[The Welcome Home] It all Burns Down (Dusk)

[Stitch]

Arrested? Stitch slumped against the wall, wincing as his arm flooded with pain. He let out a grunt and grabbed for it, holding it gingerly, as if that would do anything to stop the dull ache that throbbed through the bone. His entire body went slack, and he just stood there, all the fight drained from him. His head was bowed, and his features were dead. It was like he had just understood what exactly he had done, and was trying to figure out a way to deal with it. He paused for a long moment, then looked up, barely whispering. "There were men at that fire. They came through a portal. They tried to kill my children." He bowed his head once more, knowing the defense would be useless. How were they supposed to believe that the Goddess of Hope had saved him and the kids? How were they supposed to know that some lifelike golem had orchestrated the entire thing, just to get its hand's on some stupid book? And the more important question on his mind, the question that stood at the very front of everything else right now... Why had Priskil left him with all this mess? Had she even realized? When she had taken Jilitse, had she even given a single thought to the broken blind man on the floor? "Please make sure the children are taken care of while I am away." He glanced up, whispering the last few words, the plea filled with desperation. Even while sentenced to be stuck in the Tank, they were the first thought on his mind. "Please?"

[Dusk]

The knight who'd been holding him looked at Stitch as if he'd gone completely round the bend. He just shook his head, though, and pulled Stitch's hands behind his back. "They'll be seen to," he murmured, and drew a braided leather cord from somewhere, then deftly twisted it around Stitch's wrists and secured it with a knot. The position did nothing to help the pain in his arm - fueled it, in fact, for the muscles screamed in protest. By this time, another wing of Knights had made their way onto the scene, and it was turning into a rather big ordeal - three people were huddled around the beaten kid while another saw to his wounds, and another four stood in a semi-circle around Stitch. A few moments later, the knight who'd been sent off reappeared with another man in tow, one who glowed in Stitch's faltering Auristics with the sharp, steady light of a man whose words would go unquestioned. "Who's in charge here?" he called out, cutting through the babble of conversation and instantly causing the other knights to unconsciously straighten their posture. "Sergeant Nickolas Breicht, ser," the other man answered immediately, stepping forward. A moment later they separated themselves from the rest and began a quiet conversation, likely just Nikolas catching the other man up on what had happened. Silence descended on the group, broken only by the murmuring of the two ranking knights and the occasional hiss and pop of the dying fire that had begun this tragedy. It ended as the Knight turned to stare at Stitch, and finally pointed a finger at him. "Get him out of here," he ordered crisply, "now." The men snapped to do his bidding, two of them taking Stitch's arms to lead him as two more too position ahead and behind him. The order came none too soon - for as they began making their way out of one side of the alley, there was a commotion at the other end, a woman's enraged voice rising above the rest, until the Stewart cut through the crowd and went to meet her. "Where is the body of the filth that attacked my son?" "There is no body, Dera, calm yourself--" "No body? He yet lives? Since when do we stay our hand upon those who seek to harm us? Bring him to me and I will flay the skin from his bones!" "He's sent to the Council, as he should be. It is a misunderstanding of some kind, and they are best equipped to make a decision about it. Take a breath, and see to your family instead of revenge." "The Council?! Of all the ignorant..." The voices faded as the knights dragged Stitch further away, and disappeared entirely as they crossed the threshold into the cool hallways of Stormhold Citadel. * * * Stitch passed a long night in The Tank, surrounded mostly by drunks sleeping off a tavern brawl. He was given no food, though there was clean water available should he find himself thirsty, and for the most part he was left to his own devices. Just after the sun rose to lighten the windows beyond the bars of the holding cell, one of the knights called his name. The doors were opened and the restraints placed on his wrists once more, then he was led through a doorway and up a set of stairs, entering finally into the Council Chamber. The councilors sat beside each other at a table placed on a raised dais, and directly in front of them was a wooden railing as if to separate them from whoever might approach to petition their case. The knight brought Stitch to stand just behind the railing, front and center before the Council. To one side, a small section was cordoned off with several chairs. There sat the dark Stewart Knight who'd been screaming for his blood the previous day, mother to Stitch's victim. Her children were lined up beside her: the boy he'd beaten, whose face was bruised and swollen and dotted with several lines of stitching to repair the damage, and his sister sat to Dera's left, both wearing simple tunics bearing the emblem of the Windoak as evidence of their place within the Knighthood. To her right sat the youngest boy, who clutched at his mother's arm and stared wide-eyed at Stitch. Grace gave a nod, and one of the court officers read out the charges against him - assault on the Knighthood, attempted murder, and public menace. The younger boy, Mealachapat, gave his witness testimony first. The older boy had to lean heavily on the railing as he stepped up to speak, and his words were slurred by the swollen and split lip, but he gave an accounting of what they'd been doing and the madness that ensued. Ser Nikolas was not present to give his testimony, but it was read aloud by one of the officers. When that was concluded, the Councilors turned their attention to the accused man. The two men looked down at him with little sympathy, and the younger one did nothing to hide his outrage at what he'd heard. The woman seated between them, however, looked more thoughtful, and a mere glance from her stilled whatever words they may have spoken. "Stitch," she said softly, and there was something - something about his name on her tongue that tripped something inside of him, broke through the despair and showed him a moment of hope. "There has been much said today of what took place. I would hear your story," she said with an encouraging nod.

[Stitch]

Stitch's head remained bowed throughout the initial arrest, and he remained completely quiet. He only once moved, and that was to glance up into the eyes of Ihsan. Even if Stitch was blind, some sort of gaze would be felt. He was staring at the Stewart Knight, just as any other man would. After a few moments of this gazing, Stitch would wait until the Knight looked at him again. At that point, he would give a short nod of his head, as if thanking the man. He had seen Ihsan work before. He knew he was in good hands. He once again bowed his head, and allowed himself to be led away. Priskil protect him. _____________________________________________________________ The Tank was a colder place than the rest of Stormhold, causing chills to plague Stitch for the entirity of the night that he was there. He managed to find an empty space in one corner of the room, and that is where he made his stand for the night. To keep himself warm, and his mind occupied, he worked out. He went through a variety of push-ups and sit-ups, trying to keep his muscles alive and active, trying to keep his muggy head clear. He had known this was going to happen eventually. He had known that something was going to break. The common push-up. It requires a prone position on the floor, with the flats of both hands resting to either side of the shoulders. Using only arm strength, the practioner fully extends his arms, then slowly lowers himself back down. Several of dozens of repetitions are performed using this basic method, which allows the practioner to exercise both pectoral muscles and triceps. He didn't know he was going to be the one who would break. Even with the Hope Jilitse and Priskil had given him... There was still fear. It was a deathly weapon to be used against a man of his caliber. Fear. The fire and the attackers had placed fear in his mind. Next, he simply shifted from using the flat of his hands, to supporting himself on his knuckles. Such an exercise would build his arms and pectoral muscles, but it would also abuse his knuckles, and develop calluses. It also developed wrist strength, and all in all, would increase potential punching power. It was a Boxer Push-up. How could he get rid of such a thing? He didn't know. He would just have to get stronger. He had tried to get stronger before, but perhaps it was for the wrong reasons. He had gotten stronger so he could protect his children... but when the time came, he had just been a berserker. He had to do more than train his body to be the most effective machine possible. He had to train his mind as well. He had to sort out his head. He had done a fatal error today. He wasn't so sure what the backlash would be. If anything, he would sent from Syliras. How would he cope with such a thing? The very thought made his body tremble. Priskil save him. ____________________________________________________________ He didn't offer any resistance as he was taken from the Tank. He was a passive prisoner, one who completely complied with whatever his captors demanded from him. He was bound up and led to the Council without a word, and the entire time, his head remained bowed. He was scared, too. That much was obvious. He was trembling. The blind man was also quite for most of the trial. The trembling continued to be the most obvious feature about him. He just stood there, a quiet shaking statue, allowing the proceedings to go on around him. Only when the woman spoke to him did he move. He started, as if hearing a voice he had heard somewhere before. He glanced up quickly, cocking his head, a bit of disappointment flickering across his features. Her voice wasn't the voice he thought it was. It was soft and gentle, loving and caring... but not quite as gentle as hers. He nearly dropped his head again when he realized she had asked him a question. Should he answer? He felt he could. When his Auristic eyes stared upon her, he saw one thing extremely familiar. She was Marked with that same light Jilitse had been marked with. He straightened, and the trembling slowly ceased, only to remain in a few random tremors every now and then. He held his head as high as he could, looking directly upon the one who had questioned him. He spoke loud enough for her to hear, but his former trembling would reappear in his words, and perhaps make him hard to understand. "Milady... It is as they say. This one attacked the boy, for this one thought he was someone else. This one beat him within an inch of his life... and this one is sorry. This one thanks the Knights for stopping him... for this one was confused, and might have..." Stitch paused, the shaking overcoming him again. He took a deep breath to calm down, and then continued on. "Their accounting is correct and accurate, and this one is guilty of said crimes. If milady remembers the fire, then perhaps milady remembers the story. A group of attackers, appearing in the middle of the night, coming to bring harm to my children. They started a fire. This one, in his current mental state... this one mistook these young boys for more foreign attackers. This one uses magic to see, and obviously... there are some flaws. Ever since then, this one has been damaged, milady. This one... understands this. This one pleads guilty." He paused again, and then offered her a shaky smile. "Please give thanks to your deity for me, milady. This one cannot speak enough words to thank her. She is the one that saved this one and his children that night. Even now, her light shines in you, which in turn beams brightly in this one's mind. Thank you." He bowed his head again, having said his piece. His magical ability to see was obvious. He had seen her Mark of Priskil.

[Dusk]

The High Councilor blinked sharply when Stitch acknowledged her connection to the Goddess of Light and Hope, and the two men glanced at each other behind her back, obviously uncomfortable with whatever was going on. The woman, though, did not turn her attention from the accused man. "The Council hears your pleas," she said softly, a wealth of sympathy threading her voice. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the Chaktawe woman jumped to her feet. "Do not show him kindness!" she hissed, fury twisting her features. "Your softness does nothing but expose our throats to the animals who haven't the honor to take the oaths! Will the very ones we give our blood and lives to protect find nothing but comfort when they turn to bite the hand that feeds them? This court is a farce! If i had my way--" "If you had your way, Sonderalitha, you would conscript every soul into the Order and kill those too weak to swing a sword to your satisfaction," Grace said, her voice hardening to cut through the other woman's tirade. "I do not tell you how to do your job, Stewart. Do not tell me how to do mine." The two stared each other down, and in the end the Knight closed her mouth. She finally turned her attention back to Stitch, and nodded as if in agreement with some silent comment. "Guilty," she murmured. Nehim cleared his throat and repeated the word, sounding a little resigned to it. The younger man, Fredir, ground out his agreement, and there was no question that he shared Dera's opinions on Grace's role in the Council. "So," she said, not even bothering to look to the men on either side of her. "Your guilt is decided and unanimously confirmed. The mercy of the gods upon you, criminal." She paused, and gave the tiniest of sighs as if she expected the next comment to incite an all-out war. "I will now hear the Council's recommendations on sentencing." Fredir didn't quite wait until she was done speaking, riding right over her with his own angry growl. "Death," he rumbled, though he barked the word as if he knew it would not be heard, "or at least a lifetime's work in the mines. Let him pay for his crimes in sweat and blood." The older man gave a wordless grunt of astonishment, though it sounded a bit forced - as if he were annoyed that the cry for death was given, but wasn't quite surprised to hear it from Fredir's lips. "Death is a bit extreme," he said diplomatically. "The boy yet lives, and will recover from his wounds. Hard labor is not completely out of the question, though. Stitch has been an honorable member of this city for many years, trusted with our children. The mines will be a waste of him - let him swear an oath and ride patrol on the Kabrin Road. His fighting skills can be used to protect the populace, and the dangers inherent in it may yet claim him." Fredir said nothing, though he looked a little mollified at this idea. Grace considered, head tilted as she weighed the wisdom of this course. She opened her mouth to speak - and a commotion sounded at the door, a woman's voice raised in feral argument with the guards, before the door was thrown open and Aenysa Tieran tumbled into the room and ran full-tilt up to the railing, her bright red dress fluttering around her legs as she tried to catch her breath. "Mercy!" she cried, panting as she gripped the railing tightly and looked up at the surprised Councilors. "Please, your honors, I come to plea for mercy on this man's behalf. He has spent his life in service to Syliras, and is personally responsible for caring for the children who have been otherwise abandoned. He is a good man!" she cried, turning wide eyes on Stitch - and as she stared at him, seeing him so dejected, she burst into tears. "Please, tell them," she cried, skipping over to take his hands in her own so quickly that even the two who were guarding him didn't have time to react. The court, it seemed, was thrown completely in turmoil by this one girl. "Please, don't just give up," she cried, piercing him with a look that she had no way of knowing if he would even see, and one that he had likely never seen on a woman's face before. It was hero-worship, and desperation, and love. "Tell them," she whispered.

[Stitch]

Death? Even at the sound of the harsh word, Stitch didn't raise his head. He was much too defeated to sound out against such a judgment, and really, something deep inside of him called out for that very same sentence. He had beaten a young man senseless. There was no morality in that. It was only a crime. A violent and evil crime, an act that he had once sworn never to do. And now, here he was, breaking the vow he had given to her. He remembered that day so clearly. The day he had sworn to his love that he would never raise a hand to harm one again. He would only fight to protect, to teach, to better himself and to better others. He had followed that oath for so long, but he had forgotten it after the Fire... and he had forgotten it when dealing with the boy, too. Yet at the same time, he couldn't deny the relief that filled his belly when the old man spoke out for him. Even if some little part of his mind screamed for the worst punishment possible, just so he could live without the guilt... in a way, the guilt was a good thing. It could be a worse punishment than death. He didn't mind guarding the Road, either. It seemed like a good idea to him. It would keep his mind off the children. Priskil, even thinking about them made his lower lip start to quiver. He was a grown man. He would not cry in front of all these important figures. The sudden opening of the doors caused him to jump, and it was a high jump. He had been so lost in his thoughts that the sudden noise had really scared him. He whipped his head around to see the newcomer, wondering if this was part of the trial. Would it be a massive man with a hood over his head, with a giant axe in two meaty hands? That was always the kind of character that did the executions! With a sigh of relief, he laid eyes on a familiar Aura. It was the warm and loving Aura of a child he had helped raise, before she had turned into a wonderful woman with some of her own willpower. Aenysa. A woman who always puzzled him, for she always had one foreign emotion in that Aura that he had never been able to read. He wasn't used to not being able to read people. It made him nervous, in a way. He was certainly a weird mix of nervous and comfortable every time he was around her, and he barely ever knew why. What was she doing here, anyway? Was she supposed to be here? As she came running up, he turned, not wanting to look at her. How could he? He was a broken man, one that wasn't who she thought he was. Her words brought an odd mix of emotions to his heart. She cried out what a good man he was, and rained down praises on him... but he wasn't good. Not any more. As she took his hands in hers, and demanding for him to admit to her accusations of goodness... he shook his head, silently denying her. The only thing that caused him to speak was her tears. She was crying, and he had a weakness for crying women. Taking a deep breath, he sighed, and turned back toward the Council. His head was still down, and his hands limp in hers... but he spoke, and he spoke what he thought she might wish to hear. A little of it, at least. If just to appease her. "...this one has been here all his life, sure. This one was born and raised in the Welcome Home, and when the old Headmaster passed away... this one was offered the position. This one supposes no one else wanted the job, and this one was a natural choice. This one has been working there ever since... and perhaps this one was a good man. This one likes to think he was." He paused, and tugged his hands away from Aenysa. "...but a good man, now? This one can't claim to that. Not after attacking the boy." Stitch paused, and quieted again, and then finally raised his head to the Council. He spoke quickly and quietly, and oddly, his voice dripped with honest... sorrow. He was really subjecting himself to whatever they might do. His next words were more to help them, than to help himself. "If this one may... ask a favor. If those years of service, that perfect record of a law-abiding citizen... if that means anything..." He took a deep breath, then spoke, his words almost too fast to understand. When Priskil had suggested the idea, he had thought it absurd, and almost resented her for it. Now, it was his only hope. "...this one wishes to be exiled. Away from Syliras. Exiled, and sentenced to Taldera. To the Icy Wasteland in the North. This one may very well die there." He tilted his head to Fredir, silently addressing him. Death is what he would want, right? "...and if this one survives all the ice and snow... this one will stay away from Syliras. Permanent exile." He tilted his head toward Grace, silently addressing her now. She might know what lay within Taldera. The Headquarters of the Order of Radiance.

[Dusk]

When Stitch commented on being a bad man now, on his lack of goodness because of what he had done, Aenysa's hands trembled in his. "One act does not make you an evil man," she whispered, tears still coursing down her cheeks. But it seemed that, after that, she was unable to make any more arguments on his behalf, too overcome with emotion. Grace nodded to his request to hear his plea, and listened with surprise at his suggestion. When he finished, she looked first to Fredir and then Nehim, who each nodded their approval. "To Avanthal," she murmured, nodding. Even as she spoke, Aenysa's hands tightened in his - and as he turned to her, his auristics were blinded by a glaring white light, and the world around them seemed to freeze a moment as the soft, low aura of his childhood friend was replaced by the unwavering brightness of Priskil herself. "Is this how you would seek me out?" she said, her voice reverberating through his skull like cathedral bells, though there was sympathy there as it ever was.

[Stitch]

Stitch could feel the approval in their Aura's, and it brought forth a mixture of emotion. There was relief that he wouldn't die... not by their hand, at least. Then there was fear, that he might die to the cold fingers of the North. He had heard the stories of what lived in that area. The stories of monsters that were invisible in the snow, great man-eating bears that could move as quietly as cats... and snow as far as the eye could see, always falling, always freezing. He would be a block of ice before he knew it, wouldn't he? He couldn't help but tremble slightly, even if the worst of the trial was over. The worst of his life was still to come, in his opinion. He would never see the children again. Perhaps that part was for the best. Suddenly, his old friend lit up, her Aura twisting and shining brightly, causing him to take a step away from her and avert his Auristic gaze away. He couldn't focus on her. He felt the same sensation that he did when he had met someone in the Welcome Home. She was holding her Aura back, but at any given moment, she could release just a little bit more, and it would blind him. Forever. But, the last person who had that kind of Aura hadn't been his good friend. The last person who had that kind of Aura had been... Priskil. He snapped his head back to fully stare upon her, soaking in the light and purity of the changed Aura, basking in it. He soaked it in as if it was sunlight, a holy sunlight that was vital to keeping his heart beating. So entranced was he by her sudden appearance, so almost unbelieving, that he almost missed her words. When he realized her voice had reverberated in his brain though, and when he finally realized that this all wasn't some wishful daydream... he spoke, whispering under his breath, wondering if he was still in the same world that the rest of the court existed in. If he was, he didn't think they would like hearing him answer the voices in his head. "Yes. Both to atone for this one's sins, and to seek redemption. Redemption... and a friend. This one has very few of them left."

[Dusk]

"This world has much to atone for," she said softly, though there was understanding in her voice. "Every man who walks the earth has committed some sin, has caused some hurt. The gods are no exception," she chuckled, a smile touching one corner of her mouth. "But redemption can be found, Stitch. Be sure it is that you seek, and not death. Despair has no place among those who would battle for my lover's heart."

[Stitch]

Stitch paused for a moment, and turned his head, back to the council. "...this one knows. Don't worry. This one will be fine when the time comes to see you again. This one promises." He took a deep breath, and lifted his hands, running them through his short hair, uneasily shuffling from foot to foot. This trial was painfully nerve-racking, even though he felt it was to be over soon. Even Priskil, who stood beside him, didn't make all of the nervousness go away. "...thank you for coming, milady. It means a lot to this one." He offered her a smile, even though the small expression of thanks was directed at the Council of Three. She would know who it was met for. Aiming his next words at the Council, as he didn't want to appear too distracted for too long, he spoke quickly and quietly. "This one is sorry for having to trouble you, milords and milady. This one knows you already have a lot on your plate." The apology was humble, and genuine.

[Dusk]

The two men on the council looked at him with little interest, already on to thinking of the next case. No one in the courtroom seemed to have noticed his exchange with Priskil, or that Aenysa was no longer who she'd seemed - or perhaps she simply was still Aenysa to them. Grace watched him, though, a curious look on her smooth face. Pale eyes wandered over his form as if searching for something, and her lips moved soundlessly a moment as she idly reached up and twirled a strand of strawberry hair around a finger. She took a breath, and opened her mouth as if to say something. And stopped as the bright aura of Priskil flared to engulf the room once more, blinding Stitch completely. His arm throbbed painfully where he'd pumped it full of Flux magics during his fight, thumping to the tune of his heartbeat. It was excruciating, and it felt as if it would never, ever stop. Every thud of his heartbeat brought a hot pulse to his muscles and he may have thought the skin would split to relieve that awful pressure. And then a new pain seared to life against the backdrop of that ache, as if someone pressed a hot fireplace poker to the back of his hand. Roiling fire slid up his arm and shot straight into his blank, white mind and that brightness doubled, trebled, until it was all he knew and all he had ever known. Even here you prepare yourself. Even here, in the depths of your own despair and shame, you hold fast to the thought of the future. In your exile from all you know and love, you think of Me. You know what it is I seek, Blind One. I would not ask, but that you have offered - help me, Blind One. Please help me. The Puppeteer has marked those who will help him protect my lover's heart. Even now his Golem pulls a Konti closer to him. Watch for his Mark - five black lines. Protect my love, and guard the innocent from those who would take from them everything. The bright white light flared and pulsed, like fireworks against the canvas of his mind. Faded, then, banked and cooled, and left him dazzled and dumbstruck. His arm still throbbed dully, a pain that truly would never leave him though it retreated to something more like soreness than agony. And as the council chambers reformed in his awareness, so too did a shining silver brand against the back of his right hand. It sat in the fanciful shape of a whirlpool, like a spiraling vortex of light carved into his flesh. He could see it. Though the rest of the world sat in fuzzy near-darkness when he used only his natural senses, when he looked down at his hand he could see the brand of Priskil's Gnosis as clearly as if he had never lost his sight. And the very act of seeing it might have shown him that he could see, still, indistinctly and without much clarity at all - but, were he to stop using his Auristics for a moment, let go the magic he'd relied on every waking hour for years, he would see that he was not quite so blind as he thought. Into the silence, Grace's quiet voice filled the room. "One year," she murmured. "Should you wish to return after that, you may petition this council. We will hear your case then." The chambers erupted into frenzied argument as the younger of her quorum began bellowing about her taking privileges and the Stewart Knight came to her feet along with her children to scream a string of obscenities and accusations. Beside him, Aensya fell to her knees and wept her gratefulness for the council's mercy. But Grace simply watched Stitch, cool blue eyes on his hands and stubbornness in the set of her smile.