not managed to overhear a conversation late one evening about a brand new actress working at the Riverfall Amphitheatre, with “hair of gold and ice-cold eyes”. Intrigued, Hirem later extracted a name from the drunken theatregoer: Marion Kay. The name meant nothing to him, but it sent a chill down his spine nonetheless. It had only taken a bit more digging to uncover that she was an understudy for one of the major actors at the theatre, but was going to performing on stage the 46th, along with the rest of the understudies. That was where he would find her. That was where he’d confront the problem. That was where… Where… The Benshira grit his teeth as he made his way through the Rivarian afternoon, thankfully drawing no suspicion from anyone that might have recognized him. I yearn to seek her apology for what I did to her, but that will not be enough to make up for what I have done, nor will it end this fury that rattles my bones… I am afraid for what I intend tonight. But he had no choice to go or not to go; a greater power than his will compelled him.

Arriving at the Amphitheatre a few chimes after the third bell, Hirem took a long look at the area and realized, with a quiet dread, that he had woefully overestimated the amount of people that would attend this dress rehearsal. He had figured that, at worst, a few dozen might arrive and enjoy the free entertainment, but he saw now that only a handful populated the benches. I’m going to stand out in a place like this, he thought, but there was no turning back now. He couldn’t spot Marion on stage, so perhaps she would not arrive until much later, when more would be in attendance. Gritting his teeth, the robed Benshira head down the steps between the terraces, figuring he’d grab a seat a few rows below…

And growing entirely distracted when he noticed the darkly clothed figure that emerged on the stage.

His eyes immediately snapped towards this newcomer, and he identified her right away as Marion. Though the hair was much darker than he remembered, there was no way he was going to misplace those blue eyes of hers. Her dress was long, black, and trimmed with gold, seemingly twinkling from a distance and making one’s gaze grow affixed upon her. There was a dangerous look to her face, one that was bold and confident and flirtatious, and Hirem numbly remembered that she had been cast as the villain of the play. Unbidden, a thought crept into his mind, one that disturbed him immensely: She’s beautiful. He could attempt to deny it, but the Benshira felt that he had no strength to say otherwise: Marion Kay was beautiful. All the more to give her an edge, he thought darkly, biting down on his lip. It is not surprising that the play’s directors saw within her a villain’s spirit… Then, with a start, Hirem realized that he was already growing infuriated by the sight of the distant Marion. What’s wrong with me? I came to apologize to her, not study an enemy! If I convince myself that she’s a villain, then -

Someone crashed headfirst into him, thoroughly knocking Hirem’s thoughts out of order. The cap fluttered from his brow, the robe slipped from his nose.

”Sorry,” the red-skinned Akalak murmured, grinning from ear to ear and clapping the Benshira on the shoulder. ”My bad.” Then, before Hirem could say anything, the Akalak was already hurrying up the steps, staring all the while at the stage and pursing his lips together. Examining the scene’s composition? Hirem wondered, before he became aware of his surroundings. He had only intended to descend just a few rows into the terrace; now he stood at the front row of the theatre, just a few feet from the stage itself. Marion had proved so distracting that he had completely lost all sense of his pacing. What’s more, without the cap and raised robe, there was nothing protecting Hirem’s face from being seen by the actors. Flustered, the Benshira’s first instinct was to race back up the steps and shield himself from view, but that would only cause more suspicion. And, at this point, there was no way that Marion had not observed him. The crash with the Akalak had been loud, and Hirem already looked awkward enough stranded at the front row of the theatre. He had no trick to save himself now.

So he did not try to save himself. Did I think that I had something to hide, that I needed to cover myself up in a disguise? Am I a thief, a criminal that must shy away from the public eye? I have done nothing wrong. Taking up a deep breath, Hirem found a seat in the middle of a terrace’s front row, staring all the while at Marion. When their eyes made contact, he did nothing to show her his intentions. Just stared back, his gaze hollow, his expression mute. I dare you, he whispered in his mind. Call the Kuvay’Nas upon me. Shriek for help. Do anything to protect yourself. You will not. Marion had not set the Kavran after him before, she would not do it in the middle of her performance. You play games your own way. This time, we’re going to play one of mine.

[Marion Kay]

Marion tossed her shoulders back, imagining that she'd allowed her character to occupy her body for this moment. Keenaye stood staring out a prop window, his back to her, and turned with a feigned start at the sound of her approach. Marion felt... oddly exposed, standing here in the winter's afternoon air. The feeling felt out of place in her body, and she turned it over in her mind, searching for the source of it but coming up empty.

Unfortunately, this momentary pondering caused her to hesitate for a tick, and one of the actors off the stage coughed pointedly, thinking she'd forgotten her lines. She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye and discarded her thoughts. After all, they were no longer her thoughts, but her character's. And, if she wanted to be anything more than an understudy next season, she'd need to show the others that she could keep her focus under pressure -- though she knew very well that she could. (She resisted her mind's temptation to get her wondering exactly why she even wanted to be more than an understudy in the first place, since she had decidedly little interest in the line of work. At least, that's what she told herself.)

"Acor," she began, practically purring the name of Keenaye's character as she approached him. "You're sad."

Claire was a difficult character to play, full of hidden intentions, with subtle nuances in her speech and actions that required Marion to act as if the character herself was acting. As Jenna had told her in prior rehearsals, she had to make the character come off as false without making her actual acting seem false.

She moved languidly, her chin tilted slightly upward, her eyes half lidded. And she had to speak as if every word she uttered held a hidden meaning.

Claire rested a claw-like hand on Acor's shoulder as the akalak replied, and Marion took a small moment to marvel at the wistful tone his voice seemed to adopt so naturally. "Sad? Not at all! What reason would I have to be sad on such a fine day? I am quite happy."

"You have an odd way of showing it. Why do you sigh so?" Claire crossed behind him, fingers trailing across his shoulder blades enticingly despite the vaguely coy expression she wore.

"Did I sigh? It's a habit I've picked up, to sigh when I am happy. I sighed?" Acor unwittingly sighed as he spoke, a part designed to elicit a few chuckles from the audience at the small irony. And thus the scene began. Marion, as Claire, would slowly wind her way around the akalak while they exchanged words, pulling away from the window.

The play was a kind of cautionary tale, a tragedy written for the Festival of Love. That had seemed rather strange to Marion, to have a sad tale told around what she assumed was a happy holiday, but Grams had simply relayed that 'the Festival of Love will celebrate love though tragedy, while the Beautyfest was the time to celebrate love through comedy.' Marion had tried to question it further, but hadn't received any clearer of an explanation.

The story would follow two potential lovers -- Acor and Laurisa, each of whom was oblivious to the other's admiration. During the Festival, each would try to approach the other but be dragged away by their other admirers -- Claire, played by Marion, and Samis, played by Dirian -- who work together to destroy each protagonists love for the other, and end up falling for each other by the end of the performance, leaving Acor and Laurisa to wallow in their heartbreak alone.

Marion idly wondered if the tale was based on a true story, and realized that of course it was. Art would imitate life, and she wasn't so oblivious to know that heartache was a common theme in many lives. She was sure there were even a few romantics who would claim that their worst fear was losing a loved one -- though Marion knew better, and would eager take the chance to make a point of showing them how foolish such a claim was when they were made to gaze upon their actual fears.

The current scene was an introduction to Marion's character as she tried to allay Acor's nerves surrounding the Festival, and she couldn't help thinking that Claire must have shared her same perspective on the subject. There was no way a woman so conniving would be so easily swayed to action by something so plain as a simple infatuation.

The exchange between the characters continued for several more moments before Marion turned her attention to the crowd once more in preparation to deliver a lengthy aside. There were now a handful of people spattered throughout the theater, most of them drama connoisseurs or aspiring actors. But they were easy enough to ignore, and they were not the cause of her sudden pause. Her shoulders tensed, the predatory grin on her lips hardening and her hand falling from where she'd raised it to grip her collar.

Marion wasn't sure she'd ever expected to see the man Hirem again, despite the token she'd left behind for him all those nights ago. It had been a while, after all, and she hadn't gone to any great lengths to hide herself away. But more importantly, Marion wasn't sure she'd wanted to see him again. What good could come of it? She'd already toyed with him, punished him for his unintentional slight. Her business with him was done.

Then again, if she believed that, she wouldn't have left the glove for him.

She had played her part, and by all accounts it was time for her to toss the man aside and move on to some new gambit... But something about him held her intrigue, and she didn't like it. There was something she had missed, a will stronger than she'd accounted for, and as her gaze hardened on him, she felt the resentment creeping up the back of her throat.

Of course, she thought bitterly. It takes more than a few well-placed words to destroy his kind, doesn't it?

Good men were like cockroaches.

Still, she'd said she'd wanted a challenge. And here one was, eagerly presenting itself like an obnoxious child might harass busy strangers for attention. She wanted, more than anything, to charge over to him and demand to know what he was doing here. But you know the answer to that already, don't you? It would either be 'I'm just here to see the show' or ' I'm here to see you', and she knew which one of those was the lie.

But he was here. Here. Her sacred place, where she was free to be anyone else but herself. The place where she had 'friends' and could pretend that her life was simple, and she had made a promise to herself to not let her more holy responsibilities trespass. A quiet rage stirred within her, that Hirem had inserted himself into her place of comfort. Hirem, who had nearly killed her despite the fact that he most certainly did not deserve the privilege. Hirem, who now sat before her with an expression of mocking neutrality while --

Someone cleared their throat, and Marion managed to tear her gaze away from the man to see Grams looking at her expectantly, her eyebrows raised.

Oh, that's right. She was in the middle of a line.

Marion cleared her throat, taking a step back slightly and moving her eyes somewhere into the middle distance. "Really now? I speak to him, and he speak of Laurisa. Here I am, and what more could he possibly want? A wretched girl with hardly enough wit to hold a conversation longer than it takes and arrow to fly!" She tried her best to regain her handle on her character, but the words fell flat, and Grams shook her head.

"No, no, no. Hold on," the elderly woman sighed from her position in front of the stage, glancing down at her copy of the script and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "Claire," she used the name out of politeness, Marion was sure, not wanting to sabotage what little grip the girl might still have on her character. "That was... well, I hate to say it but you just butchered that line."

Marion offered a tight-lipped, emotionless, rueful smile and dragged a hand across her eyes. Of course she had butchered it. She could feel Hirem's gaze on her now that she'd noticed him. She still didn't know what his intentions were for coming here or why his expression seemed so pointedly unapologetic when he had been the one to become the monster at their first meeting. Of course, it had been under her own design, but he shouldn't have known that. She had no idea why he distrusted her so much when she had been so careful to keep her own hands clean. Was it simply the way he was? Did he have some way to see through her facade? Or had she been the one to slip up, somewhere along the line?

"Should we take that scene from the top, or do you need a tick to recompose yourself?" Grams continued.

"I..." Marion paused. A large part of her wanted to simply ignore Hirem and continue from where everything had left off. But he was sitting right there, right in her periphery, taunting her with his presence. He wanted something from her, and until she knew what it was, she doubted she would be able to keep her focus from straying. "Just five chimes," she decided, her voice readopting a firm and sure tone. Grams nodded sagely, and turned to engage a pair of the other actors in conversation.

Marion waited until the low hum of conversation filled the quiet air before gathering up her skirts and making her way over to where Hirem sat, shoulders falling into their natural and ever-present self-assuredness. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken challenge in his eyes, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of rising to it. She wanted to be angry, but would not. He'd likely be expecting that kind of reaction.

He had nearly killed her, after all.

(Though that was more than partially her own fault.)

But she masked her agitation with a pleasant-enough grin, the kind one might reserve for in-laws. She was mindful enough to make it reach her eyes, at least. In the back of her mind, she could still feel the slight trickle of djed that fueled her very minor transformation, and contemplating cutting it off as she approached. But she stopped herself. Somehow it felt as if she were stepping into a half-finished game of blush, and she shouldn't reveal any of the cards she still held on to.

"Funny, I never would've pegged you as the thespian type," she quipped as she drew near, and the twinkle in her eye betrayed the fact that she obviously found herself all too amusing.

"Then again, you do seem quite broody enough to enjoy a good tragedy." It was a prod that she simply could not resist, testing him. A good man with violent tendencies and battle stories about brutalizing creatures with his bare hands? Seemed like tragic hero material to her.

[Hirem]

While waiting for Marion to approach him - of course she would, seeing him now in the front row seats of the terrace - Hirem tried to distract his roiling, contradictory thoughts by focusing on the play before him. Though he had little idea what the actual story of the scene was, he attempted to lose himself in the dialogue, the emotions, the efforts of the actors to convey the story that Riverfall deemed worthy of telling. Usually, this would have easily worked, for Hirem was nothing if not a glutton for theatrics. He had always been impressed by the performances put on during the Benshira Masha, but nothing had entertained him more as a child than the storytellers, the elder men and women with twinkling eyes that spoke of wisdom passed down throughout the ages. He hated to miss even one repeat telling of a Tent classic, finding himself irresistibly captivated by the grand portraits his imagination was compelled to create. When he had moved to the city, he had found himself similarly entranced by the notion of theatre, and watching a group of daughters of Basalom put on “The Eagle and the Lamb” had become of his favourite Yaheban past-times. Even Ahnatep, a place that Hirem despised in every respect, had wrangled his admiration for its thrilling dramas and bizarre, if offensive, comedies. By all rights, he should be enjoying himself at the Amphitheatre.

But he wasn’t. For he had come here with a far darker purpose than to enjoy himself, and he was faced with a far darker companion than just a cast of characters. Hirem watched the play uncomfortably, determined not to let Marion see one hint of the agitation he felt. I must appear calm, collected, and impassable. She must not see any hint of weakness within me. Though he was conflicted on whether or not Marion was a threat to him - the evidence from their only meeting proved that she wasn’t, but his instincts said differently - the Benshira could at least feel justified in expressing only a quiet neutrality. For if she is my enemy, then rage will only allow her to twist my anger about me, and if she is not, then I must not scare her off with displays of emotion.

So he did not betray his thoughts when they finally locked eyes, and he did not seem surprised when she became so distracted that her next line’s delivery fell apart. He did not show any satisfaction when the director chastised Marion - though his better judgement felt guilty about the role he played in the mistake, a deeper part of himself revelled in her admonishment - and nor did he react to the woman’s approach as the actors took a five-chime break. He tried, very desperately, to seem calm, collected, and impassable.

Inside, he was panicking. His mind was a confused mess. Thoughts and imperatives clashed against each other, brawling for control over the situation. His feelings towards Marion resembled a maze, full of twists and turns and frustrating dead ends… if he could only find the centre, the truth of what was going on within himself, he might be able to resolve the puzzle. But he had no time: this woman, his victim, his maddening friend, was nearing now, and he had to act quickly. What shall it be? Is this woman friend or foe? Am I apologetic, or determined? Does she deserve more from me, and if so, what? Kindness? Caution? The fact that he had come so far with no plan in mind reared its ugly head now, turning about to strike him at this most critical juncture. There was something at stake here, despite the fact that he was doing something so simple as attending a play. My future is at stake, he realized with a start. I have done nothing but talk and talk about the past since arriving at this city… little has been done to set into motion the type of future I want to have. I am still a conflicted man, and if I am to be fully reborn as I intended when I came to this city, I must decide what character I shall possess… that of the warrior, or that of the priest. Marion will be the crux on which this decision is made.

And, in the midst of all these confusing epiphanies, while staring at the raven-haired Marion, Hirem stumbled upon a distant memory, one that came to him with a haunting whisper.

’You look just fine,’ murmured the green eyes, staring at him from across the reflective surface. ‘I don’t think the water does you justice, really.’ A swirl of scarves later and they were walking down the dusty street, her words echoing through his head. ‘I needn’t tell you that I am not from around here. I was told the Orchard Mount is a most splendid sight and I wish to visit it but… alas, I cannot find the way.’ She smiled at him, his heart beat growing faster all the while. Then the question that sealed his fate:

‘Do you happen to know where the Orchard is?’

Just like that, the familiar vision was over, leaving Hirem standing before the blue-eyed woman with her half-understood comments buzzing in his ears. Something about me enjoying tragedy? That sounds appropriate. Bewildered, the Benshira fought quickly for a reply, eventually shaking his head. ”Very funny, Stella, but I don’t think now’s the time for jo -”

He cut himself off mid-sentence.

Stella?

Why Stella?

Who is Stella?

His face growing white, Hirem tried to brush the comment off, pushing himself to his feet and standing opposite Marion. ”I didn’t come to banter,” he continued lamely, hoping to continue the conversation despite his unexpected blunder. Perhaps she’ll think [i]stella is just some strange Benshira word and not pay any heed to it.[/i] ”Look…” he murmured, glancing over at the stage. Now I must decide, friend or foe… Ultimately, it was victim that won the conflict, and Hirem’s gaze turned sombre, his smile sad and regretful. ”I… I owe you a great deal. What happened the last time we - the fact that you did not call the guards on me…” Gods be, this is shyke. ”I did you a great disservice.” It was hard to keep the anger within him bottled up, but he tried his best, unknowingly letting a hard edge creep into his voice. ”You must accept my apology. I am… if you are looking for a man that is willing to defend newcomers to the city, you can find better than I, but - but… what I’m trying to say is,” Sorry for attacking you without provocation? For growing suspicious at your joking? For nearly killing you?

Putting a hand to his forehead, feeling the resentful thoughts pulse beneath his brow, Hirem finally let out a frustrated growl. ”I am a better man!” He declared, louder than intended. ”I am not some crude beast. I am a good person.” His gaze upon her intensified, challenging once more. ”I will repay what I have done to you, Marion, I swear it. Name only the means by which you can be repaid.”

[Marion Kay]

Marion could have been blind and still seen that Hirem was not entirely focused on her approach or her words. There was a faraway look etched into his features, the kind her father often wore before launching into his reverent ramblings about Ionu and art, though she wasn't sure if this man's thoughts were wistful or simply dark. Either way, her quips had gone largely unnoticed and she frowned, having thought herself clever only to fall upon deaf ears. But his face did seem drawn. Strained. Perhaps the stress of keeping the Rat Hole in line. Perhaps lack of sleep. But she would have to file the observation away for later, because he now spoke and something far more intriguing caught her attention.

She likely wouldn't have taken such notice of it if it weren't for his own reaction to his words. Biting off the end of the sentence, the sick look that crossed his face as if he'd caught himself off guard. I do believe he thinks your name is Stella, she mused to herself. And he doesn't want you to know that he knows.

Of course, he doesn't know. And whoever he got his information from is a buffoon.

But he continued, and it was all Marion could do to put on her own mask of neutrality. She crossed her arms tightly against the icy breeze, distracting herself from the cold by fixing her focus on his words and his face. She would watch and wait and see what he had to say, then she would determine how to react, because this was a precarious game they were playing. like puling twigs from a bird's nest, waiting to see which would be the one to cause its collapse.

For his part, Hirem seemed to be all over the place. One moment he was impassive, the next he was... not quite so. Those emotions she did manage to pick out ranged from remorse, to frustration, to something she would have sworn was almost akin to defiance. He spoke of how he owed her, but it felt to Marion as if he was the one who wanted something from her.

He raised his voice for a moment, and Marion had to shoot a quick, narrow-eyed glance about to make sure it hadn't alarmed anyone. But it was cut short, his next few words snapping her attention back to him and her expression inadvertently faltered into one of glacial enmity.

So he does know your name isn't Stella.

Marion liked to make a point of knowing more about her victims than she knew about them. It was the only way her plans could work, and it was the only way she had ever worked in Sunberth. There had been a reason she kept that mask about. They weren't supposed to see her face, they weren't supposed to know her name, they weren't supposed to know anything about her other than the fact that she was their nightmare. But she had gotten lazy, hadn't she? She let herself forget about the man who could have killed her. She had let herself forget that it was in places like this that she needed to take more precautions, not fewer.

But never mind that now. Because while it did disturb her that he had been able to discover both her place of work and her name, the fact that he did know her name brought something to mind: Who or what was "Stella", and why had it rattled him when he spoke it?

Either way, she wanted to be angry, to unleash her wrath upon him for what he had almost done and everything his kind threatened to do. She had not forgotten what had triggered her twisted interest in him in the first place. In fact, after so much time, she had turned the predicament over and over in her mind. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that his debt had been paid and his crime against nature punished, she knew that it would never be true. The Rat Hole had, to her, seemed to be the last bastion of chaos in this city, despite the odd winds that were turning people inside out. So long as it was his duty to keep reigns on that chaos, she could never absolve him of his sin.

At the same time, she wanted to laugh in his face. To show him that his words meant nothing to her, that she 'obviously' was not as shaken by their interaction as he had been, that he meant far less to her than she apparently meant to him, that he was nothing. But she had never been particularly good at lying to herself.

And he had just made and offer that was no laughing matter.

"Name only the means by which you can be repaid."

"In my experience," she began, her words measured and deliberate, "offers of 'I'll do anything' are usually followed up by 'Anything but that'."

The problem was that Marion didn't actually know what she wanted out of this man. If she had simply been seeking to mete out punishment, she should have done so already. If she wanted him to leave her alone, she could have made it happen. But she did know that she wanted to know. She wanted to know everything.

She also knew that it would be better keep plying for the role of "friend" than to reveal herself for what she truly was, so she swallowed her less-than-amiable thoughts, gathered her skirts in her hands, and moved to sit next to Hirem. She allowed a sigh to escape her lips, one she had intended to sound defeated but felt too shallow and constrained in her throat. "You do owe me," she reaffirmed simply. "It sure felt like you were going to kill me, after all. You're just lucky I am neither vengeful nor do I scare easy." She couldn't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upward, since only one of those two claims was true, but she kept her eyes forward instead of turning to face him as she spoke, her eyes scanning the stage absently.

"I do think you're a good person -- you could say I have a sense about these things -- but you'll have to excuse me if your actions speak louder than my instincts, Hirem," she continued, and there was a dark edge in her tone as she spoke his name. She had to fight to keep a sneer out of her voice, but she wasn't to be out done. If he wanted to use names, so be it. Let him wonder at what point she'd learned his.

She paused to collect herself.

Then, "I don't know what I want from you," and it wasn't a lie. "But I do have questions that I'm sure will take up more than just five chimes."

[Hirem]

In the silence that followed after Hirem made his declaration of service to Marion, the Benshira writhed invisibly with self-doubt and confusion. Questions surged through his mind, his better judgement screaming all the while that he had made a terrible mistake. Who is she, that you would pledge yourself to her betterment? Does she deserve your aid? What might she ask you to do? There was no second thinking about the fact that he owed her an apology - that, his fractured character could agree upon. Though you might think yourself a wise judge of one’s spirit, you know nothing about who this woman truly is. To swear something so profound in the absence of truth is more than idiotic; this reckless thinking invalidates the other oaths you’ve given, to those more deserving.

Marion’s cynical response to his dramatic gift - ”In my experience, offers of ‘I’ll do anything’ are usually followed up by ‘Anything but that’,” - only made him feel worse. Biting his lip, Hirem tore his gaze away from the woman and stared at the empty stage, the dark thoughts pulsating just below his skin. This really is one of my most ill-advised ventures, he lamented, wishing the damn thought to see Marion had never crossed his mind. No plan, nothing in my heart but regret and fury… what did I think was going to happen? Up until this moment, Hirem had been unsure of whether his intention was to apologize or take vengeance, and even now he remained confused about his ultimate goals. But one thing was clear: he was making an already terrible situation worse. Now I have drawn attention to myself, made it impossible for either of us to forget what has transpired. There is no way that Marion will push me out of her thoughts now… I remain there, a spectre of a monster once witnessed, the ghost of a man tormented.

He was about to leave when the actress surprised him, gathering up her skirts and taking a seat next to him. Taken aback, his bright eyes turned sharply to gaze into hers, trying to detect what emotions lay hidden in her pale blue gaze. She moves closer to me, but seems none more comfortable for it. Marion was as uneasy as he felt, leaving the two strangers at a tense impasse. Is she indulging me? Or is this facade of a truce disguising something more sinister? Unable to determine her motives, Hirem could only rely on what she told him directly. ”You do owe me,” she began. ”It sure felt like you were going to kill me, after all.” At those words, the Benshira bent his head low and pressed a hand to his brow. Believe me, poor Marion, I thought I was going to. And I still don’t know what managed to save your life.

”I do believe you’re a good person,” Marion then said, making a chill start down his back. Though the comment was anything but threatening, Hirem was disturbed nonetheless. She… she thinks that I’m a good man? How? Why? I certainly gave her no impression of that fact. Was it possible that she didn’t send the Kuvay’Nas after him because… Because she sensed kindness in me, and didn’t want to cause me more grief? Even while I was choking the life out of her, she was thinking of my redeeming virtues? If it was possible to cause him more guilt over the whole, ugly affair, Marion had just accomplished it unintentionally. He was so distraught by this newest revelation that he nearly missed what else the woman had to say. ”…but you’ll have to excuse me if your actions speak louder than my instincts, Hirem.” Bewildered, the Benshira had to fight desperately to prevent surprise from showing on his face. She knows my name as well? That means that I’m not the only one that investigated the incident after it was concluded. She took the time to learn my name… who knows what else she might have uncovered?

He did not have time to dwell on this matter, for, as Marion pointed out, ”…I do have questions that I’m sure will take up more than just five chimes.” Glancing over to her once more, Hirem narrowed his brow and pursed his lips. So… it is curiosity that motivates her now. She wants to learn more about me… but why that is, I cannot tell. Does she want to understand how such a good man can behave so violently? How a good man came to her in such a troubled way? What do you wish to know, Marion Kay of the foreign north? Looking back over to the stage, the Benshira gave a slow, resigned nod. ”If it’s questions you have, then you shall receive answers.” I have sworn an oath, after all, to give you whatever is in my power to give. Hirem pushed himself out of his seat and looked down to the actress, gesturing over to the amphitheatre. ”I’ll meet you backstage after your rehearsal. We can talk then.”

Because if we talk any more at this moment, I am sure I will grow faint. With that, the Benshira offered her a solemn bow of his head before hurrying back up the nearby steps, just as the director called out for the actors to reconvene on the stage. Though he was quick to depart the scene, Hirem’s feet felt sluggish from his spinning head, his heart heavy with uncertainty.

- - -

He did not immediately make for the amphitheatre’s backstage, too troubled by his talk with Marion to return to her domain. Figuring that he had plenty of time before the rehearsal was finished, as it had only just started when he had arrived, Hirem returned to the city proper and wandered the streets aimlessly, breathing in the winter chill and trying to sort out his complicated thoughts. He wondered if he should grab a drink to steady his nerves - taking comfort in his newfound penchant towards alcohol - but he did not want to take any chance that his wits might be dulled for his next confrontation with Marion. Riverfall was particularly quiet this afternoon, the streets humming with a strange sort of tension that Hirem felt resonating deep within his heart. Thoughts of Marion would not leave his mind, and his mind kept returning to their meeting that was set to occur within just a few bell’s time. What was he supposed to do?

Eventually, the Benshira struck upon the idea of obtaining a gift for Marion, as a sort of peace offering to make good on his apology. But what was suitable? He had no idea what the woman liked, although he might have guessed that she approved of finery and enjoyed improving upon her appearance. But the memory of that bone knife at her hip - at the way she had attempted to draw it upon him during their confrontation and failed to strike him down - kept informing him that she was altogether more practical than other beautiful women. Finally, with just a bell left before their arranged meeting, Hirem stumbled upon the perfect idea and rushed to procure it, visiting the nearby weaponsmith. After a quick exchange of coin, he swept the gift into a small leather bag and tucked it into his belt, feeling at least marginally more prepared for his reunion with the strange actress that tormented him so.

When the sun began its descent towards the horizon late in the afternoon, the Benshira hurried back to the amphitheatre.

Entering the theatre's backstage turned out to be harder than he imagined, for no one seemed willing to believe he was supposed to be there. Even mentioning Marion's name repeatedly and calling himself a "friend" of hers did not dissuade suspicion, but his persistence convinced the actors to let him slip by. "Whatever," they would say, rolling their eyes and letting him pass. "But cause any trouble, and we won't hesitate to throw you to the Kavran." He walked the backstage area in a daze- finding it a warren of floor-length mirrors, half-worn costumes, and stagehands in various states of dismay at their upcoming performance - but managed to discover where Marion's dressing room was after a good deal of searching. Well, it wasn't her dressing room, it apparently belonged to the senior actress Jenna Skysearch, but for the purposes of this evening performance it had been loaned out to the understudy. Slipping inside, Hirem took a quick study of the room. Tall mirrors covered every wall, with racks of voluminous dresses waiting in the far right corner. Large boxes of makeup sat on long tables that smelled of chalk and perfume, making the Benshira wrinkle his nose in distaste. Spying a comfortable seat that rested alone against the left wall, Hirem sat down and waited for Marion to return from the rehearsal.

He did not have to wait long, for the director's notes were handed out just chimes after he arrived backstage. Soon the hallway was buzzing with excited actors and actresses, and Hirem folded his hands across his lap. His nerves were tense and seemingly ready to burst at the slightest provocation. You must calm yourself, or else risk slipping once more into that blinding storm of emotions that caused this whole mess. Now that he had nothing to do but wait for Marion, wait for the woman that he had wronged so grievously and yet infuriated him with every twist of her words... it was agony.

Bowing his head, the Benshira closed his eyes and silently called out to Yahal. My lord... you may look down upon me for what I have done to this poor woman. But I beg you now, do not allow me to repeat my mistakes. Grant me clarity, give me the power to be the better man, and help me put an end to this time of trouble. Please my lord. Have mercy.

As soon as the door opened, Hirem was on his feet, the words tumbling from his mouth. "I have a gift for you!" he exclaimed, too loud for such intimate surrounds. But he did not pay heed to his awkwardness, already approaching the woman and bowing his head respectfully. From behind his back, the Benshira produced a thin leather bracer, dark and without ornamentation, bound together by a tight cord. It seemed unremarkable, save for the slight flash of steel that was sewn into he bottom. "Here," Hirem murmured, stepping close and gently grabbing the woman's arm. Pushing up her sleeve, he bound the bracer around her wrist, taking care not to cut her with the sharp blade on the bracer's underside. It's far too tight for her arm, he winced, realizing that he had made a mistake in guessing the size of her wrist, but at least there's no chance of it slipping free. Once the bracer was tightened up, the man backed away, finding a sad kind of smile coming to his face. "So that you may be able to defend yourself if you cannot reach your dagger," he explained, letting the implications fester between them.

So that you might strike down others like me if attacked.

Sighing, the Benshira stepped back and leaned against the back wall. Now is the time to answer what questions she may have, he figured, dreading what she may be curious about. The memory of his conversation with Rosela from earlier in the season flashed through his mind, emboldening him to at least make some headway into the topic. "My full name is Hirem, from the tents of Alachi, of the sons of Rapa. I lived in Eyktol for all of my life, only deciding to leave in the spring of this year. I used to reside in Yahebah when I was a younger man, but I was thrown out of the city and told never to return so long as I breathed." He folded his arms, wondering how far he dared to venture. If I am to be free of my sins, I must not be able to confess them... and perhaps explaining who I am might also allow Marion to see the truth of what happened that fateful night? Unable to meet her piercingly blue eyes, the Benshira stared at the ground, a reserved look on his face. Plainly, he uttered, "I am a criminal among my people. They knew me as a heretic, a thief, a whoremonger, and a murderer. By my hand I brought many to perish, and convinced others to wreak violence. It was only when I got caught by those I sought to harm - by the people that I had grown to hate - that my crusade of destruction was ended."

"These days, I am more likely to be known as a coward than a killer," he remarked, shaking his head slowly. "When I was very young, I dreamed of myself as a great warrior, slaying evils and fighting in the name of my lord Yahal. And, for a time, that's what I thought I was doing... leading a band of heroes against the menace that threatened all Benshira. Instead, I was just the monster of someone else's tale." Every word was difficult for him to pronounce, falling heavy on his tongue and refusing to be spoken, but he told her of his sins all the same. For some reason, he found it easier to tell her this straight away than wait, frustrated, for her questions. Perhaps this would satisfy her curiosity more quickly. Slowly, his voice ragged and his breath deep, Hirem shifted his gaze from the floor to match her own, his eyes wavering with memories of the past. "When everything fell apart around me, I found myself compelled to visit the darkest pit in the world... Hai." The name was poison to his lips, and his face contorted at the sound. "There, I came face to face with evils that rivalled even myself, torments that I had never imagined in my wildest nightmares... I found fear there, and its claws have sunk deeply into me. I came to Riverfall to try and escape Eyktol, to rid myself of this past, and I think I am on the right track... maybe."

"So..." he murmured. "What else do you want to know?"

Ledger :

-10 GM for Marion's Gift (Wrist Knife and Bracer, unsure of what the price of combing the two was, so I figured 10 GM should do the trick.)

[Marion Kay]

Two and a half bells later.

Hirem had dismissed himself before Marion had time to realize what he was doing, and she found herself resenting him all the more for it. She was the one with the power. She was the one who ought to be doing the dismissing. Of course, he'd been right to take his leave so abruptly, for their time was short and she quite honestly did not want him hanging around for her performance, even something as simple as a rehearsal. Boundaries had to be kept.

But she hadn't been allowed a chance to contemplate their brief conversation. Once Grams had seen the distraction of a man depart, it was back to work for the young actress.

Once everyone got back into the rhythm of the scenes, the rehearsal went smoothly enough. Not a phenomenal performance, but a solid one nonetheless, and no one seemed particularly worried about their actual showing later on in the night.

It was an odd thing, how everything felt so frantic up until the last minute when everything suddenly calmed, like the eye of a storm. Marion wasn't sure whether or not she ought to consider it a good thing. On the one hand, she felt obligated to rebel against the tranquility; on the other, she did want a good performance, for whatever reason. Perhaps she wanted to prove to herself that she was just as good at entertaining others as she was at damaging them.

Yes, quipped her inner cynicism at that notion, like the Speakers' charges entertain the streets of Alvadas. Or perhaps like that man's dog in Sunberth, the one with no front legs. He had a nice repertoire of tricks.

Stop it.

You stop it. You know your duty; don't you dare waver.

In her preoccupation with rehearsal and her subsequent confliction, Marion had nearly forgotten she was to meet Hirem, the puzzling irritant of a man. A great few of the actors and stagehands had gathered around in the center of the main room to discuss notes from the rehearsal. She entered the backstage area hoping to slip by unnoticed, and she might have been successful had one Jenna Skysearch not suddenly emerged from the crowd of excited voices and rustling papers and accosted her by the arm.

The older woman's movement was swift, but her grip was gentle; otherwise Marion may have reacted with less than peaceably at the unexpected touch. As it were, her shoulders tensed -- not out of unease or anxiety, but out of a preexisting and suddenly amplified tension. The way Jenna had rushed over was not unlike the way Hirem had charged at her all those nights ago, albeit far less violently, and she was already on her guard with the expectation of seeing him.

"Got a chime to chat?" Jenna asked, seemingly too distracted to notice Marion's reaction, and not particularly interested in Marion's answer. She gently pulled her to the side, while Marion scanned the room for any sign of Hirem. Seeing him nowhere, she gave an empty affirmative "yeah."

"Alright," began the drykas, turning to face Marion square-on with all the solemnity of a mother correcting her child. Her body language didn't instinctively appear confrontational, but the seriousness in her eyes was enough to give Marion pause. She spent a tick bracing herself for bad news, until she opened her mouth. "Listen. That was a good show, really, but I've a few last-minute tips for you."

Marion had to raise a hand to cover her mouth in order to keep from snorting. Dear gods, she thought, only partially reprimanding herself, the passion with which these people approach theater will never cease to amuse you, will it?

"Lay it on me, then."

"Okay, you've got to remember not to overact in your monologues. It's fine when you're background acting, but when the attention is already on you, you can afford to cut back on the dramatism if it."

"And what else?" Marion ought to have been paying closer attention to the advice, but she was eager to escape to her designated dressing room. Her body was most certainly not accustomed to standing in heels for bells on end, her throat was parched, and she could feel the slightest buzz at the back of her mind from her still steady trickle of djed fueling her minimalistic transformation.

"When you're speaking to the audience, look around. Front, back, left, right -- don't keep your eyes in one place."

"Okay."

"Repeat it back to me."

"What?" Marion could see the door of the dressing room behind Jenna, and her gaze had wandered to it longingly. Jenna, seeing the younger woman was very plainly uninvested in what she had to say, had narrowed her eyes.

"So I know you get it."

"Be expressive in the background, not during monologues, and keep the eyes moving." Her tone was sharper than she'd intended, but Jenna only sighed and touched her fingers to her chin pensively. She paused a moment, examining her understudy through narrow eyes. Marion, for her part, managed to keep her growing impatience off of her face.

After another moment and Marion was about ready to ask if there was anything else, when Jenna finally spoke again. "I saw your falter earlier on stage. I don't want you getting nervous and forgetting yourself like that tonight."

Marion flashed her a salty look before she had half a mind to keep herself in check. "I don't get nervous." No one believed the claim no matter how many times she said it. Perhaps it was for the best -- more 'girl next door' she seemed, the better, but the facade was beginning to wear thin. It always seemed as if she put more time and effort into downplaying her abilities than she did in utilizing them, and it frustrated her to no end.

There was another pause. "Fine, just... take a break for a bell. We're on at seventeen bells." With that, Jenna dismissed her with a wave of her hand. Marion was happy to oblige, but the look of tempered exasperation that crossed the senior actress's face told her that she hadn't appreciated her tone of voice.

Marion didn't dwell on the exchange, however, since there were more pressing matters at hand. She had yet to see signs of Hirem's arrival, so she ought to be using this time to focus and prepare for whatever was to come. She would need to be both immovable and relentless if she was to pry what she wanted out of him. She would also need to figure out what it was she wanted, and quickly, for he could turn up at any minute and she would rather not be taken off guard. Or perhaps she would? There was a certain excitement in the spontaneity of it.

By the gods, everything felt like a contradiction these days.

She turned from the amassed group of people, crossing to the door of the dressing room in a flurry of black and gold, heels clicking furiously. She paused with one hand on the door, her body ready to relax but her mind certain she could not allow herself to do so. She allowed herself a deep breath -- one that fell dead in her throat as she flicked the doorknob. She hadn't taken more than a half step into the room before Hirem's voice rang out, too loud and too unexpected, but it couldn't have taken Marion more than a tick to recover herself. Her wits threatened to scramble but she reeled them back in fiercely, trying not to focus on the maddening realization that he'd been waiting for her, that he'd had far more time than she to prepare for this encounter.

"Ionu's balls," she growled without thinking, glancing behind herself as if making sure no one had heard the man, though she was really more concerned with averting her face to allow some time to rightfully compose herself, no matter how short. No more than a tick went by before she turned back to face the man, scowling, and yanked the door closed behind her. her mind had fixated more on his voice than his words. She'd missed what he'd exclaimed and was about to lay into him for "startling" her when he stepped forward, brandishing a bracer. It was a simple thing. Its significance puzzled her until he was already reaching for her arm and the sharp steel caught the light.

Marion didn't really let Hirem strap the thing to her arm. Rather, she stood mildly dumbfounded with little choice but to allow him to do so, and he seemed rather intent on the task. His words and actions seemed rushed to her eyes. Perhaps anxiety. Perhaps desperation. She couldn't tell either way, and the heavy scent of powder kept her from finding out.

Hirem finished adjusting the strings, leaving her free to study the odd weapon. "So that you may be able to defend yourself if you cannot reach your dagger," came the explanation that Marion hadn't realized she'd been wanting, and she immediately knew what he meant. In her mind, she could still sense her hands pulling desperately at her dagger. She could see it tumbling aimlessly through the air an into the darkness, and she could feel her dismay as his hand tightened around her throat and she resigned herself to the fact that he would be the death of her. If she'd had this, she would have struck him down instead.

But then your life wouldn't be nearly so interesting, would it? There was only a hint of sarcasm in the thought. She said nothing, keeping a pensive silence, which apparently suited Hirem just fine as he launched into what sounded to be an abridged version of his life story.

She should have been delighted at this, but the mask of neutrality she kept was not difficult to feign. Some of his words meant nothing to her. Many meant everything. But Marion felt increasingly empty as his voice wore on. She held the newly bracered arm slightly away from her body and leaned backwards against the door, her eyes drifting upward to meet his.

It took her a moment to realize why she was so suddenly dispassionate: Information freely given was hardly worth the effort. She needed him to squirm. Yes, certain parts of his story seemed to be particularly difficult for him to relay, but it was clear to her that this was not so much punishment as atonement -- and she refused to serve as a cathartic outlet for his crimes.

He assumed, not altogether incorrectly, that she wished to demand the reason behind his violent actions that night. But this was his excuse, his apology, his admittance of dark deeds and the monster that lurked in his heart. And she did not want it -- not like this. She wanted to pry it from him, to torment him with it. How was one supposed to torture a man with his own darkness if he was at all willing to bare it? This would not do.

Even so, she held on to every utterance he gave. Every word was a clue, a trail, a map.

It was his mention of the place Hai that stirred something within her. There was something there, perhaps a story she had heard once, long ago, now lost to childhood and disbelief. Hai was nothing more than a curse now, spat in rage or frustration, one she had never felt compelled to use herself. But this man claimed to have been there, alluding to vague horror stories, and he didn't seem the type to reference it as a metaphor, not with that haunted look.

He finished with a question, and it left her wondering just how far she could push him, and how far he would let her. But for now, she turned away slowly and did not answer. She pressed her hands together and touched them to her lips as if she were either praying or lost in thought. The bracer was still tight around her arm, and she used the constant pressure of it to keep her grounded and focused in the moment as she wound her way to one of the mirrors.

She stood there for a moment, peering into her own eyes as she turned his words inside out in her mind. It was then that she felt the quiet buzz in the back of her mind again, threatening her concentration. She stoppered the trickle of djed without a second thought, and black hair faded to blonde once more as if sighing in relief.

Her gaze turned to watch him in the reflection.

"You look like a mound of folded towels," she observed out loud, compelled to fill the dead air while she thought. Nonetheless, it was true, and a taut grin played at her lips for a tick before dissolving.

But what did she want to know? She fell silent for another moment before beginning, her gaze boring into the mirror of itself once more. "I want to know how far you would be willing to go to absolve your debt to me," she mused, aimlessly at first, then more seriously, "I want to know everything that you don't want me to know."

She turned away from the mirror at that, pulling her hands away from her face, instead clasping them together and pulling them to her chest. The black lace at her neck itched but she ignored it. There was a dangerous sharpness in her eye, and she could only hope it was the sharpness of a woman confronting her attacker, not her prey. She was sick of playing it coy. She was not a to be trifled with, and it was about time she let someone in this goddess-forsaken city know that. Her voice grew quieter, slower, feeling like venom upon her tongue.

"I need to know that you know what it's like to live your nightmare," she continued, and the words surprised even her. They were too forthright. Too obvious. But she could work with them, even as she felt herself slipping down the path they had opened. She paced closer to Hirem.

"And I need to know how you are still perfectly sane having done so." She was hunting for a reaction. She already knew, through both his words and his actions, that he was less than she accused him of being. But she needed him to admit it himself. Uncertainty and self-doubt were threads she could pull, but she needed the cloth to fray further.

You're dangerously close to exposing yourself, Marion, came her own warning. If you're going to take this route, tie it back to him and what he's done.

And there was nothing to do but heed her own advice. She approached Hirem, invading his personal space, and preparing her mind as if she were simply acting on stage. Playing a character, that's all the was doing. Right? The poor young woman, driven near-mad by her brush with death. But it didn't feel like acting. She reached out suddenly, gripping the front of the man's robe in both hands in a display of desperation and pulling herself to him, the blade strapped to her forearm glinting threateningly, her eyes wide. The next words were a strained whisper:

"Because I saw you kill me and it's driving me mad."

oocI broke many a sweat, toiling over this post. Do enjoy.

[Hirem]

-
It was… difficult to tell what Marion was thinking, to say the least. So much of the woman projected this sense of cool coordination, even when she was obviously flustered, that it was impossible to tell whether or not she was actually confident or just faking it. She never seemed to give in to fear, to doubt, to… anything that others might be prone to. Confused, Hirem watched her carefully as he spoke of his past, wondering why it was that she seemed to grow more distant with every word he offered. Those eyes are too curious for their own good, and yet she looks disinterested? Bored, even? It was a puzzle he could not hope to crack. He had expected shock, like with Rosela, or attempts at understanding, like Kavala. He would have even settled for disgust, his own reaction when he thought of the past. But the look he saw in the dressing room mirror was empty. Vacant of emotion. It chilled him. Suddenly, he remembered that it was not so unreasonable that he be afraid of this woman.

In the silence that followed after he was done his grim tale, Marion stared at herself in the mirror. She did this for what seemed to be ages, and Hirem, uncomfortable, shifted his feet as he waited for her response. I can’t just reveal something like that and get nothing back. It was preposterous to think it, but part of him was… insulted that she had such a passive reaction to his dark story. I have bled and suffered for years now, and the only thing I have to my name is that history. To think that it is just a footnote to someone else is… inconceivable. It was a stupid, prideful reaction, but he could not help himself. He folded his arms and awaited her turn to speak, for he had nothing else to say until prompted. What is going on through that mind of yours? The tension in him refused to die down, as he waited for something, anything!, to happen…

And then something strange did happen: her hair, once dark black, instantly reverted to blonde.

His eyes shooting wide open, Hirem seethed back, his back hitting the wall. Witch! his first instinct screamed, begging for him to abscond this room and leave the wicked woman behind. Rakva! There was no doubt in his mind that he had just witnessed magic, and not the superstitious magic that his people spoke of at nightly campfires. This was practical magic, the kind that Kavala and many others in this city practiced. He knew it was not something he should be shocked by, but he could not deny his gut reaction to its appearance. One day, he would have to learn the art for himself, but until that day came, it would remain strange, unknown, and terrifying to him… just as Marion now became in his eyes. So she is a magician… that explains much, he figured, looking at her anew.

Before he could comment on this development, the woman shifted her gaze to meet his in the mirror’s reflection. ”You look like a mound of folded towels,” she began, misdirecting his attention expertly. His eyebrows shot up, wondering how she made the mental leap to that comment, leaving him helpless as she continued to speak. ”I want to know how far you would be willing to go to absolve your debt to me. I want you to know everything you don’t want me to know.” Bristling at the thought – it was only through sheer force of will he had managed to reveal as much as he had to her – Hirem began shaking his head. I would be willing to do anything to remove this sense of guilt from my shoulders, but I cannot tell her everything. There are some secrets that I can never share. But the look in her eyes when she turned around stilled him, for it was unlike anything he had seen in her before… it was a look of conviction. It was a look the jackal gave the nomad before they began their deadly duel.

”I need to know that you know what’s it like to live your nightmare.” She continued, driving him steadily into a place of unease. Glancing over at the door, he wondered if it was not too late to flee the scene, but thought himself a coward for considering the option. Instead, he stood his ground as she approached, lips pursed together, eyes meeting hers and hopefully purging the fear from his gaze. ”I need to know how you are still perfectly sane having done so.” She whispered, her voice oozing into his ears like a slow-acting poison. Unbidden, his fists clenched at his sides, ready to ward off any possible attacks. What interest does she have in my nightmare? Or my sanity? I thought she might want to know how sorry I was for attacking her, what compelled me to do it… this is something else. This is a different Marion than I met that first night, and I think a different Marion than the rest of Riverfall sees.

And then suddenly she was upon him, seizing his robe and staring him right in the eye. Flinching at the assault, his arms moved to push her off, but they froze midway through the gesture. His hands rested on her elbows, his gaze locked with hers, breath in tune with her own panicked intake. Yahal guide me, he thought to himself, staring into the eyes of a complete madwoman.

”Because I saw you kill me and it’s driving me mad.” came the horrid whisper, the wrist blade nearing his exposed throat.

A pale night overhead. The moon, silver and full, stars twinkling far beyond. She attacks him with a wild look in her eyes, tugging at his body for dear life. The scent of her hair is in his nose. He can’t breathe, she is overwhelming him. “I can’t go back,” she whispers, her voice timid. Her nails dig into his flesh. Blood rushes to his cheeks, tongue stuck in his mouth. “I can’t go back,” she repeats, shaking her head and crying all the while. “I can’t leave you. I can’t go back with them. I need to stay here. If I don’t…” A sob rushes to her and she burrows her head into his shoulder. Shaking. Quivering. Finally comes the whisper, the horrid whisper: “It’ll drive me mad.”

It was too much for him to handle. The beast within, that had slumbering through this entire encounter, seized control and lashed out at her.

”Enough,” he growled, his hands tightening around her elbows and locking them in place. The blade at her wrist was worrisome, but he paid it little heed as he gave her a firm shake. ”Enough. No more. Do you really think you were the only one to suffer that night?” All his attempts to make peace, to build a bridge over the terrible divide that severed them… all was for naught as his anger and resentment was made clear. ”I saw myself kill you!” He hissed, shaking her once more. ”And it drives me mad as well! I was not meant for this! I am a good man, a good, honest, decent man! ” Each word he said was a lie, he knew that in his heart, and the fact frustrated him all the more. ”My hands were made for striking down the enemies of the Benshira, for bringing justice to my people… not for hurting innocent women and children. And yet they are drawn to it, constantly, over and over again! Why is that? Can you tell me?”

”You can’t,” he whispered, leaning in to stare at her until his nose was just an inch away from her forehead, his breath hot on her face. ”You know nothing of me. You don’t know what it’s like to live your nightmare, to live in complete darkness and know that monsters hunger for your blood. You don’t know what’s it like to stumble in the shadows and hear the chattering of those that wish you dead, and realize there is no escape waiting for you. That there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I survived down there for days and days and days, and was only able to crawl out after I thought I was dead. And you know what?” His fingers dug into her elbows, keeping her arms taut, unable to move or drive the blade into his flesh. ”I know you don’t understand what I speak of, because you think I’m perfectly sane. You don’t realize that I am missing pieces of myself. You don’t realize I am broken.”

”Every night!” Hirem seethed, his voice pained, eyes full of anguish. ”Every night I wake up in tears because I can’t escape that darkness! I can’t get away no matter how far I run! It’s burrowed its way into my heart and marked me, just like a god might mark their follower. It owns me, and I never will be able to shake off its chains! You don’t understand what it’s like to know that you will never be whole again! That you will keep having nightmares for the rest of your life! That even the slightest mention of the past makes you tremble all over again! I can’t move on, I can’t dream of the future, I can’t get to know anybody because all I see are ghosts! So you don’t get to judge me!” Letting out a ferocious growl, he threw his weight against Marion and pushed her against the far wall, trying to pin her arms. He used his superior size to press her back firmly into the stone, eyes continuing to stare hatefully into hers.

”You, of all people, don’t get to judge me,” he whispered, shaking. ”Because I know you. Oh, you might pretend to be innocent to the world, but you’re an actor, just like me. You keep the truth pinned inside. You… there’s something dark in you, something that I cannot abide by.” He shook his head, too angry to breathe properly. ”And do you know what the worst part is? Do you know? I can’t look at you without seeing the woman I love! The woman I pushed away! The woman I will never see again! She left me because she had to and because I told her so, and every day of my life since then I have been begging the heavens to bring her back. I have been asking Yahal, time and time again, to return her to me, and nothing. Not one whisper. Instead, they have sent to me you, her ghost, her imposter, her…”

”Her…”

Without warning, the Benshira threw himself at her, seizing her neck with one hand and pressing his lips ravenously against hers. Whimpering, Hirem kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, losing himself to the memory, abandoning all good sense, going mad with longing.

[Marion Kay]

There was a pause. The room held its breath but Marion didn't, her own drawing in ragged-ended and shallow. She stared into his face, watching emotions play there without trying to decipher them, as it would surely be in vain. The things that lurked within this man were the kinds of things Marion was sure she had never dealt with before, and she couldn't help feeling as if the further she pushed this man, the more she would end up regretting it. Poking a bear. She knew the concept well, having been the poked bear for so much of her own life. But Hirem had already snapped once before, and that hadn't taken much prodding at all. She doubted that anything he unleashed now could be any worse, but there were facets to him that she failed to understand.

The quiet moment was over, and suddenly the air was humming with a dangerous buzz. Hirem's hands, too hard and too controlling, locked her in place and the half-minded efforts she gave to pull herself free yielded nothing. Her own hands remained entangled in cloth, the blade he'd gifted her hardly a chime ago hovering tauntingly in front of her face, close enough to harm him if only she could move. She glared at it and herself in its reflection before the image fled, as ripples on water, from the sudden violent motion with which the benshira had set upon her.

He spoke and his voice was rough in her ears, gaining momentum as it went, like a boulder tipping slowly before crashing down a cliff face. There was no stopping him once he got going, and the tenuous, false peace it seemed they'd established was broken once more. It struck Marion as odd, how she found herself so intrigued by such an easy quarry. The first time they'd met it had taken her little more than a few accusations to reduce him to an angry mess, though she could attribute that to the stresses he'd already experienced that night. Now, however, was much the same reaction, the violent insistence of good-ness that only contradicted itself in the very same moment it was uttered.

But his words hammered as an assault, insistent and inescapable, and Marion found herself wondering which of the two of them was the destroyer, and which the victim. His anger fueled her own. The more he asserted her inability to understand, the more she to wanted to rail, to lash out, to object, to do anything to solidify her dissension, to the point where she almost forgot that she was only playing a role. Sixteen years! she wanted to scream at him. Nothing but fear, for sixteen years! Few know more about waking nightmares! She tried to pound her fists against the man, but found herself still bound in his vice grip. Her anger redoubled, morphing into a bitter hatred for it was she who would never be understood.

She, who toiled so relentlessly to spread truth across a world that stood upon stilts of lies.

But people liked to believe that monsters were escapable, and cursed her when they came too close to realizing that the greatest fiends walked among them. And there was nothing she could do but shake her head over and over again, eyes tightly shut, head bowed, brow furrowed, forearms tensed, doing everything in her power to deny this weak man's claims for the falsities she believed them to be.

Marion should have been prepared for him to throw her against the wall, since he'd done the same thing the last time she'd riled him. But, unlike last time, she lost her sense of calculation somewhere in her own internal whirlwind. The sudden and fierce motion froze her mentally and physically. Anger had risen where fear ought to have been, but was sent scattering in a million directions at the sudden jarring contact. The position she now found herself in, pinned, her back against the cool stone, paralleled the same position she'd found herself pushed into all those nights ago, so much so that she could almost feel Hirem's hand at her throat once more, pressing. Choking. She would have panicked if she could. Instead, it cleared her head. The storm of anger his words had summoned retreated once more, as if to prove his next words right, and she couldn't help cracking a bitter smile as she suddenly remembered why he intrigued her so. No matter how easily broken she might think him to be, the fact would always remain that he saw her -- perhaps not entirely for what she was, but more so than others.

He recognized the darkness in her, probably because, on some level, he saw the same darkness in himself. She'd seen it too.

What she hadn't seen was anything that would foreshadow his next line of thought, or his next action. She had listened to him ramble for some time, but every idea of his seemed to flow smoothly from one to the next. But she could not figure the connection between his previous words and the lost love of which he now spoke, and she certainly couldn't see how she factored into it herself. Love was not a familiar thing (though perhaps Marion loved herself overly much), but she wasn't able to ponder it anyhow.

Hirem's hand was at her neck before she realized he was even moving. The grip was harsh, and it was her first instinct to flinch away -- but if he was trying to strangle her again, he was approaching it from the wrong angle. Marion ought to have identified the tone he'd had in his voice, even if she hadn't fully understood it. She should have realized what was happening before it happened. He'd snapped, and frenzied men were predictable in that they would always do something wholly unpredictable, something outrageous, something that they would have known to never attempt if they'd been in a more stable state of mind.

The man was clearly not in the most stable mindset, and he'd just been comparing Marion to his love. So she shouldn't have been surprised when his lips crashed into hers. But what should happen so rarely lined up with what would happen.

Marion froze, not out of fear, but out of shock at what was unbelievably but undeniably happening, and uncertainty as to what she was supposed to do about it. She would not kiss back. She had no reason to, and it left them in an odd dichotomy -- Hirem, with his torrid longing and sudden passion, Marion feeling very suddenly dispassionate and outwardly phlegmatic, though her mind, after the tick of shock had worn off, was whizzing.

Because suddenly she could taste everything. Not just the fear, but the longing and the desperation too. The sadness and the regret. The passion and the anger. The tenderness and the lunacy. The doubt and the clarity. The love -- not for her, but for someone entirely different, someone whose very existence had touched Hirem and broken him in ways that Marion would never be able to, yet someone who Hirem had inadvertently ascribed her to be. A question, seemingly insignificant, wobbled its way across her mind once more. Who was Stella? She probably knew the answer now.

The kiss told her everything, but it was more than she cared to know. The emotion was overwhelming. It was too much to process, too much to comprehend, too much. Too much. Too much. And, all at once, Marion was unfrozen. Hirem's hand at her neck left one of her arms free, but it was not the one with the blade attached, and the sardonic part of her had to wonder if she was simply cursed to never bring a blade against this man. Still, out of some mild admiration for the irony, she threw her other hand at the man's throat. His neck was too thick for her to try to strangle, but she pushed, applying pressure to either break his fervent reverie and false lust or push his face away from her own.

If the contact of their lips was broken, she turned her head away and sputtered once for air. She'd been unwittingly holding her breath in the echos of her last assault at his hands. There was a great silence from her as tried to make sense of everything that had just happened, the flurry of words, then the flurry of emotions. What was she supposed to do now? There were a great many ways she could respond to the situation, and none of them felt quite right. She could state the obvious, that she was not "her". She could slap him, and it would be warranted. She could shout for someone to throw this man out of the amphitheater. She could address any number of the things he'd said in the last few chimes. She could ask for her glove -- it'd certainly be unexpected. She wanted to do all of those things, and she wanted to do nothing. She wanted to dissect this man with her mind, and she wanted to erase him from it.

Marion ran a hand through her hair before slamming it against the cold, mirrored wall in frustration.

"I don't know what to do with you," she grumbled as if it were an insult, and it was perhaps the first genuine thing she'd said to him. How much damage could she ever truly to do a person who was so bent on torturing himself already?

[Hirem]

It was so easy to lose himself in the heat of the moment.

It was so wrong that he let himself become lost.

Hirem was not kissing Marion's lips so much as throwing his mouth against them, devouring them with an intensity that he rarely demonstrated, not even in combat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was grasping tightly at her neck, not so unlike the last time he had seen fit to physically attack the woman. He had shifted his whole body so that it was pressing into her, forcing her against the stone wall, the intent being to crush the two of them together until Marion no longer was and there was simply the sensation, the sweet sensation, remaining. There was no art in his attempts to kiss her, no skill. And there was certainly no efforts made on his part to make the experience enjoyable for her. Hirem kissed a ghost, using Marion's body and the warmth of her skin and the taste of her lips to make that ghost feel real beneath his fingertips. Though he knew that the real woman that he was using for this scheme was protesting his unwanted advances, he was able to delude himself into thinking that the protests didn't matter. There was just his body, his flesh, his prickling nerves, and the ghost.

For, surely, Stella was little more than a ghost.

No no no no, Hirem screamed, blocking out that thought with a renewed assault on Marion's lips. That cannot be, it should not be, it must not be. He had no proof that Stella was dead. There was no reason to think that she was dead. If she was, by some horrible twist of fate, dead, then Hirem's last sight of her would forever be her caravan being whisked away by the dunes of the Burning Lands, leaving Yahebah and carrying his broken heart along with it. That could not be the last time Hirem and Stella met... if it was, then the gods were surely cruel, Yahal along with them. No, he told himself again, every part of his body roiling with a sudden and unexpected fear. Stella cannot be dead. She cannot be dead, and I should not be forced to embrace her through the arms of a woman I despise. With his mind curiously flashing back to that green-eyed boy he met in the streets at the start of the season, no reason apparent as to why he was thinking of him, Hirem continued to lose himself within the first true kiss he had experienced in nine years. He knew that it was horrible, that there was no way he could reconcile what he was doing now with the man he thought he was becoming, but there was no stopping himself.

It took Marion fervently pushing her small hand into his neck to finally end the nightmare.

Choking from the impact, Hirem stumbled back, a hand reaching up to his throat and the other waving behind him to potentially break his fall. He managed to catch himself before he plummeted to the ground, struggling to breathe again through his constricted throat. And even when circulation returned to him, he still found it difficult to breathe, a panic spasm making his lungs quake with weakness. For now, the physical contact broken, the only thing gracing his skin the cool air of the dressing room, Hirem was able to fully appreciate the horror that had just transpired, for both Marion and himself. Trembling, his fingers reached up to touch his numb lips, wondering briefly if he was able to peel the accursed things from his flesh and bury them deep below the earth. What have I done? He kept telling himself, trying to look for Marion's gaze to see what was going on in her mind. I told myself I would be stronger. I would be better. I would find this woman and set right what had gone wrong. But now everything is wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong. He wondered if offering a prayer to Tanroa to reverse what had just transpired would yield anything of worth. He wondered if Lhex, staring down at him from the Ukalas, was breaking out into laughter over the cruel web he had caught Hirem in.

Marion broke the pregnant silence that had settled between them with a sudden crash, her fist slamming hard against the wall. "I don't know what to do with you," she said, and Hirem could scarcely fault her for the confusion. The sentiment resonated with him keenly, for if anything defined the relationship between them, it was confusion.

It was so damnably confusing. It made him want to laugh.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning against the far wall and folding his arms. Hirem knew that there was no way he could apologize for what just transpired, but at the same time, he could not resist at least trying. "I'm - I'm sorry. There's no excuse for such madness. I'm - I can't..." The words were fixed to his tongue. He knew that he should be seeking redemption for the hell he had put Marion through twice, and yet there was this strange part of him that did not feel remorse. That did not regret. Indeed, there was a part of him that churned at the thought of this woman forgiving him, for he did not want her forgiveness. He wanted her gone.

"I've seen that look in your eyes before," he said then, straightening his back and fixing his gaze on her. "And I'm not speaking of Stel-of my love." Even now, even after a decade of not pronouncing her name, Hirem could not bring himself to say Stella Mered. "It was four years ago... I was wandering through the desert in the midst of a wicked storm, looking for a lost horse. That was when I came across her: a young Benshira girl, with eyes of steel, murdering a priest of Yahal. And when I asked her why she had done this, she told me, 'I am Savra, the First Prophet of the Redeemer.'" Gritting his teeth at the painful memory, he looked away from Marion and took a deep breath. "First Prophet of the Redeemer. This girl, Savra, believed that her god would come one day and engulf the world in flame, and wipe the sins of the old clean with cleansing steel. She was mad, but in her eyes, I saw faith. Utter faith that what she believed in was the truth. Utter faith that she alone was the clear voice in the chaos of the world. It's that faith I see in your eyes, Marion, and that frightens me. That darkness inside you... you embrace it because you think it's the truth. That it's the only thing that makes sense."

"It's not," he pronounced, hard and full of conviction. Taking a step forward, he unfolded his arms and looked to fix his gaze on Marion's again, convinced that he would see the very look he was referring to reflected in her blue eyes. "It's a lie. I know this, because it's a lie I've told myself. What you're feeling right now, what you think are... is all a product of blinding arrogance. You're not wiser than anyone else. You're not smarter. You're just walking a narrower path."

He might have walked away then, satisfied at least that he had given Marion this warning, had a cruel urge not seized him by the heart and forced him to say, "Do you know what happened to Savra, in the end?" Hirem smiled, his fists clenched and head tilting to the side. "I broke her nose. An infection set in and ruined her pretty face, made her cover herself up like an ashamed leper. Some twist of fate ended up bringing us together for that venture into Hai. And in that darkness, she lost her way and died, broken on the stones of hell itself, alone and mad to the very end. So you should mind your steps, in case you might find the same fate."

With that threat lingering in the air between them, Hirem left the room.

He left the theatre.

Returned to the city proper.

Ascended to the second tier.

Walked to the bridge that connected both banks of the Bluevein, the waterfall tumbling underneath.

Stared down at Plunge Pool Bay far below.

Felt his legs tense.

Imagined the wind rushing past his ears.

Collapsed to the ground.

And shuddered with terror.

Stella.

Marion.

"Where are you?" he whispered to Yahal. "Where are you when I need you the most?"