TMarkos
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Chapter 102 - Suspicion
🕑 Added 2023-03-15 13:43:13 +0000 UTCOne day the black hound saw the raven sitting on a branch, and came to ask it a question. It told of how it had noticed that every force in nature had its opposite, and that the balance of things was thus preserved.
Man, however, was balanced only by his reflection. The hound was confused how a mere image in the water could serve as balance, when the true man had a body of flesh and bone.
The raven posed a question in return, asking the hound what he saw when he looked into the water. The hound replied that he saw the image of a hound, as the raven would see an image of a raven. Why then, he asked again, should a man’s reflection be different?
Because man is unique, the raven explained. Alone of all animals, when a man looks into water he does not see another man looking back. He sees himself. In so doing, the vision takes root in his mind. The reflection may be seen only in water, the raven said, and to others it appears as just that. But its owner bears deep witness when it appears before them; ever after, its bones and flesh are shared between who the man is, and who he believes himself to be.
- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
—
Sunlight glittered from the water, dancing in the wake of the Mendiko cargo ship; they were sailing west, and the morning sun was rapidly gaining on them. Michael watched the churning spray and tried to relax. Nothing was going to happen today, nor tomorrow - nor likely this week.
But he was past any pretense that the world could continue on in the happy idyll of Imes. Michael and Sobriquet had bid a fond farewell to their borrowed apartment, leaving a small bit of money and a note tucked away for whoever lived there next. There wasn’t much to pack. Emil had found a place for their growing collection of clothes and oddities, leaving them with only two modest bags of field-appropriate clothing for their trip.
Michael snorted as he caught himself reflecting unhappily on leaving most of their possessions behind. It was mere weeks ago that he had been stealing rags from farmers’ laundry; now he had actual luggage. Even so, it felt like a shard of his life lingered behind them in Imes, one he wasn’t entirely sure he could pick up again.
He would be Stellar, when he left Ghar, or he would be dead. Or, Michael supposed, he would fail crushingly yet somehow escape with his life, which was perhaps the most daunting of the alternatives that occurred to him in that moment. So he stared out at the sparkling wake of the ship, watching it contort and ripple outwards into the sea, and tried not to think too hard about it.
The deck vibrated as footsteps crossed towards him; he recognized Antolin’s measured tread. Michael smiled. “I was thinking when we boarded that this is hardly the proper conveyance for a grand marshal,” Michael said. “How did you travel out here in the first place?”
“Believe it or not, this same ship,” Antolin chuckled, standing beside Michael at the railing. He looked much better-rested these days, the winter wind bringing a healthy flush to his cheeks. “It’s very convenient, it makes supply and mail runs from Leik to Gharon every week. Much easier than scheduling an overland convoy - safer, too. And since it runs on a schedule, a good deal less conspicuous.”
“Lekubarri mentioned that last advantage,” Michael agreed. “Something about not wanting to dissuade the Ardans from attacking Ghar; if it looks like a hard target they may decide to attack Saf directly. That wouldn’t be horrible, save that it would curtail our ability to do anything about the conflict by quite a bit.”
Antolin grimaced. “The Batzar will not act unless forced, I fear; there is no chance they’d intervene if the conflict was merely a resumption of the War. It would preserve the veneer of our strength, while allowing the rot to fester ever-deeper. That would be a worst-case scenario; I’m not surprised Lekubarri wishes to avoid it. I am surprised the Ardans didn’t take that into account in their own planning.”
“I imagine someone brought it up,” Michael sighed. “But I can make a few guesses as to why Luc is pushing them towards Ghar. He’s not trying to spur them to a righteous war. There’s no cause here, not even spoils or land worth the effort.” He shook his head. “Luc could probably find such a cause, but that’s not what he wants. He wants the Ardans to go to war out of pride, and arrogance, and spite, and all of the reasons he chose them for this mad plan in the first place. He wants them to deserve what happens next.”
“Hm,” Antolin grunted. “And so spitting in our eye is the end in itself, and not happenstance.”
“Provoking Mendian and Saf, reclaiming Ghar for Ardalt, finding a victory to erase the embarrassment of the War’s end - take your pick.” Michael scowled. “They’re all Luc’s offerings to the most detestable parts of Ardalt’s nature. And the worst part of it is - he’s right. It’s what they want. It’s why Spark was able to claw the Institute away from Jeorg and turn it into what it is today. Ardalt is everything Luc thinks it is.”
“He seems to have made a convincing case,” Antolin said mildly. “You sound ready to let them fall.”
Michael snorted. “If it were only my father, perhaps, or if the Assembly would bear the brunt of it. But the men who make the war won’t fight in it. The men who die will be farmers and laborers who find themselves swept up in patriotic lies, their minds torn from them and their bodies sent shuffling into Safid gunfire. The Assembly will endure, and find excuses for the loss. It will never even occur to my father that the fault might lie with him.”
The sloshing of water in their wake sang its chant over the low hum of the engines. After a few moments, Antolin smiled and shook his head. “You’ve had a hard month,” he said. “Before you went to Ardalt, you still had some hope left in you.” He turned to Michael, his eyes narrowing. “What happened over there?”
“You mean outside of what you’ve read in your reports,” Michael said. He hunched forward, considering his words. Eventually, he raised his head to look at the grand marshal. “I think I understand Leire better.”
Antolin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“I was furious with her, when she had Galen killed,” Michael said. “I thought she was an arrogant, domineering harridan who was incapable of compromise.”
“Not an uncommon view,” Antolin said, smiling slightly. “Have you come to think differently?”
Michael pressed his lips together. “To have someone resist all of your efforts to save them, throwing your concern in your face - I can see how it would lead someone to make drastic decisions.”
Antolin gave him a considering look, his eyes narrowing. “And did you?” he asked.
“It depends on what qualifies,” Michael snorted. “All Leire did was kill someone, a known and dangerous enemy. Do you know how many people I’ve killed this last month? I don’t. I used to count. I used to - remember how many, and where they were, and what their faces looked like. Sometime in the middle of the month I realized that I couldn’t anymore. I had been slaughtering Institute teams for so long that it barely registered.” He slouched forward again. “I used to have nightmares about this, Antolin. The first time I saw Leire use her soul, I imagined myself meting out that sort of death. It haunted me every time I slept for weeks. Now I barely have sleep to haunt, and - it doesn’t, in any case.”
He looked up at Antolin. “So should I congratulate myself on refraining from worse excess, knowing what’s ahead? Leire used to speak about using scalpels instead of swords; that’s the part I feel most keenly now. I could have killed Luc at the beginning, but I thought I was better than that. I could have ripped the anger and arrogance from my father’s mind, from Isolde and Sofia. But I’m better than that.” His voice twisted, venomous. “Now war looms on the horizon again, and I’ll be dealing out respectable, honest death with clean hands.”
“Hm.” Antolin nodded slowly. “There is one problem with that line of reasoning, though,” Antolin said.
Michael sighed, resting his head in his hands. “More than one,” he muttered. “Least of which is that I’m not a fucking maniac.”
“I’ve always considered that a positive trait of yours,” Antolin said, smiling. “But it’s easier than that to sum up.” He turned to face Michael fully, his face growing serious. “You’re not perfect, Michael. Nobody can expect it of you. You will make mistakes, and people will die. You will regret showing mercy, and you will regret withholding it. For every time you saw Leire wield that scalpel, there were other times when she failed to do so, and at times she killed without need. She was likewise not perfect; she contented herself with being deliberate, cautious - and forgiving.”
“Forgiving.” Michael shook his head. “Not the word I would have chosen for her.”
Antolin waggled his fingers. “Not for her enemies, certainly, and not for those who bear some threat towards Mendian or its interests. For allies who erred, or those who might one day be friends, she would make allowances.” He looked directly at Michael. “What vexed her most was the task of forgiving herself. She was not a woman who tolerated failure easily, especially not her own. But she would always stand again, always seek to improve - to improve relentlessly, as she was fond of putting it. That was her salve for failure, and how she made her peace with the many, many people who died as a result of her errors.”
“The idea of her admitting fault still sits strangely with me,” Michael said. “Especially given our last interactions. She was adamant that she had done nothing wrong.” He sighed. “And she may have been right. I’ve often wondered what changed in her, to let her come to me peacefully after her death. Maybe there was never any conflict. Maybe I didn’t know myself as well as I thought.”
“And do you know yourself better now?” Antolin asked.
Michael laughed. “How can I say yes?” he asked. “Leire was terrifying because I knew - knew, without question, that she was capable of anything if circumstance demanded it. I did not think the same of myself, but I’ve watched myself twist to adapt thus far. When the future unfolds to the point that Carolus saw, the terrible future that broke him just to look upon-”
He shook his head, looking out over the water. “He wasn’t looking at Luc. That was my first instinct, in the moment, because Luc was my focus for so long, but - he spoke my words, Antolin. My poem. The words I used to heal Sera, that I’ve invoked when I’ve had to - to reach deeply, and draw upon myself to my utmost. It felt unjust in the moment when Isolde accused me of killing him, but she wasn’t wrong. He was looking at me. Whatever he saw in the skein of perhaps-futures, he saw me. And that mere glance destroyed him.”
Michael stood from the rail, turning to face Antolin. “Shining, scouring, breaking - ending,” he murmured, and the words rippled across the water like a sigh; the waves paused ever so briefly. The air shuddered. Antolin drew in a breath, looking around.
“Sera thinks too much of me,” Michael said. “She thinks I’m too good to do harm, and I’ve taken comfort in that. I’ve let myself trust her sight. But if I do become what Carolus saw, then she’s wrong about me - and Luc is right. I am a cataclysm that the world is too fragile to bear.”
Antolin hummed softly, smoothing the front of his jacket. “Interpreting what an auspex sees is often difficult,” he said. “They see with the soul, and not the eyes; it renders everything with an odd emphasis, one that is deeply personal. In Mendian we’ve learned that two auspices asked the same question will give wildly differing answers, at times contradictory. The future is infinite, Michael. Your will is still your own.” He reached out to clasp Michael’s shoulder. There was the barest hesitation, his arm hitching halfway, but in the next moment his grasp was sure and firm. His eyes met Michael’s.
“You will only ever be what you choose to be,” Antolin said. “I won’t say that the coming months won’t bring their challenges, or demand that you make difficult choices; I think we’ll all be forced to compromise to bring this situation to a close. To stop a rogue Star, much would be justified. To stop the current Star - nothing is too much, because he will not shy away from that power you fear. Whatever you must do to stop him, I must be selfish and ask that you do it without regard for the consequences. You will have Mendian’s undying gratitude and support afterward, and we will help you to bear any trial that follows.”
Antolin’s emotions were clear for once, whether by choice or by dint of their surpassing strength in that moment; he felt fear, as people always did when they thought of Michael - but it was a mastered fear, a tame fear, laboring under the slow, steady beat of his confidence.
“And if we can’t?” Michael asked. “Leire was afraid of this, it was one of the first things she told me. Unpredictable, unconstrained growth - I borrowed some books while I was in Mendian, I did my reading. She didn’t use the word ‘singularity’ when we first met, but she described it well. We may already be past the point where it’s possible to stop, because killing Luc will only transfer his power to me, and-” Michael broke off, looking back out over the water.
“And I’m not sure who I’ll be,” he said. “Or what. I can already feel it slipping away. I can’t sleep, Antolin. I can’t feel heat or cold like I used to. I see with my eyes open or closed, and if I gain Carolus’s soul then even the darkness underground will be no refuge from sight.” Michael grimaced. “I can’t even get drunk like he did.”
The rushing of water filled the silence as Antolin’s mouth twisted; the grand marshal tapped his finger against the rail slowly. “I can only speak from my experience with Leire,” he said. “She didn’t have your problems, but hers were of a similar tenor. I saw her grapple with them over the years, watched without being able to act even as I knew our country’s security and future were utterly dependent on her.”
Michael looked up at Antolin, but said nothing; he let the grand marshal pause to collect his thoughts for a few moments.
Antolin shook his head, raking his fingers through iron-grey hair. “In the end, the question of humanity is one of connection. You are obviously human, and will never be anything else; your worry is that you will lose commonality with everyone you know and become a miserable, solitary existence. It’s not an unreasonable concern.”
“Thank you,” Michael said drily. “I feel better already.”
“I wasn’t finished,” Antolin chuckled. “I don’t think you’re much at risk of such a fate. I doubt there is a force extant that could part Sobriquet from you, and you have plenty of other friends besides.” He extended his hand towards Michael. “I’d like to count myself as one of them.”
Michael clasped his hand. “Gladly,” he said. “Though I question if you know what you’re volunteering for.”
Antolin snorted. “It is extremely unlikely that you’ll be more difficult than Leire.” He grinned, then stepped back to look at Michael; his eyes flicked up and down in an oddly-deliberate fashion, as if he were committing Michael’s image to memory.
Eventually, he met Michael’s eyes. “I’ll do what I can, but in the end there isn’t much meaningful aid I can offer. This is a problem only you can address. What I can promise, and what I will hold to, is that no matter what unfolds in Ghar, Mendian will welcome you back.”
Michael nodded slowly, unsure of what to say to that; Antolin did not seem to expect a response. He returned to the rail and looked out over the water. After a moment, Michael did the same.
—
The boat came to a lumbering halt in Rouns, where Antolin and most of the ranking Mendiko passengers departed. It was some ways distant from the reestablished border with Saf, but its size and large port made it the de facto nerve center for their remaining forces in Daressa. Michael lofted his sight up and saw the sprawling camps laid out beyond its walls, the rows of armor parked in fields - and the great, glossy bulk of the airship tied to the ground behind them both.
They were off before long, though - a fact Michael was glad of, for Rouns had not improved in smell since the last time they visited. They set off south around the bulbous peninsula that was Daressa’s southernmost extent, then crossed a small bay to their west.
It was nighttime when they came upon the Gharic coast. Michael had only managed a scant hour of sleep before he awoke; rather than stew in the cramped cabin, he had spent most of the night watching the stars from abovedecks. It was a way to pass the time, though he drew strange looks from the heavily-bundled crew as he stood unperturbed by the wind and chill.
The sea at night was a different beast, the waters of the bay rough and choppy under a persistent wind. Ice clung to the ship’s lines, forming slicks across the deck and sticking in Michael’s hair. He leaned into the wind, grinning; the winter sea felt alive, dynamic.
Gharon began as the steady strobe of its lighthouse, blossoming into a tight cluster of lights that clung close about its base. Very quickly, the lights resolved into the neat rows and columns of a Mendiko base; Michael had to readjust his sense of scale as they moved closer. He had taken the base for the whole town, but that wasn’t true; as they drew closer he began to see the small, dim lights carpeting the rest of the land, the bulk of them spreading up a slow, icy river away from the coast.
The lights were dull, flickering - not blazing Mendiko electricity, but firelight that lurked in the crevices of half-seen structures, highlighting aged and crumbling architecture in its dim glow. The city was a warren of black, twisting edges and lightless voids, split in two by the black river and punctuated by small knots of warmth.
Michael was reminded suddenly and unpleasantly of the river of souls. He turned his attention away from the old city and towards their destination once more; now that they were drawing close he could see more detail. The base was outside the bulk of the city, against the coast. It had its own modest port and a tall barrier that ran around its perimeter, cutting it off from the city.
The brightest lights were reserved for that barrier, drawing a line of daytime in the dark. By their illumination Michael could see crowds of makeshift buildings huddled close, tossed together from castoff stone and wood.
There was a shimmer of light beside him; he smiled. “You’re never up this early,” he said.
“I’m still not,” Sobriquet said, her voice managing to sound bleary even through the distorted tones of her apparition. “It’s horrid out there. I’m in bed, and shall be until we’ve docked.”
“You have some time yet,” Michael noted. “It looks like we’ll have to come north a bit before we dock, since the city’s ports are - not in good repair.” He frowned, noting the unlit ruin of piers along the riverbank, sodden or clogged with years of silt. “It’s bizarre. I’ve never seen a city like this, even during the War. Leik’s harbor was in worse shape after the attacks, but there were still boats - fishermen, repairmen, something. There are people living there, but they’re not doing anything.”
Sobriquet made an indistinct noise. “I can’t imagine they’re in a good situation,” she said. “They’ve only got a land route to Saf, who would invade them if they could. By sea they were scarcely much better, the War likely made travel along the Daressan coast hazardous until now. They can fish, perhaps, or grow crops, but without trade their possibilities would be limited.”
“They should be able to figure something out besides huddling in shacks,” Michael insisted. “They’re a Mendiko protectorate.”
“And look how well-protected they are,” she snorted, nodding towards the blaring lights of the base.
Michael frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, watching the port draw closer. The Mendiko docks were active despite the hour, and he saw a couple of small patrol vessels docked beside the larger slip that was meant for their transport.
True to Lekubarri’s description of it, the base was rather modest compared to the sprawling Mendiko war camps. Based on the barracks, Michael didn’t think there were more than a thousand men there. It was nevertheless a formidable installation; its high walls sported regular gun emplacements and spotlights along its perimeter, with a pair of enormous naval guns trained upon the bay.
It was fixed, though, and burdened with the weaknesses of all fixed defenses. Its position in the bay would make it trivial to blockade, and the city would provide cover for an army until it was dangerously close to the walls - assuming the army in question didn’t simply avoid the base, landing on the western shore of the Gharic peninsula.
Either way, this compact installation would not be the thing that stalled a potential incursion by the Ardans. It was made to defend itself, and to hold against larger threats until reinforcements came from the north. Michael frowned, shifting his sight closer as they approached.
“You’re gloomy,” Sobriquet noted. “You’ve been gloomy ever since Antolin left. Are you still thinking about what you said?”
Michael raised an ice-encrusted eyebrow, drawing his sight back. “I thought you were napping when we had that conversation.”
“I was,” she muttered. “But then someone started quoting things that gave me a headache, so I couldn’t help but overhear.” She paused, and her tone softened. “You never told me your suspicions about Carolus.”
“They’re only suspicions,” Michael said. “I could be wrong.”
“Liar,” she said, the apparition floating closer to him. “You know. You know you’re right. How?”
Michael squinted at her. “Most people would have let me get away with that lie, transparent or not,” he muttered, grimacing. “It’s silly, I’m probably fixating on it too much.”
“Michael Baumgart,” she said, swelling in size until the apparition towered over him. “Need I remind you that I am-”
“Sobriquet, yes, yes,” Michael sighed. He glared up at her. “Fine. If you must have it in plain language - aside from the fact that he used my poem - mine, which he had no good way of knowing-”
“But he did,” she frowned. “They were the words you spoke to heal me when you traveled up to my safehouse with Sibyl. Both she and Isolde were there, either of them could have told Carolus.”
Michael looked askance at her. “He seemed almost estranged from her, the way he spoke, and that seems like an odd bit of trivia to share.”
“Nevertheless, there is no particular reason why she couldn’t have made a report, or put her thoughts to paper in some way,” she pointed out. “Which he read, and planted the words to resurface in his dying breath.”
“You know just as well as I that it wasn’t the ramblings of a madman that day,” Michael said. “You felt it. I saw it. I saw his soul come together into a great work of glass, and golden light shone through. I recognized that light, when I saw it. It’s the color that Stanza shows me, when I view the world with my soul. Golden wires wrapping around everything, I’d know that light anywhere. It was me, Sera.”
“I know you’re convinced, but some words and a glow are hardly conclusive,” she said. “It’s not as though you’re up against a madman whose soul lets him emit light, hm?” She gave him an exasperated look, then shook her head. “It’s troubling, I’ll admit, but you should leave some room for doubt. Antolin was right about auspices, what they see isn’t fixed or even necessarily true. It’s - true to them, just like your fear is true to you. Their subjective truth doesn’t have to be ours.”
Michael sighed. “I’ll admit I never covered auspices much in my schooling,” he said. “And even if I had, I doubt my textbooks would have been useful here. I’ll trust you, and Antolin.” He looked out over Gharon, the crumbling blot of city spreading up the river until it was lost from sight.
“Liar,” Sobriquet said again, though her voice was soft and amused. “You’ll worry no matter what wiser voices say.”
“Which one of you two was the wise voice?” Michael shot back, smiling.
“Antolin,” Sobriquet replied. “He was right about a lot of things. Your will is your own, your future is your own - and there is no force in this world that can keep me apart from you.”
Michael felt an incongruous warmth amid the icy wind, a thrill fluttering through his chest; he kept his smile restrained, though and looked at her. “Except for some mildly inclement weather, it seems.”
“You’ve got icicles on your ears, you dolt,” she muttered. “Come back in and help me get our things together. It’ll take forever if I have to do it singlehandedly.”
Michael groaned at the pun and turned back towards the cabin, but not before letting his sight sweep one last time over the icebound river with the brilliant jewel at its mouth. He let his gaze linger on the ruins of Ghar for the few steps it took to reach the door - then ducked inside to prepare for their arrival.
Comments
TMarkos
Welp, we've got one arc left. We're going to get where we're going eventually...
TMarkos
I think I got Luc's image decently close to the first instance in chapter 88, but a bit prettier since it's a more official propaganda poster and not slapshod revolutionary propaganda. I'm glad I was able to make him look a bit more determined/focused in this one. Regarding his tactics vs. Luc, he did arrive at a method that would work - his immediate decision at that moment was to try and kill Luc using Spark, which he had refrained from using against Luc in prior conflicts due to the unforgivable nature of the soul. His decision was basically that he couldn't hold back anymore, no matter the cost. One of the themes I've tried to work in with regard to souls is that there's a sense of scale that's beyond the human when they're working. Mike first really notes it when he sees Leire attack the battlegroup outside of Leik, and it comes back again several times after that when he's up against titanic forces. Now he's finding himself on the other side of that divide, where he's gained a lot of power and is losing sight of certain things on the human side. It's partially a matter of perspective - as Antolin notes, his concern is less that he won't be human and more that he won't be like other humans. Ultimately it's a problem that stems from defining oneself in terms of perception rather than terms of being, which is why the epigraph is what it is today.
Kevin Zhang
When mike lets loose its gonna be glorious
Blorcyn
Luc looks far more Calvin-Klein-Model-in-New-Campaign ready than I had ever imagined, but I like it. A life of malnutrition and hardship can only highlight those cheekbones, I guess. Spark and the work camp played right into his hands. Hand. Well, I suppose if he is to be Michael's reflection per the opening proverb, he needs to be more aristocratic than I imagined. >To stop a rogue Star, much would be justified. To stop the current Star - nothing is too much, because he will not shy away from that power you fear. I like how this links up with the proverb, the way that Michael is viewing himself, and Luc. With the flesh and bones they share, and what he might become when Luc's soul comes to him, should it come to him. I find myself a little unsure why -- in moments when were so close to Michael in the narrative -- he doesn't seem to also wonder how he'll do what he needs to do to leave Ghar alive. When Luc got Carolus' soul he felt that Luc had become an obstacle he could not overpower, and I that suppose whatever the method the narrative shouldn't tell us now if it's something that would work, but it seems strange that in the middle of such a concrete period of fretting he doesn't think of what he /could/ try against Luc even off-hand. It feels like he's thought of something but we're being kept from it. I also like his thoughts on his humanity, while then immediately showing why that his loss of several parts of his human experience aren't robbing him of his humanity and his filter, why he thinks he's more Luc-like than his Michael-like, as he enjoys and wonders at the winter sea, and the boat, and is able to find the beauty in his sleeplessness and his sight. I find myself wondering whether, really, in the combination of the two above -- his appreciation of a wild winter sea, and a fixation on his death or luc's and the soul he shares whether I'm imagining death flags, or whether they're there. Michael's soul came to him with a rejection of the world, and he becomes more and more distant from how the world ought to work and how he as a human being ought to function, just like Luc. He's too big. Souls are at the route of this, and there's Jeorg and there's Sever and there's the river of souls, and there's no way that climactically we don't try and see this all tied together. If Michael is to die against a foe he can't overcome by use of soul, and if Michael is coming to a realisation that the natural world is something that he can accept as it is, is his ultimate arc the acceptance of death that he couldn't muster when he last died? And, when Michael 'My soul to the One' dies, will he take Luc's half with him perhaps (if Luc isn't dying at that moment, if this is instead the method by which Luc is defeated)? Perhaps, singularity wise, we're building to what Mendiko was trying for in practical terms - a world without souls, and Michael and the low souls and the high souls all going through the experience at the other end of the river. > “Except for some mildly inclement weather, it seems.” Stellar's soul doesn't just make light, Sera 'I explicitly confirm I am one of the few ties Michael can depend on, as we go into this final city of conflict, and I'm sure that's not possibly horrible foreshadowing' Lastname. :-/
