On the fifteenth day of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
All he could do was stare back at his brother in confusion. It was all so outlandish that, even though he knew both Ziemowit and his aunt were as serious as the grave, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around everything - or anything, for that matter. Firstly, that he had a brother at all was odd. Secondly, that that brother had come searching for him, only to almost slit his throat, was equally, if not more so strange. Thirdly, and more or less finally - with a hefty exception for his aunt's confusing outpouring of emotions -, that same brother who had tried to kill him wanted to protect him from some unknown group - of what sounded more or less like assassins - who had already wiped out the entirety of the other men and women who shared the Wrona name and blood.
It was beyond ridiculous.
"I-" The words seemed to drift right out of his ears, leaving nothing but hesitant silence in their wake. Neither Ziemowit nor Lisette had taken their gazes off of him, both staring expectantly in their own ways, both waiting for... for what? His answer? There hadn't been a question. What Ziemowit had told him had been a direct response to his own, and now that it was said... Doran didn't know what to do. With any of it. The best he could manage was a polite, though dubious, "Are you... certain?" It seemed the least absurd response and followed well with the serious of unbelievable events. After all, if he were some long lost sibling, how could Ziemowit be certain there were not more? Perhaps, by some obscene twist of fate, there were even hundreds, a long line of people to be cut down like wheat in a field. The thought was a bit sickening and carried with it no relief of humor.
"Am I-" The darker haired man blinked, his turn to wear a brief expression of confusion before his bold brows settled once more, voice sombre and serious. "Yes. I saw each of their bodies. It's not something you can... mistake." There was a subtle bristling of his brother's words; he'd clearly taken offense at something, though there were so many possibilities Doran didn't even know where to begin.
Finally, a thought swept through the roiling, stormy scape of his mind and caught upon his tongue. His head tilted slightly as his quite voice rose in question - or perhaps challenge, it was difficult for him to decide on the words he was even saying, let along what his expressions might reveal or even what it was exactly he was feeling. "But I'm not a Wrona." It seemed straightforward. The point was to kill the Wronas; though he shared the patriarch's blood, Doran had no claim to their name, to their heritage. He was a bastard, an unrecognised one at that. No one would support his claim, if there were even anything to claim at all.
This didn't seem to be the first time Ziemowit heard or thought of Doran's concern. Slowly, still tender from where he'd be slammed in the back of the head with the frying back, he shook his head side to side. "If father knew of you, they do as well. You're not safe." The last statement sounded uninhibitedly ironic.
Again, he found he had no words. Both his aunt and - apparently - his brother sat across from him on the hardwood of the kitchen floor, assuring him that death was coming. "So..." It was all very well and good that there was a faceless syndicate of blood seeking executioners who had been set upon their scent after what sounded to be an inane decision made by a single, thoughtless young man that had damned all those who might claim relation to him. But short of Ziemowit's claim that he would protect him and his aunt's request he go with the brother he'd only just met, there didn't seem to be much of a plan beyond "try not to die". "What are we supposed to... do?"
Ziemowit frowned. "Leave here, to start."
Lisette nodded, concern in her eyes. "I can help pay for your fare on a ship."
Doran, however, merely stared back at the two of them, regarding both, quite blatantly, as utterly mad. "Is no one going to express how... how preposterous this entire- all of-" His hands flopped uselessly, grasping for what it is he wanted to say exactly. "This is madness."
"This is Idalos." Ziemowit's voice was low, steady. "'When flames burn bright and hot, and coals are consumed. Their hunger unsated, whatever's near: doomed.' Rimora Thilla; it doesn't matter what your life was before. This is what it is now. The powerful destroy the weak just like a fire." It was hardly uplifting, though Doran couldn't argue with the man's logic. It wasn't as if what was happening was anything either of them had had a direct hand it. It still didn't make it any less ludicrous.
Turning to his aunt, Doran shook his head, clearly appealing to any sensible bone left within her. "Does none of this strike you strange, Aunt Lisette?" There was an almost pleading tone in his voice, just barely reigned in by force of will. He could feel the subtle, cloying tendrils of panic creeping their way through the back of his mind.
Though she made no move to offer the letter that was still held tightly in her hand, she did give it a vague wave as she replied, her voice unusually soft. "Strange, yes, but Emil... he wouldn't go through such lengths for an odd prank. I'm afraid this is very real, Doran." She only whispered his name, eyes growing misty behind a veil of salty water that threatened to escape from the corners of her still puffy eyes.
"Oh." There wasn't much else for him to say. His hands settled back into his lap, uncertain what he should do with them, with himself, with anything, really, when he felt his arm bump against the little square in his pocket. He'd forgotten all about the ring, his aunt's trial of birth, the entire purpose he'd come in the first place. Solemn as the atmosphere was, he didn't want it to slip his mind again - after all, it seemed he was apparently leaving for... the Seven only knew how long. Reaching into his pocked, he withdrew the small wooden box and handed it to his aunt with a mostly blank expression. "I... I purchased this earlier for you. I thought... well, I thought it would present a pleasant gift. Though, it feels inappropriate to say something so cheery as 'many happy returns of the day' when we've already had-" He waved a hand as Lisette took the box from him. "All of this."
For a moment, his aunt's eyes lit up as she beheld the ring - it was the single most normal thing that had happened since he'd set foot inside the house. It quickly faded, replaced by a deeper sadness as she slipped the band over her finger, the opals glimmering faintly in the limited light of the kitchen's windows. "Thank you, Doran." What had been intended as a light hearted gift in celebration had become a symbol of what his aunt - his mother - believed to be her loss.
"You're... you're welcome." Lamely, Doran let the words hang between them, Ziemowit appearing all the more uncomfortable as it stretched on, threatening to do so indefinitely.
Finally, he spoke, slowly rising to his feet. "We should... go. Doran." He added his brother's name in an awkward addendum, though his face gave little sign he felt embarrassed by it - more so it had been an experiment in hearing what it sounded like from his own lips.
"Erm. Right. Yes." He rose as well, offering a hand to assist his aunt as helping to hoist her back onto her feet. Staring at her worried face, Doran tried a smile. His new reality had already begun to sink in, and the screeching, clamoring insistences in his head claiming that what was happening could not possibly be true were slowly being drowned out by the ready rise of the water of acceptance. Somehow, he'd managed to become a wanted a man - a living, breathing target for someone's blade or arrow or both. "Well, I... I suppose... goodbye, Aunt Lisette." Lamely, they embraced, all said what had been needed to say already.
As they collected Ziemowit's daggers and Doran helped to support the man's weight as he had yet to find his balance returned to him, Doran paused upon the house's threshold, his aunt gently catching at his arm as she handed him a small pouch of nels she'd gathered while the brothers had been busy prying the daggers from the door. "Be safe, Doran."
With a sigh, his smile was as soft as his words. "I'll try."
All he could do was stare back at his brother in confusion. It was all so outlandish that, even though he knew both Ziemowit and his aunt were as serious as the grave, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around everything - or anything, for that matter. Firstly, that he had a brother at all was odd. Secondly, that that brother had come searching for him, only to almost slit his throat, was equally, if not more so strange. Thirdly, and more or less finally - with a hefty exception for his aunt's confusing outpouring of emotions -, that same brother who had tried to kill him wanted to protect him from some unknown group - of what sounded more or less like assassins - who had already wiped out the entirety of the other men and women who shared the Wrona name and blood.
It was beyond ridiculous.
"I-" The words seemed to drift right out of his ears, leaving nothing but hesitant silence in their wake. Neither Ziemowit nor Lisette had taken their gazes off of him, both staring expectantly in their own ways, both waiting for... for what? His answer? There hadn't been a question. What Ziemowit had told him had been a direct response to his own, and now that it was said... Doran didn't know what to do. With any of it. The best he could manage was a polite, though dubious, "Are you... certain?" It seemed the least absurd response and followed well with the serious of unbelievable events. After all, if he were some long lost sibling, how could Ziemowit be certain there were not more? Perhaps, by some obscene twist of fate, there were even hundreds, a long line of people to be cut down like wheat in a field. The thought was a bit sickening and carried with it no relief of humor.
"Am I-" The darker haired man blinked, his turn to wear a brief expression of confusion before his bold brows settled once more, voice sombre and serious. "Yes. I saw each of their bodies. It's not something you can... mistake." There was a subtle bristling of his brother's words; he'd clearly taken offense at something, though there were so many possibilities Doran didn't even know where to begin.
Finally, a thought swept through the roiling, stormy scape of his mind and caught upon his tongue. His head tilted slightly as his quite voice rose in question - or perhaps challenge, it was difficult for him to decide on the words he was even saying, let along what his expressions might reveal or even what it was exactly he was feeling. "But I'm not a Wrona." It seemed straightforward. The point was to kill the Wronas; though he shared the patriarch's blood, Doran had no claim to their name, to their heritage. He was a bastard, an unrecognised one at that. No one would support his claim, if there were even anything to claim at all.
This didn't seem to be the first time Ziemowit heard or thought of Doran's concern. Slowly, still tender from where he'd be slammed in the back of the head with the frying back, he shook his head side to side. "If father knew of you, they do as well. You're not safe." The last statement sounded uninhibitedly ironic.
Again, he found he had no words. Both his aunt and - apparently - his brother sat across from him on the hardwood of the kitchen floor, assuring him that death was coming. "So..." It was all very well and good that there was a faceless syndicate of blood seeking executioners who had been set upon their scent after what sounded to be an inane decision made by a single, thoughtless young man that had damned all those who might claim relation to him. But short of Ziemowit's claim that he would protect him and his aunt's request he go with the brother he'd only just met, there didn't seem to be much of a plan beyond "try not to die". "What are we supposed to... do?"
Ziemowit frowned. "Leave here, to start."
Lisette nodded, concern in her eyes. "I can help pay for your fare on a ship."
Doran, however, merely stared back at the two of them, regarding both, quite blatantly, as utterly mad. "Is no one going to express how... how preposterous this entire- all of-" His hands flopped uselessly, grasping for what it is he wanted to say exactly. "This is madness."
"This is Idalos." Ziemowit's voice was low, steady. "'When flames burn bright and hot, and coals are consumed. Their hunger unsated, whatever's near: doomed.' Rimora Thilla; it doesn't matter what your life was before. This is what it is now. The powerful destroy the weak just like a fire." It was hardly uplifting, though Doran couldn't argue with the man's logic. It wasn't as if what was happening was anything either of them had had a direct hand it. It still didn't make it any less ludicrous.
Turning to his aunt, Doran shook his head, clearly appealing to any sensible bone left within her. "Does none of this strike you strange, Aunt Lisette?" There was an almost pleading tone in his voice, just barely reigned in by force of will. He could feel the subtle, cloying tendrils of panic creeping their way through the back of his mind.
Though she made no move to offer the letter that was still held tightly in her hand, she did give it a vague wave as she replied, her voice unusually soft. "Strange, yes, but Emil... he wouldn't go through such lengths for an odd prank. I'm afraid this is very real, Doran." She only whispered his name, eyes growing misty behind a veil of salty water that threatened to escape from the corners of her still puffy eyes.
"Oh." There wasn't much else for him to say. His hands settled back into his lap, uncertain what he should do with them, with himself, with anything, really, when he felt his arm bump against the little square in his pocket. He'd forgotten all about the ring, his aunt's trial of birth, the entire purpose he'd come in the first place. Solemn as the atmosphere was, he didn't want it to slip his mind again - after all, it seemed he was apparently leaving for... the Seven only knew how long. Reaching into his pocked, he withdrew the small wooden box and handed it to his aunt with a mostly blank expression. "I... I purchased this earlier for you. I thought... well, I thought it would present a pleasant gift. Though, it feels inappropriate to say something so cheery as 'many happy returns of the day' when we've already had-" He waved a hand as Lisette took the box from him. "All of this."
For a moment, his aunt's eyes lit up as she beheld the ring - it was the single most normal thing that had happened since he'd set foot inside the house. It quickly faded, replaced by a deeper sadness as she slipped the band over her finger, the opals glimmering faintly in the limited light of the kitchen's windows. "Thank you, Doran." What had been intended as a light hearted gift in celebration had become a symbol of what his aunt - his mother - believed to be her loss.
"You're... you're welcome." Lamely, Doran let the words hang between them, Ziemowit appearing all the more uncomfortable as it stretched on, threatening to do so indefinitely.
Finally, he spoke, slowly rising to his feet. "We should... go. Doran." He added his brother's name in an awkward addendum, though his face gave little sign he felt embarrassed by it - more so it had been an experiment in hearing what it sounded like from his own lips.
"Erm. Right. Yes." He rose as well, offering a hand to assist his aunt as helping to hoist her back onto her feet. Staring at her worried face, Doran tried a smile. His new reality had already begun to sink in, and the screeching, clamoring insistences in his head claiming that what was happening could not possibly be true were slowly being drowned out by the ready rise of the water of acceptance. Somehow, he'd managed to become a wanted a man - a living, breathing target for someone's blade or arrow or both. "Well, I... I suppose... goodbye, Aunt Lisette." Lamely, they embraced, all said what had been needed to say already.
As they collected Ziemowit's daggers and Doran helped to support the man's weight as he had yet to find his balance returned to him, Doran paused upon the house's threshold, his aunt gently catching at his arm as she handed him a small pouch of nels she'd gathered while the brothers had been busy prying the daggers from the door. "Be safe, Doran."
With a sigh, his smile was as soft as his words. "I'll try."
