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Family Matters
Mar. 18th, 2018 01:22 pm((A follow-up to the long-standing mini-plot involving Reynard, Anna, Harrowheart, and his minion. If you want the background: (1) Reynard tries to bury bodies after the Khan event, but Harrowheart has other ideas. (2) Harrowheart debates the morality of it all and comes to a strong conclusion. (3) Next winter, Reynard meets Harrowheart's sister and hatches a plan. (4) Reynard makes good on his original promise.))
Night has long since settled in when Harrowheart returns to Ixis Naugus' tower, his hands dirtied and his face void of expression. His minion – his trophy – is finally dead. Finally 'resting,' if Reynard wants to believe that. What the winter spirit doesn't know and doesn't need to know is that her soul is trapped and always will be, but her body will be consumed by the earth of the Nexus nearly a year after her death. Dignity, if that's what Reynard believes. An eternity as scattered bones unused, buried in a hole in the forest dug by a woman whose hand was forced.
If the property surrounding the castle were empty Harrowheart wouldn't be surprised. Farm life means the Weatherhills are in at sun down and out before dawn. But not tonight. Tonight Harrowheart passes through the gate only to see his brother Lawrence seated at the communal table. Even at a distance he can tell who it is, and he call tell exactly what's in his hands. His father's rifle, ready but not aimed. You never can tell when the anti-violence field will fail, and he knows Lawrence's aim is almost as good as his own once was. Harrowheart approaches with caution, his steps measured and his eyes on his brother's face lit poorly by a single candle on the table.
With his brother still a few yards off Lawrence stands. "The fuck are you doing here?" he demands, his measured voice masking emotions.
"Comin' home," Harrowheart replies, holding up his open palms.
Lawrence shakes his head. "The Hell you are." He lifts his gun to point toward the gate. "Turn back around and find somewhere else to go."
"Lawrence," Harrowheart quietly tries. "I live here."
"That's the thing, Harrowheart. You really don't."
Lawrence's stare is hard, the shadows under his brows deep from the faint orange light of the flame. His breath comes as a foggy cloud, gone in an instant in the chilly late-winter air. Harrowheart's blue eyes watch him, waiting. Like the night his gaze grows colder by the second.
"We know what happened," Lawrence says. His sweaty hand tightens around the stock of the gun. "You should see your sister's face. You should hear her. What the fuck were you thinking?"
The answer Lawrence waits for never comes. His eyes narrow with disgust and he begins to shake his head. "You don't even have an excuse? That's it? You're going to stand there, staring at me, and that's it? You chose your magic over your sister? Your fucking... Necromancy? Over your family?"
Harrowheart's head turns just slightly, but the lights of his eyes don't move. Lawrence blinks, and only then realizes that his brother doesn't. He's staring. He's just staring. He's staring and his fists are clenching. A bright blue glow pulses from the blade on his back and fuck him but he can't help breathing just a little faster. His good hand, trembling, fumbles with the gun. His mechanical finger rests on the trigger.
Once again Lawrence's gun points toward the gate. "Go," he croaks. It's all he can say. His mind is filled with fearful realizations that grip his throat like he imagines his brother could. Imagines Harrowheart could. A death knight. Not merely no longer living, but a creature that thrives on pain. On killing. Something that could choose the perversion of life over the protection of the living. Something that he wishes he wasn't seeing on the other end of a single-barrel rifle.
The death knight strides forward, and Lawrence staggers backwards. "Don't come any closer!" he shouts, but Harrowheart defies him.
He takes another step toward the castle and Lawrence takes two. "I said don't come any closer!"
Far from that single candle it's so very dark. His fear is turning into adrenaline now, turning into courage and defiance. Harrowheart has nearly backed him up against the castle door, but Lawrence refuses to be trapped. He shoves the rifle up to the death knight's chest and tries to push him away, but Harrowheart is stronger and won't be moved.
"You won't come in here tonight," Lawrence warns.
Harrowheart lifts a hand and grips the barrel of the rifle.
"Leave. Now. Or I swear to the Light, Harrowheart, I will shoot you!"
Harrowheart begins to turn the gun away and Lawrence braces himself to keep it in place, but he's no match for an undead's inhuman strength and can't fight the inevitable shift of the barrel. From sternum toward arm until ––
The sound of gunfire and a terrible scream precedes the splitting of the enchanted door and in an instant Lawrence's younger brother Matthew tumbles out. He had hoped to be brave, but everything he sees when he arrives leaves him frozen in shock. Wetness glints in the moonlight – blood, blood everywhere, and a dark stain on his undead brother's chest. Two figures are grappling and for a second or two all he can discern are their silhouettes until there are sparks, blindingly bright white-hot sparks of electricity and the horrid sound of crunching, cracking. Lawrence shrieks in pain as Harrowheart grips his mechanical arm and twists, wrenching it in all the wrong directions, splitting metal and plastic and circuitry. Lawrence's glasses fall to the ground and his body follows as Harrowheart punches his ribs. He's trapped on the ground, a death knight's boot on his chest, pale, linen-wrapped hands on the shredded wreck of his prosthetic arm.
And then Harrowheart pulls, and Lawrence screams, and something in the sight and sound is terrifying enough that it recalls in Matthew a certain memory. The vision of a paladin, a hero of Justice even if she was of the Horde, a woman who risked her life battling demons to save himself and his helpless family in a land where on any other day she might have been hanged. And just like that there's a new light illuminating this violent scene.
Harrowheart drops Lawrence's severed prosthetic and turns when he senses a magic that pricks his skin even at a distance. Standing there just past the doorway he sees it – the Light. The Holy Light, the Light of life, shining in his brother's hand. His pale lip rises and his blue eyes narrow.
"You're gonna cast the Light against me?" Harrowheart snorts. He lifts his bloodied hand and though the magic he works can't be seen Matthew feels a darkness pulling at him, gripping him from his core, burrowing in around his heart, a cold Shadow that pulls him against his will towards a death knight's outstretched hand. Matthew digs his heels into the frozen ground and scuffs the dirt but finds no purchase. The magic is stronger than him. It pulls him to an icy, waiting hand that grips him tightly around the throat and lifts him up off of his feet.
Matthew gasps for air and struggles to breathe, to even think. But the fire in his heart won't be diminished. It flows to his hand and his magic grows. Uncontrolled by a novice's hand the Light lashes out with its own will. The innate magnetism of life and death magics draws it toward the monster and like a lash it strikes him in his gaping wound.
Harrowheart's shriek is feral, an inhuman squeal. Matthew falls to his feet, free, and Harrowheart staggers backwards. He stumbles and falls, then scrambles to stand. There's a clarity in his glowing eyes when he looks between his brothers. Clarity, understanding... And inevitable shame. He did this? He allowed himself to do this?...
He has to leave. He has to go. Like Anna said, like Lawrence said... He really doesn't live here now.
Night has long since settled in when Harrowheart returns to Ixis Naugus' tower, his hands dirtied and his face void of expression. His minion – his trophy – is finally dead. Finally 'resting,' if Reynard wants to believe that. What the winter spirit doesn't know and doesn't need to know is that her soul is trapped and always will be, but her body will be consumed by the earth of the Nexus nearly a year after her death. Dignity, if that's what Reynard believes. An eternity as scattered bones unused, buried in a hole in the forest dug by a woman whose hand was forced.
If the property surrounding the castle were empty Harrowheart wouldn't be surprised. Farm life means the Weatherhills are in at sun down and out before dawn. But not tonight. Tonight Harrowheart passes through the gate only to see his brother Lawrence seated at the communal table. Even at a distance he can tell who it is, and he call tell exactly what's in his hands. His father's rifle, ready but not aimed. You never can tell when the anti-violence field will fail, and he knows Lawrence's aim is almost as good as his own once was. Harrowheart approaches with caution, his steps measured and his eyes on his brother's face lit poorly by a single candle on the table.
With his brother still a few yards off Lawrence stands. "The fuck are you doing here?" he demands, his measured voice masking emotions.
"Comin' home," Harrowheart replies, holding up his open palms.
Lawrence shakes his head. "The Hell you are." He lifts his gun to point toward the gate. "Turn back around and find somewhere else to go."
"Lawrence," Harrowheart quietly tries. "I live here."
"That's the thing, Harrowheart. You really don't."
Lawrence's stare is hard, the shadows under his brows deep from the faint orange light of the flame. His breath comes as a foggy cloud, gone in an instant in the chilly late-winter air. Harrowheart's blue eyes watch him, waiting. Like the night his gaze grows colder by the second.
"We know what happened," Lawrence says. His sweaty hand tightens around the stock of the gun. "You should see your sister's face. You should hear her. What the fuck were you thinking?"
The answer Lawrence waits for never comes. His eyes narrow with disgust and he begins to shake his head. "You don't even have an excuse? That's it? You're going to stand there, staring at me, and that's it? You chose your magic over your sister? Your fucking... Necromancy? Over your family?"
Harrowheart's head turns just slightly, but the lights of his eyes don't move. Lawrence blinks, and only then realizes that his brother doesn't. He's staring. He's just staring. He's staring and his fists are clenching. A bright blue glow pulses from the blade on his back and fuck him but he can't help breathing just a little faster. His good hand, trembling, fumbles with the gun. His mechanical finger rests on the trigger.
Once again Lawrence's gun points toward the gate. "Go," he croaks. It's all he can say. His mind is filled with fearful realizations that grip his throat like he imagines his brother could. Imagines Harrowheart could. A death knight. Not merely no longer living, but a creature that thrives on pain. On killing. Something that could choose the perversion of life over the protection of the living. Something that he wishes he wasn't seeing on the other end of a single-barrel rifle.
The death knight strides forward, and Lawrence staggers backwards. "Don't come any closer!" he shouts, but Harrowheart defies him.
He takes another step toward the castle and Lawrence takes two. "I said don't come any closer!"
Far from that single candle it's so very dark. His fear is turning into adrenaline now, turning into courage and defiance. Harrowheart has nearly backed him up against the castle door, but Lawrence refuses to be trapped. He shoves the rifle up to the death knight's chest and tries to push him away, but Harrowheart is stronger and won't be moved.
"You won't come in here tonight," Lawrence warns.
Harrowheart lifts a hand and grips the barrel of the rifle.
"Leave. Now. Or I swear to the Light, Harrowheart, I will shoot you!"
Harrowheart begins to turn the gun away and Lawrence braces himself to keep it in place, but he's no match for an undead's inhuman strength and can't fight the inevitable shift of the barrel. From sternum toward arm until ––
The sound of gunfire and a terrible scream precedes the splitting of the enchanted door and in an instant Lawrence's younger brother Matthew tumbles out. He had hoped to be brave, but everything he sees when he arrives leaves him frozen in shock. Wetness glints in the moonlight – blood, blood everywhere, and a dark stain on his undead brother's chest. Two figures are grappling and for a second or two all he can discern are their silhouettes until there are sparks, blindingly bright white-hot sparks of electricity and the horrid sound of crunching, cracking. Lawrence shrieks in pain as Harrowheart grips his mechanical arm and twists, wrenching it in all the wrong directions, splitting metal and plastic and circuitry. Lawrence's glasses fall to the ground and his body follows as Harrowheart punches his ribs. He's trapped on the ground, a death knight's boot on his chest, pale, linen-wrapped hands on the shredded wreck of his prosthetic arm.
And then Harrowheart pulls, and Lawrence screams, and something in the sight and sound is terrifying enough that it recalls in Matthew a certain memory. The vision of a paladin, a hero of Justice even if she was of the Horde, a woman who risked her life battling demons to save himself and his helpless family in a land where on any other day she might have been hanged. And just like that there's a new light illuminating this violent scene.
Harrowheart drops Lawrence's severed prosthetic and turns when he senses a magic that pricks his skin even at a distance. Standing there just past the doorway he sees it – the Light. The Holy Light, the Light of life, shining in his brother's hand. His pale lip rises and his blue eyes narrow.
"You're gonna cast the Light against me?" Harrowheart snorts. He lifts his bloodied hand and though the magic he works can't be seen Matthew feels a darkness pulling at him, gripping him from his core, burrowing in around his heart, a cold Shadow that pulls him against his will towards a death knight's outstretched hand. Matthew digs his heels into the frozen ground and scuffs the dirt but finds no purchase. The magic is stronger than him. It pulls him to an icy, waiting hand that grips him tightly around the throat and lifts him up off of his feet.
Matthew gasps for air and struggles to breathe, to even think. But the fire in his heart won't be diminished. It flows to his hand and his magic grows. Uncontrolled by a novice's hand the Light lashes out with its own will. The innate magnetism of life and death magics draws it toward the monster and like a lash it strikes him in his gaping wound.
Harrowheart's shriek is feral, an inhuman squeal. Matthew falls to his feet, free, and Harrowheart staggers backwards. He stumbles and falls, then scrambles to stand. There's a clarity in his glowing eyes when he looks between his brothers. Clarity, understanding... And inevitable shame. He did this? He allowed himself to do this?...
He has to leave. He has to go. Like Anna said, like Lawrence said... He really doesn't live here now.
