A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Re: A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Postby Tolleson » Wed Dec 11, 2013 4:37 am

She thought she knew, of course she did. She spoke as if she did, but how could she? Glenn Burnie was many things, but forthcoming was hardly one of them. He seemed to comply and even if she suspected he was holding back it was futile to argue now.

“T-there is,” a pleasant, warm and saccharin smile is once again donned. It is a smile that belies her concern for the man, a million other worries, and the problems of a recovering town. It was such a small and magnificent thing, how Genny, in the course of two months, had learned to lie in this way. And to one of the only people who might notice.

“T-there is more, I mean … t-to life, t-than surviving,” her cloak was gathered, opened and wrapped around. “Here, t-things t-t-threaten survival, beasts and nightmares, wars, even one another; without surviving how can one find meaning… or happiness?” Isn’t that what their jobs were, essentially, to make Myrken safe, to give people the chance to survive. Of course thriving was important, but it was a far off horizon that even she had abandoned long ago. After all, three years of talk and the Library was still little better than dilapidated heap, better off condemned. Hadn’t it’s restoration been her goal?

“Good.” Her response was firm and genuinely happy, matching the perfected expression.

“You… may t-think, Genny, t-t-this silly girl, why does she say t-these things. But I… I do worry about you. You... I see a man who sacrifices much and is constantly hurt… but perhaps t-there is pain that can be lessened… scars to be avoided, when we fight t-t-together.” Of course, she must had meant the metaphorical sense, as she was a lousy combatant.

He would let her go, but she stood still a moment longer her smile faltering slight as she busied herself with tying the closure on her cloak, that even as she looked down it would be impossible to see. Her fingers fiddled with it blindly, the motion hardly deft despite the repetition at least a hundred times before.

“Did you see… anything… who it was, did she see… did she, did she know who killed her?” It was an incredibly difficult question to ask, she wasn't going to but for many, many reasons she had to and by her tone she apologized.
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Re: A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Postby Glenn » Wed Dec 11, 2013 4:56 am

Genevieve Tolleson. This silly girl. This silly girl who says these silly, silly things, who finds room for sentiment in an outwardly way. He spoke of thriving, of living, but it was all an inward thing for him. One thought therefore one existed. One created or planned or pontificated. If you felt it was hot emotions or cold ones. There was little room for a soft affection, a bittersweet glance, a barely warm heart. There was so little room for any of that when you were fighting not just gods but the idea of God itself, when you were pushing back against immortality and Fate and erosion itself. It's why he needed her. Agnieszka upset his board. She reshuffled the deck. She broke rules, but Genvieve. She was a thread that mended, a soft light that did not overpower the darkness but instead showed you where it congealed the thickest.

Right now, that was what he needed the most. "Genevieve. It will be like this." For this was his decision, or part of his decision. "Rhaena Olwak died at the hands of the Storyteller. Rhaena Olwak died at her own hands. Rhaena Olwak died at my hands. Rhaena Olwak died at the hands of one other." These were distant words, pained ones. "Ultimately, who killed Rhaena Olwak is whoever benefits Myrken Wood the most to have killed her. We can survive. We can thrive, but if we seek justice now, any justice, it shall be a ragged and twisted growth. For now, necessity will have to suffice. Our people bleed and, for now, truth is a dagger to the chest, not a balm."
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Re: A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Postby Tolleson » Wed Dec 11, 2013 5:41 am

It will be like this.

He had said that phrase to her before, maybe a handful of times, and it is comforting. However, terrible the words that followed would inevitably be, it was some instruction, some guidance. It was Burnie’s few, simple words that almost always prefaced a lie she would have to keep.

This is why he was governor and not she. In all the days since, she had, of course, offered assistance to the councilor Treadwell, for keeping peace and filling holes left by those dead, departed, or afraid. But her goal had been to learn the truth, to solve the problem, to do as inquisitors ought to do. Or had she misunderstood all along.

The red haired woman stood, the laces of her cloak tied but her eyes remaining downcast, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze as he explains. Unmoving, she is still except for the rise and fall of her chest as air fills it and is expelled. Still, as if she has forgotten to move, to react to what she hears. So perfectly still, she listens to every word, to more than just the words, if even just for a moment.

No smile follows or scolding words, instead it is a thought, just single rebellious a notion like a leaf on a breeze that pushes out past the boundaries of her mind. It is an unspoken, disembodied whisper, faint as the breath one might take before they speak and disseminating upon the air with the speed of thought itself. ‘Truth and justice are not the same.’ Perhaps he’d hear it, as if it were one of his own fleeting thoughts. Perhaps he knew better. Perhaps he didn’t care or she hadn’t noticed how her inner protest had, even in so slight a way, become externalized. Rhaena deserved better, so did he, and for that matter, Myrken too, but this, she does not say.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She nodded in agreement and spoke words aloud, no louder than usual but in contrast to the whisper, thunderous. Her eyes finally drifted up, catching him a moment to convey her understanding before turning for the doorway.

“Rest, mend yourself and I will work t-t-to mend Myrken,” applying whatever balm was necessary. Her last words, drifting from a half turned body in motion, were as much a farewell wish as a command for him and for herself.

Agnie would hate her for it, Gloria would argue, and less than half would believe it. But these lies, like any medicine, were easier swallowed with sugar. Full bellies for winter, order reinstated, trust regained, this would be a start towards something sweet, culminating as a great, heaping, pure and glistening spoonful of hope. Something they all, so desperately needed.
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Re: A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Postby Glenn » Wed Dec 11, 2013 5:43 am

Once upon a time when Rhaena's powers were cut off from her along with her hand, all roads to his mind had cauterized. Healing happened slowly and in narrows ways; he had reconnected with his lover, but presumably, Rhaena's death was something of a setback on that count. Burnie read other things though, not minds but eyes, not thoughts but people, and increasingly, one thing did heal. Increasingly, he was able to see hearts once more.

What Myrken deserved. That was justice. What had happened. That was truth. To seek out one without the other was dangerous. To seek out both was far more than Myrken could currently handle.

"I need time, Genevieve," Simple, straightforward, true. "We need time. Buy me what you can, then, when it comes time for the speech, find somewhere better to be." Small mercies came in many forms; this one, this horrible one to accompany those words which where anything but patronizing, came in the form of a wink. It seemed to cost him something though, for he slumped back down. "Thank you and I'm sorry and goodbye for now." The words hurried, rushed, a quick barrage, with no time for much emotion behind any of them. It was all he had left for her now and perhaps the only way he could give any of it anyway.

Mend, she said. No, there was still bleeding to be done first. A broken bone needed to be rebroken to be reset. There was still more pain on the road ahead.
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Re: A Brisk Autumn Harvest

Postby Tolleson » Wed Dec 11, 2013 5:55 am

Had she even dared to peek? What bruises remained and whatever wounds that still crippled his mind, if Genny had seen them, she made no sign of it.

Regarding him with respect and concern, her eyes light up for just a moment at the costly gesture. Abruptly she exhales, a sort of solitary laugh at the thing as her lips pull back more genuinely, the pillows of her cheeks fluffed as she smiles. And the smile is so sweet, as if on it she might catch him, as if she could cradle him delicately down to rest instead of the drained slump that left him alone in that chair.

"T-the Gods alone could keep me from it," she spoke the words aloud, though some distance was between them now. She nodded at his thank you, his apology, his good bye, indicating a blanket acceptance of all three before turning and leaving the room. But there were still quiet words, words for the attendant, a few coins extra for the trouble, for some good meals, and for someone to be there. In those soft and drowned out words, perhaps there is a thanks, a request, or even instructions that they remain present, that someone stay to take care of Mister Burnie whether he asked for it or not. And of course, that they send for her should anything happen.

Arrangements needed to be made, a plan devised, an announcement made and she would waste no time in buying time. There was just one man with whom she needed to speak with first.
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