by Nilliac on Sat Feb 06, 2010 2:20 pm
Three broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Multiple contusions and a minor concussion. Cuts and scrapes, one large gash along the right forearm when she had been too slow with the shield. The cut is deep, but clean and the blade managed to miss her major arteries. It will mend well, the cleric has assured her.
It's the best Arora has felt in months.
She's not sure how she feels about the statue. In the East Rift statues are made in the likeness of kings, not heroes. Even then, it is only after they have passed into the rock again. It is the closest thing to immortality on the mortal plane. But Arora is not dead, after all. She smiles, and intuitively she knows precisely how long the retrieval of stone this size and quality would take to mine, transport and chisel. The people of Hommlet managed to do this within a month, which impresses her. Humans are not Dwarves, but they manage to do a respectable job. Just wait until the birds come, she thinks to herself, then you'll learn to be humble again proud statue. This is one of the benefits of building statues in the rift. No birds. She smirks as the thought occurs to her as she thumbs the Honored Ones medallion absently in her hand.
This would be enough. Wouldn't it? This would have to be enough.
"Am I interrupting?"
Her head shoots up, startled out of her thoughts. It is a common occurrence, she's beginning to note. It had been something of an adjustment when she had first left East Rift and its Dwarven culture. Humans were always interrupting everything, they couldn't help themselves. She shakes her head slowly, turning to face the man approaching her.
Elmo is not in his usual full plate armor, shifting his weight slightly to the left foot more than the right. His eyes are a mix of relief and melancholy, set into bright deep brown eyes that defy his age. He is looking up at the statue of Burne. He smells faintly of ash and ale. He is still in mourning, this statue is a cold comfort, he is resigned and fighting with himself and guilt and duty and the unyielding truth of war. These are the things Arora notices, all in the span of a few heartbeats.
They stand in silence for a while, the sky darkening with delicate shades of orange and purple streaking across the sky from the horizon, throwing the statues into silhouette. "In the Eartheart, those who fall in battle are known as knurl karak um. We make songs of them, usually drinking songs, and light flames in the high tower to mark their passing when war is done."
Elmo nods absently, "What is... what did you call it? Knurl-?"
Arora shifts her eyes to the statue again, pausing. "There's no clear translation, but I suppose the closest could be 'those who endure within the foundation we stand upon'."
Elmo smiles a little. "All that in three words, eh? I had no idea Dwarven words had such profound meaning."
She smiles, shrugging helplessly. "Dwarven is a very complex and subtle language. Why the Great Ballads of Kings are not sung in our language first by the bards I will never know." She laughs, "as I said, it's more of a general intent. Their sacrifices are what allow us to survive and grow. They make us stronger and we thank them for that. It is the best thing we can do to honor their memory."
He is smiling still, but his eyes are distant now. He is caught in a memory. His hands are rough and calloused, clasped with thumbs pressing together thoughtfully. His eyes close and Arora recognizes some of the words he is murmuring as some sort of prayer. Though he towers over her by nearly two feet, she reaches up and places a hand on his shoulder. She is still wearing her gauntlets though now she wishes she weren't. They are heavy and unwieldy and hardly comforting though Elmo doesn't seem to care.
"Thank you, Arora."
The words are hard, but not insincere. He is a man of restraint and discipline. He does not show weakness easily and Arora knows instinctively that she is one of only a handful of people to see him in such a state of vulnerability. Her mind flutters briefly to the druid. Her face contorts into a closed-lipped grimace, and she looks down. He has lost more than she has, by far. He is a good man to be able to keep himself from hating them, hating what they have dredged up from the muck of the past. They have reopened old wounds and created new ones. They have destroyed the innocent peace of this town in more ways than one. It was worth it, of course. Hommlet will endure. It will heal, in time. Life will go on and a new generation will not know the horrors so keenly as they.
Elmo and Arora say their farewells and she leaves him by the statue to his thoughts, while her mind turns to the whirling roots of past and future which to her are so intricately bound together as to be impossible to separate. They have fused so tightly it chokes her, sometimes. She's in the temple now, though she has been largely unaware of moving in its direction. Now she is standing before the great altar which still bears the marks of reconstruction. Vister is there, she looks different, and it takes a moment for Arora to realize it it because she has had a full month of recovery since they last saw each other. They clasp arms and embrace.
It is Vister who suggests going to Estagund's temple. "If you really intend to make an Entreaty, they would be the best suited to hear it, I believe. But...what exactly is it you want them to tell you?"
Arora looks down with sudden shyness. She has not spoken about her past to anyone, no more than the inconsequential matters, anyway. Besides, having no idea who your mother was and having a father who refused to tell you even when he lay dying wasn't exactly polite camp-side conversation. The last thing the group had needed was her plaintive whining about matters that had no impact on them. It would create doubt and uncertainty in her abilities and stability. It would have jeopardized everything. They would not have respected her then, she was certain of this. They would have wondered what was so horrible about her that her own mother had wanted nothing to do with her. A tear slips down her cheek unbidden and Vister looks away, suddenly uncomfortable.
"I... I'm sorry Vister. It's nothing. I'm... tired." She stands, letting the words fall into silence. "I will go to Estagund, I think. Tomorrow."
"So soon?" Vister looks up at her, concern knitting in her brow. "You've only just returned, and your friend is still recovering. Are you leaving them all behind? Why abandon them so?"
Arora bristles at Vister's words though she knows the paladin does not intend to offend. She scowls, clenching her hands into fists and fighting the urge to strike the small blonde woman. "Deomin is staying behind with Arath for some time, he will be in fine company." She turns away, sweeping her gaze across the wide expanse of the building, glowing softly with the light of many candles. "We all have our own paths to tread, we made no vows to each other. I abandon no one."
Vister frowns softly. "But, Erathis-"
"Erathis does not speak to them!" Arora whirls on the other paladin angrily, her voice raising with barely strangled anger. "They are my friends and I know my vows and I know my duty. Erathis makes no claim to them, their hearts are their own! She. Does. Not. Speak. To. Them!"
Vister is shrinking back against the altar, a tremor just barely glimmering in her voice. "I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
But Arora is already walking purposefully out the temple doors, the pain in her chest growing with each angry step. In the morning she will be gone. Depending on where Brandis is going she may travel alongside him for a while, if she can catch up with his damn monstrous reptilian mount. She is very aware of her bite-sized nature and the creature makes her uncomfortable. The rest of the night is spent talking some to her companions and others who come to her. She cannot refuse anyone and it is late when she finally finds a bed to rest in. She has said her goodbyes.
It's time to leave. To Estagund, and a hope of final freedom from the entangled roots of history.